find out more. They told him of their plan to create an alliance of all the parties and associations against Berisha. It was to be led by three former political prisoners. Kurt Kola, the chairman of the Association of Former Victims of Persecution, had agreed to be one of them. The other two would be Daut Gumeni, to represent the right-wing parties, and Qorri for the left-wing Further decisions would be made at their inaugural meeting.
‘I can’t give an answer now. I’ll think about it,’ Qorri said to them.
‘Don’t spoil our day,’ Majko said again, speaking for them all. ‘Say yes.’
Qorri looked around and his eyes involuntarily fell on a table where ‘the cook’, was sitting as always with ‘the spook’. No doubt these two knew something about this conversation, he thought. The eyes of Berisha’s security service, the SHIK, were ever present at Bar West. The powerful SHIK had inherited the aura of the omnipresent Sigurimi secret police.
The short, thickset ‘cook’ earned his nickname because he was said to have worked at one time in a students’ canteen. The ‘spook’ was tall and bald, always making impassioned remarks to journalists about their articles. The two sat there almost all day. Both were said also to have been Sigurimi informers. Qorri knew the ‘spook’ because his brother had been in prison too. Somebody had told Qorri that the ‘spook’ had been forced to become an informer after his brother’s arrest, but someone else claimed that he had been recruited earlier, and was partly to blame for his brother’s fate. With all the rumour and speculation, it was impossible to know the truth. Everything to do with the Sigurimi and the people who worked for it was shrouded in secrecy. The ‘spook’ was the most fervent of anti-communists, like many whom the regime had both oppressed and humiliated by turning them into spies. ‘You were in prison with my brother,’ he had said to Qorri one day at a table in Bar West. ‘And so I must tell you that I’ve started working for the SHIK. I was out of work. But please keep this to yourself.’ At the West, everybody knew that the truth was not as he had told Qorri, because he did indeed have a day job. But this job was a cover, and every day he sat in the bar on duty. It was hard to understand just why people who had suffered under the rule of dictatorship looked for employment with the very agency that inherited the mantle of the Sigurimi: was it revenge, or simply because they could not escape its clutches? Rumour had it that the networks of the old Sigurimi and Berisha’s secret services to a large extent overlapped. Some swore that only the controllers had changed, and that former subordinates had been promoted to controllers. It was an impenetrable underground world.
Qorri did not wait for the spook to greet him with his habitual cordiality, so perfectly simulated that anybody not in the know would think this was the last person to be suspected of being a spy. Instead, he looked across to a table at which sat Delina, Edi Rama’s wife, with Rama’s old friend Dash Peza and Blendi Gonxhja, his former student at the Academy. Qorri stood up from the politicians’ table and went over to them. Without sitting down, he told them of the proposal put to him.
Delina almost shrieked, ‘Fatos, something has to be done. They beat up Edi Rama. They could beat up any of us!’
‘But Edi’s run off to Paris,’ Qorri said.
‘He’s gone for treatment until the situation calms down. He’ll be back.’
Dash Peza and Blendi Gonxhja said the same. Dash was a boyhood friend of Rama. He had recently returned from America where he had tried without success to build a new life. He said he had become a born-again Christian there but this had evidently been a survival strategy, because in Albania he showed no symptoms of piety. Gonxhja was much more famous because he had taken part in the first students’ strike and later had become one of the most active members of the Democratic Alliance. He was now caught between his need to make a living, his love of art, his passion for politics, and his plans to leave Albania forever. Dash and Gonxhja both insisted they were ready to help the cause.
The lack of opposition from Bar West was beginning to persuade Qorri that he might agree to represent the left in this new organisation that was to be created. But he felt no enthusiasm. He harboured doubts on which he still brooded as he left the bar.
The same doubts assailed him just as they had done before, at Noel’s. He was unsure if they arose from trepidation at this dangerous enterprise or his lack of political zeal. Nor did he feel at home in this company. Could he court this kind of danger alongside people he didn’t know? He believed that these were the people intellectually best equipped to bring about democracy, because they were the best educated, but what had happened to them morally during those two decades while he himself had been in prison? Edi Rama, among the instigators of this group, had fled immediately to Paris. Even at the start of the anti-communist movement he had run away to Greece in fright straight after making a speech against Enver Hoxha. This entire generation of intellectuals with their double lives, opposing the regime and yet collaborating with it, seemed to have a tendency to bolt. Their way of life had taught them never to put complete faith in what they were doing but to always leave an escape route open, and ultimately never to trust one another. In one of his articles, he had used the phrase ‘grey area’ which in other countries of the East denoted the region between the ‘black’ of the regime and the ‘white’ of the dissidents. Could these people be ‘light grey’? In Albania, he believed, there had never been any white, but only black and grey. He did not think of the prisoners, including himself, as dissidents but victims. They served the regime by scaring the rest of the population. Hoxha’s regime had been a totally black hole, unillumined by the rays of courage and hope that Sakharov, Michnik or Havel had spread elsewhere in post-Stalinist Eastern Europe. Only now, after the fall of communism, was the ‘grey’ divisible into the ‘dark grey’ of those who had risen to power with Berisha and the ‘light grey’ of the opponents of the authoritarian regime. But this colour chart did not cover all the shades that distinguished these people from one another. What Qorri called ‘light grey’ had its dark patches, too. He remembered the rumours that the so-called democratic movement had been entirely a contrivance of the former Sigurimi and that most of its leaders had been its former agents and informers.
No enterprise of this kind could expect to rely entirely on well-known, tried and tested people. Certainly these members of this opposition were united by a need to free themselves from a regime that had violated their liberty, although each of them perhaps had their particular expectations and ambitions. Qorri could not tell where this adventure would lead: to the pinnacles of power in a future government, or somewhere very far from them.
Yet he felt he would accept their offer. He was tempted by the prospect of a leading role, and also driven by his old desire to overcome his fear of any task fraught with danger. Whenever faced with important decisions, since the clashes with the authority of his father in adolescence and his conflicts with the dictatorship and the prison authorities, it seemed to Qorri that he had always been trying to overcome fear and repress the weaker part of his nature that did not allow him to become his stronger, fuller self. That was what the dictatorship had done to people. It had made them fear to live and left them diminished. But did not these diminished selves ultimately become real selves? Fear had to be fought against, if you were not to be diminished. Qorri’s relationship with fear had been decisive in his life and in the lives of people among whom he had lived, because in their society fear was the main instrument of control. It created relationships. But it was also the main obstacle to being free. Since prison, he had established a different, less confrontational rapport with fear and with authority. He was no longer so ashamed of his fear. He was more willing to accept it as a part of himself. Sometimes he even thought of fear as a mark of dignity and respect for life. Experience had taught him that the problem was not of feeling fear, but of not allowing oneself to be mastered by it. It was less a question of not falling than of picking yourself up again. This meant that he had to nurture within himself the figure of a hero that challenged fear, but without feeling heroic. More coolly considered, this hero figure was perhaps the obverse of a repressive culture based
