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Flama (Calamity)

Enkel Demi is an Albanian writer and journalist. In November of 2016, he published his first novel under the pseudonym Tom Kuka: Hide mbi kalldrëm (Jujube on Cobblestone), a crime novel that takes place in Tirana, Albania, during the 1930s. Two years later, in November 2018, Kuka returned with another novel, Gurët e vetmisë (Stones of Loneliness), a family saga that narrates the ordeal of escaping the land of the ancients, of a population that migrates and leaves its former life far behind. For this novel, he won the national prize for literature in 2019. In November 2019, he published his third novel, Ora e ligë (Evil Hour), in which picking up a sword is punished with an impossible love, and an old man has to challenge his fate and that of an entire village while travelling to the legendary land of the ancients. Kuka won the prize for Artistic Book of the Year in the Cult Academy’s cultural awards in 2020. His fourth novel Flama (Calamity) was published in March 2021.

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Flama (Calamity)
'Flama' (Calamity) is a wonderful metaphor for contemporary Albania experiencing a pandemic, and also perhaps for what the author sees as the gluttony of humankind and its desecration of nature and human values. Tom Kuka fills his cart with bodies sick with ‘calamity’ while someone kills to cover up the sin from which all the horror flows. In a monarchical Tirana of turmoil, filth, cruelty and wickedness, the city’s population is dying of calamity – the real monster, sitting cross-legged, shortening lives and extinguishing humanity. In the meantime, a seemingly ordinary crime occurs: a Roma woman who casts fortune with a cup has had her throat cut in one of the poorest parts of the city. The main character, Di Hima, following the footsteps of Doctor Needle (the protagonist of a very well-known Albanian folk tale), is looking for the murderer. He needs to discover the killer and the motives that have driven them to such cruelty. Hima, the chief investigator of Tirana, was first introduced in the author’s debut novel Jujube on Cobblestone.

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Excerpt

Excerpt

Flama - Tom Kuka - Language: Albanian

Kurbatka nuk sheh filxhan

Sadija e kishte futur të bijën mes këmbëve dhe po ia qethte flokët e gjatë me gërshërë dhensh. Vajza ulërinte me të madhe, por gruaja as që donte t’ia dinte. Pranë këmbëve të saj rrinte i biri, tashmë kokëzbrazur prej flokëve, dhe luante me dredhkat pis të zeza të së motrës, që kishin rënë në dysheme. Di Hima ishte dystuar nën caracin e oborrit me putirin e rakisë në dorë. Dielli i binte në sy, ndaj i mbante gjysmë të perënduar. Këmishën e kishte shkopsitur, ngrohtësia e gjoksit prej rrezeve nga jashtë dhe e rakisë nga brenda, i ndillnin gjumë. Për dreq, vajza kishte vënë kujën se nuk donte t’i bindej së ëmës.

Nuk du’ ije, s’du’…

Rri urtë aty e mos u ni!

Po pse mi, pse? Më dhem’, po më del gjak prej kaptine…

Qepe, t’thashë!

O tate, i du’ flokët e mia! Thuji k’saj!

Di Hima çeli sytë. U ngrit disi nga ndenjësja ku qe zhytur.

Lëre gocën, Sadije! Nuk prishin punë flokët.

Maj venin tat, ti o burr. Kët punë e di unë. Flokët mushen me morra. Kaptinqeth, po pa morra.

Po ç’thua, moj dritë, kështu? Nga na dolën morrat? Ti veç me gëlqere nuk i ke larë këta fëmijë.

Djali i vogël kishte marrë në dorë një cullufe të rënë përtokë dhe bëri ta gëlltiste. Di Hima iu afrua dhe ia hoqi nga dora. Ia krisi vajit edhe ai. Dy ulërima përnjëherësh ishin tepër për një njeri që shullëhej në diell prej ditësh.

Kush ta shtiu në mendje këtë hall, moj grua?

Vetëm tanët kanë flokë. Të gjithë i kanë bërë naaa, picirrukët…

Sadija vazhdoi me zell edhe më të madh. Dorën e majtë ia peshoi mbi krye që të mos e linte të lëvizte dhe, me dorën tjetër, i kaloi gërshërën e dhenve mbi balluke. Vajza e vogël e kuptoi që e humbi luftën, ndaj nuk briste më, por vetëm dëneste.

Është flamë, Sadije. Nuk ka kurrfarë lidhje me morrat.

Dëgjomë mua…

Flama ka punën e vet, unë kam timen.

Në çastin kur ajo e kuptoi se e bija e lëshoi fatin në këmbët e së ëmës që e mbanin mbërthyer, ia çliroi shumë shpejt kryet prej flokëve të gjatë, të dredhur e të zinj si pendë korbi. Di Hima këqyri të bijën, që porsa fitoi lirinë nga zgjedha e së ëmës.

Aaaa, kështu po. Sa e bukur që dukesh! Të ka dalë surrati në selamet! – e vuri në lojë i ati.

Di Hima po qeshte me të madhe, si i ngasur edhe nga dielli që lante kopshtijen me rreze. Vajza i hodhi një vështrim zhbirues të atit, a thua se s’ishte e sigurt në po e vinte në lojë apo e kishte përnjëmend. Në kokën e saj shquheshin ca rripa flokësh të shkurtër aty-këtu, sikur t’i kishin mbirë dallgët mu në çaçkë. Lotët i qenë përpirë sërish nga sytë, ndërsa me kurrizin e dorës fshiu hundët. E ëma nisi t’ia zhdukte dhe ato gëzhdalla që i kishin mbetur, por kësaj here me një tjetër prerëse, shumë më të imët.

Sadije, i bërë si gjilpërë me kokë këta fëmijë…

Qyqa, pse? Për bukuri duken!

Po, po, e drejtë. Ky me këta veshë të mëdhenj si kërriç, kjo me këta sy të zinj si sumbulla palltoje… mirë shumë duken.

Di Hima buzëqeshte dhe ia përkëdhelte faqen së shoqes me dy gishtërinj të asaj dore të stërmadhe.

Duhet, se morrat t'pinë gjakun, pranej gjithë notën fmijët shofin ondrra me lugat. Tashi që e kan kokën si tas, ja nrof dilli mo mirë dhe do shofin luledele plot...

Kush t’i ka thënë këto, moj dritë?

Nondaja ime, gjet rafmet!

E po, mirë. Je më e qetë tani që i bëre fëmijët…

Hë, shpirt, bukur kanë dalë, apo jo? – e mori me të mira Sadija.

Po, moj po, te koka e qerosit të gjithë janë berberë të zotë. Edhe Sadija vuri buzën në gaz, pa hequr dorë nga e vetja. Pas vajzës, kapi të birin vetëm nga njëri krah, e ngriti peshë, e uli mbi bar dy hapa më tutje dhe, me një fshesë, hoqi plagët e asaj beteje. I çoi në një kënd e i mblodhi tërë kujdes në një

cohë të vjetër.

S'duhet me t'i mor era flokët e preme, se ja merr menjen fmijve, – mërmëriti sikur të fliste me vete.

Ou?

As me i gropos nuk bo, se u dhem kaptina.

Qysh kur?

As me i pa tjerët, se i morin m'sysh.

Pa shiko… po ç’duhet bërë me këta flokë?

Duhen djeg.

Sakaq, ndezi një shkrepëse dhe u vuri fl    Di Himës nuk i shqitej gazi nga buza, tek vështronte të shoqen që u bindej disa rregullave që një Zot e di se ku i kishte dëgjuar. Fëmijët iu gëzuan asaj fl të beftë dhe nisën të brofnin përpjetë.

Po te berberi, moj grua, si i bëhet që ka një mal me flokë?

I merr era, i shkel këmba, i përmjerrin macet në plehra.

Flokë burrash jon. S'i gje gjo burrat, – vazhdoi Sadija në të vetën.

Po pse nuk i gjetka gjë burrat, moj zonjëzë?

Ku kon men burrat! – i vuri kapak gruaja.

Për shumë gjëra e merrte malli Di Himën, por ai fërkim në tëmtha në floktoret e Vjenës e këpuste krejt. Nuk mund të hynte në Opera me ata flokë që i merrnin për së koti mbi veshë. Zinte një poltronë në një nga ndenjëset e mjeshtrit në Stephansplatz dhe shkonte ora teksa ai merrej, në krye, me ato favorite disi më të gjata e më pas me mjekrën. I vendoste coha të nxehta në faqe, një krem të bardhë që ia bënte lëkurën si të bebes, mandej e lagte me kolonjën erëmirë që i varej mbi cipë tri ditë me radhë. Në fund, ia shkriftonte tëmthat dhe atë mend e merrte gjumi.

Kërcitjet e forta në portën e madhe të shtëpisë e nxorën me përdhunë nga nanuritja e kujtimeve. Di Hima u kopsit, hoqi nga fytyra atë këndellje që e pati përfshirë dhe veshi pamjen e tij të zakontë. Dera gjëmonte fort, por pa ngut. E çeli. Para iu zbulua Tom Kuka me shtatin e tij të gjatë e të drejtë. Pezmi i mortit i qe ngjitur në lëkurë qysh kur s’mbahej mend. Nuk e kujtonte më askush pa atë zezonë që e mbështillte. Të qe dimër, do vishte një pallto edhe më skrop. Të qe zheg, sërish do të mbathte atë setër të zezë, këmishë të bardhë, kravatë sterrë.

Tom Kuka e përshëndeti me dorën në zemër. Pas shpinës së tij pushonte karroja e mortit.

Pse je munduar, Tom? Jemi të gjithë gjallë… Tjetrit nuk i bëri fort përshtypje shpotia e Di Himës.

Nuk mbledh kufoma pa më thanë kush, ndaj mos ki dert. Tjetër gja m’ka sjellë këtu…

Di Hima i bëri udhë dhe burri u fut brenda në kopshtije. Vuri dorën mbi kapelën strehëgjerë si shenjë përshëndetjeje për Sadijen dhe më pas u kthye nga mikpritësi.

Kurbatka e Bregut të Lumit iku…

Si iku? Punë e madhe që iku. Udha e mbarë i qoftë!

Jo, na la. Shkoi n’atë botë.

Nuk është as e para, as e fundit. Ti e di më mirë se unë. I vetmi që ka punë në këtë vend, je ti.

Nuk iku bash si të tanë…

Po si iku?

E gjeta me rryl t'prem përtej. E kan heq qafe. M'than ta shtij n'dhe, po kur e gjeta ashtu, thash po t'bzaj. E di që ke met fillikat, po i kan pre rrylin, a merr vesht?

E marr vesh, Tom, e marr…

Di Hima futi dorën në xhep dhe nxori kutinë e duhanit. E çeli dhe mori dy cigare të bëra gati me kohë. Njërën ia zgjati mysafirit të përzishëm, por ky nuk e pranoi.

Unë nuk pi…

Më doli nga mendja...

Ndezi duhanin dhe lëshoi një shtëllungë tymi. U mendua një dekikë.

Të vdekurit janë kapicë. Flama po i merr. Pse duhet me i shku nga pas kësaj pune?

Flama ban t'vetën, po asaj i kan' pre rrylin, a e kupto? Pse duhet me ba robi punën e Flamës?

Di Hima uli kryet për të pleqëruar atë që dëgjoi.

Kurbatka e Bregut të Lumit ishte me nam. S’kishte mbetur burrë pa ia parë ajo filxhanin. Po, se gratë u përvisheshin shpesh burrave në atë qytet. Mbuloheshin kokë e këmbë me ferexhe dhe ia shpinin Kurbatkës filxhanët e kafesë që kishin pirë ata. Ajo i vështronte një copë herë, por nuk e shqepte gojën pa dëgjuar metelikët që tringëllinin në një tabaka sermi.

Veç nga tingëllima që i hynte në vesh, kuptonte sa kishin rënë. Nuk ia hidhte dot kush e të lëshonte para mangët. Mandej, zinte të lexonte lapërdhitë e burrave. Sikur ndonjërit t’i merrte koka erë të bridhte pas rruspijeve, a të luante kumar, filxhani ia nxirrte të gjitha në dritë të diellit.

Por jo vetëm kaq, Kurbatka gjente ditën kur do na linte shëndenë vjehrra, nëse e reja ishte treguar aq e zonja sa t’i vidhte filxhanin. Gjente në do t’u dilte fati lëneshave, kur do t’u ikte sythi që dilte rrëzë kofshëve sa ua përcëllonte hapin, kaq shumë u digjte.

Gjente shumë gjëra Kurbatka, madje pat nxjerrë në shesh edhe hoxhën që pinte raki fshehtas, edhe kamatarin që shtonte para në fajde. Shumë nuk e donin, të tjerë e urrenin, por që t’ia prisnin grykën... ishte e tepërt.

Di Hima nuk tha asnjë fjalë. E la në këmbë Tom Kukën dhe shkoi të merrte xhaketën.

C'ka bo vaki, o burrë? – pyeti Sadija e shqetësuar.

Kanë vrarë Kurbatkën e Bregut të Lumit.

Qyqa! Kush?

Prandaj më thirrën, se nuk e dinë kush, – i buzëqeshi.

Kurrë s'kom shku te ajo! – shtoi e shoqja.

E di, moj dritë. Ti më do shumë.

Shumë t'du, – ia ktheu Sadija dhe iu rrëmbushën sytë.

Excerpt - Translation

Translated from Albanian by Barbara Halla

Kurbatka Doesn’t Do Coffee Readings

Sadije had shoved her daughter between her legs and was snipping away at the girl’s long tresses with a pair of shears meant for goats. The child wailed inconsolably, but the woman paid her no heed. Her son leaned against her hip, his head already bare, and he played with the spoils of his sister’s jet-black locks that now littered the floor.

In the garden, Di Hima had made himself comfortable under a tree, a flask of raki in his fist. The sunlight hit his eyes, so he kept his lids partially closed. His shirt was half-open, and the beaming rays above him along with the heat of the raki radiating from within his chest produced a warm sensation that lulled him to sleep. What a shame that the girl had chosen that precise moment to erupt into an ear-splitting wail in defiance of her mother.

- I don’t wanna, ma, I don’t wanna...

- Shut your mouth and don’t make a peep!

- Why are you doing this to me? It hurts, look, there’s blood on my head...

- Didn’t I tell you to shut it!

- Da, but I like my hair! Tell her, please!

Di Hima opened his eyes. He shook off some of the torpor he had sunk into. 

- Leave the girl alone, Sadije! Her hair is not the problem!

- Don’t you go getting involved in things that don’t concern you. I know what needs to be done. Otherwise, her hair will be infested with lice in no time. Her skull might be bare, but at least it will be free of lice.

- Light of my life, what are you even talking about? Where did this story about lice come from? You’ve done everything short of washing the kids with lime!

The young boy grabbed a tuft of hair from the floor and tried to swallow it. Rushing to him, Di Hima removed the hair from his son’s fist, but the boy started wailing too. The sound of the children’s simultaneous cries was rather too much for a man who had spent the past days lazing in the sun.

- Who poisoned your mind with these thoughts, woman?

- Our kids are the only ones around with hair still on their heads. Everyone else has shaved their little ones’ scalps bare...

Sadije resumed her massacre with renewed vigour. Using her left hand to pin her daughter’s head down to prevent her from wiggling around, she ran the goat shears with the other through her bangs. The little girl understood that the battle was lost, so she had stopped screaming and resigned herself to now merely sobbing.

- It’s a plague, Sadije, a calamity. It has nothing to do with lice. Listen to me...

- The calamity does its own thing, I do mine.

Once the woman realized that her daughter had accepted her fate, trapped as she was between her mother’s legs, she made swift work of the girl’s long raven-black curls. Di Hima stared at his daughter who had just escaped her mother’s clutches.

- Aaa, now that’s more like it. You look so pretty! Where had that face been hiding! – her father teased her.

Di Hima was laughing heartily, invigorated perhaps by the sunlight that bathed his garden. The girl threw her father a searching stare, as if she wasn’t quite sure whether his remark was meant to be a taunt, or if his words were serious. Strips of short hair marred her exposed head here and there, as if waves had emerged from underneath her scalp. Her eyelids had dammed her tears for the moment, while she wiped her runny nose with the back of her hand. Her mother began to snip away those few shreds of hair that still remained, although this time she used a finer pair of scissors.

- Sadije, you’ve made our kids look like sewing needles...

- Lord, why? They look great!

- Yes, of course, you’re right. This one over here, ears as big as a donkey, and the girl with those black eyes, barely bigger than coat buttons...they sure look great.

Di Hima smiled and caressed his wife’s cheek with two fingers of his oversized hand.

- I had to. Those fleas would suck them dry otherwise. And the kids would see nothing but nightmares filled with ghosts all night long. Now that their heads are smooth like shiny bowls, the sun will warm them all the better and their dreams filled with daisies instead...

- Who told you this, light of my life?

- My granny, may her soul find peace!

- Well, sure. I’m sure you’re feeling better now that you’ve made our kids look like...

- Say, don’t they look good, right? – Sadije asked, trying to make peace.

- Yes, of course they do. Everyone’s a skilled barber when it comes to shaving the hair all off.

Sadije laughed at this, though she conceded nothing. Once she was done with her daughter, she grabbed her son and lifted him from his armpits, and laid him on the grass a few steps away, before proceeding to clean the debris of her previous battle. She swept every lock of hair into one corner and gathered them carefully inside a tattered piece of clothing.

- Shouldn’t leave any lock to the wind, or the children will lose their wits, she murmured almost to herself.

- Really?

- Shouldn’t bury it either, that’s how they get headaches.

- Since when?

- Others shouldn’t see it, or they’ll be cursed.

- Would you look at that... and what should you do with hair?

- Burn it, of course.

Meanwhile, she lit a match and set the whole packet ablaze. Di Hima couldn’t stop smiling as he watched his wife obey some precepts that she’d picked up from Lord knows where. The children rejoiced at the sight of the sudden flame and leapt to their feet.

- And what about the barbershop, woman? How do they manage with all those mountains of hair that accumulate over there? Wouldn’t the hair risk being swept away by the wind, trodden under people’s feet, or dragged by cats to the garbage bins?

- Man’s hair. There is nothing to it, - Sadije continued her spiel.

- What do you mean, there’s nothing to men’s hair, ma’am?

- Because men are brainless! – the woman exclaimed, settling the matter.

There were many things that Di Hima missed, but it was the memory of having his head rubbed in the barbershops of Vienna that truly brought him to his knees. He couldn’t enter the Opera with his hair sticking everywhere above his ears. So, before a visit, he would take a seat in one of the chairs of a master barber in Stephansplatz and spend an hour like so, with the barber above him, first taking care of his rather long sideburns and then his beard. He would put hot towels on his cheeks, a white cream that made his skin as smooth as a baby’s, and then spruce him up with a fragrant cologne that lingered on his skin for three days straight. Finally, the barber would massage his temples, making Di Hima almost fall asleep on the spot.

The harsh sound of someone banging on the big door of the house dragged him violently away from the cradling reverie of his memories. Di Hima buttoned himself up, wiped from his face the sense of candour that had enveloped him and put on his usual demeanour. The knock was vigorous, but unhurried. He opened the door. Tom Kuka stood before him, all tall and straight. The desolation of death had embedded itself into the visitor’s skin since time immemorial. No one could recall a time when he hadn’t been surrounded by this black shroud. During winter, he wore a raven-black jacket. Now that it was summer, here he was again: the same dark jacket, a white shirt, and a jet-black necktie.

Tom Kuka greeted him with his hand on his heart. Behind him, the death carriage stood waiting.

- Why’d you tire yourself by coming all the way here, Tom? We’re all still alive...

The man seemed unperturbed by Di Hima’s jab.

- I don’t collect corpses without being asked to, so no need to fret. Something else has brought me here...

Di Hima stepped aside and the man entered the garden. Tom brought his hand to his wide-brimmed hat to salute Sadije and then turned towards his host.

- Kurbatka of the River Bank is gone...

- Gone? Who cares if she’s gone. Safe travels for her!

- No, she has left this world. For the other.

- She isn’t the first, and certainly won’t be the last. You know that better than I do. The only one with a job in this place is you.

- She didn’t leave like the rest...

- How did it happen?

- I found her with her throat sliced open. Someone got rid of her. I was told to bury her, but when I found her like that, I figured I’d inform you. I know you’re all alone now, but they cut her throat, do you get it?

- I do, Tom, I do...

Di Hima shoved his hand into his pocket and dragged out his tobacco box. He opened it and took out two cigarettes that had been rolled a while back. He extended one to the eternally mournful guest, but the latter refused. 

- I don’t smoke...

- It skipped my mind...

Di Hima lit his cigarette and exhaled a cloud of smoke. He thought for a second.

- The dead are piling up. The calamity is taking them away. Why should I care about this affair?

- The calamity is one thing, but someone cut her throat, do you get it? Why should a human being do the work for the Calamity?

Di Hima dropped his head to contemplate what he had just heard.

Kurbatka of the River Bank was infamous. There was no man left whose coffee cup she hadn’t read. Yes, because women in this city would often leave no stone unturned to find out what their men were up to. They would cover themselves from head to toe with a veil and bring Kurbatka the coffee cups that the men had drunk from. She would stare at the cups for a spell, but wouldn’t open her mouth without first hearing the sound of metal chime on the silver tray. The sound alone was enough for her to understand how many her guest had dropped. No one could fool her or give her less than what she was owed. It was then and only then that she would being to unravel men’s dirty tricks. And if any man had lost his marbles and decided to chase after some whore’s tail, or gamble, the coffee cup would lay everything bare for the world to see.

But that wasn’t all Kurbatka had to offer; she could tell you the day your mother-in-law was ready to kick the bucket, if the wife had been cunning enough to steal her cup. She could tell spinsters if luck was coming their way, or when the blister that had formed inside their inner thigh and made every step sting, was ready to erupt.

Many were the things that Kurbatka had been able to uncover; in fact, she was the one who unmasked the story about the imam who drank raki in secret, and about the loan shark who inflated his interest rates. Many didn’t like her, there were a great deal who hated her, but to go as far as slashing her throat... that was excessive.

Di Hima didn’t say a world. He left Tom Kuka standing in the yard and went to grab his coat.

- What is the matter, husband? – Sadije asked, worried.

- Someone murdered Kurbatka of the River Bank.

- Qyqa! Who?

- That’s why they called on me, they don’t know who did it, - he smiled at her.

- I’ve never been to see her! – his wife added.

- I know, my love. You love me too much.

- A lot, - Sadije replied, her eyes welling up with tears.