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98 "Goood mooouming ... you have cold ... ?" I nodded politely, propping up a tired smile, orches trating little breakoffs of Albanian and English, while listen ing to Kadira. "They are bad pupils," she said, her face wrinkled in melancholy. "They don't know anything. They don't want to know anything." "But it wasn't like this before the revolution ... " "Oh, no. Never. " Her voice seemed to rise up with a tinge of regret. The little I knew and understood about the past was quite frightening. The political prisoners, people incarcerated for the littlest offense: A complaint about the food, or lack there of. There was the story of the young singer who languished in prison for singing "Let It Be." Anything emanating religion - churches, cemeteries - systematically closed, destroyed. A complaint, a hint of opposition, and you were an enemy of the state, arrested, taken care of. If your shirt was white, a friend put it simply, and the Party said it's black, you better believe it's black. "They wouldn't dare come to school without books and pens." "So - so why don't they have books and pens now?" "They have freedom. They think they can do what they want." "But they can't do what they want. That is not democ racy. It's - anarchy." Kadira shrugged. "You must understand we're still-" "I know, I know ... A transition period." On any given day, I would venture out, looking, watching, absorbing the sights and manners of Albania and this transition period. It was not unusual to see a ragged old horse harnessed to a wood cart, hauling a sparkling new white satellite dish. Along the road, crumbling walls marked with the faded broken exclamations of the Party, and, everywhere, the harsh landmarks those once-mighty exclamations generated: mushroom-shaped bunkers, hun dreds of thousands of them, a schizophrenic dictator 's preparation to thwart the imaginary invasions that never came. Playing about the bunkers, children sporting Chicago Bulls jackets and Michael Jackson T-shirts yelled and
screamed, laughing and chasing one another in the mud thick streets, often nibbling pastries and other snacks loose ly wrapped in the pages of the late dictator's Marxist Leninist outcries. There were the boys - eight, nine, perhaps as old as eleven - calling out to me. When I turned, to flash a smile, to say hello, a middle finger was thrust up into the air, flip ping me off. Their elders didn't know the ways of the out side world, but the kids knew I understood very well. They loved it, this clandestine dialogue they shared. The parents admired me, having such a way with kids, this playful American magnetism that drew them all to me. The little shits ... I wanted to break their fuckin' fingers. I was brought here to teach English at the local gjym nazi, the Albanian equivalent to a high school, though it felt more like something out of Solzhenitsyn's gulag. The town was remote, and far, an outpost hidden in the rugged hin terlands where the Alps begin to rise into majestic peaks and inclines that form the northern reaches of Albania. They gave me my own classroom, the best in the school, they said. The Albanian teachers were so honored, grinning in a gracious timidity. Only the very best for the American teacher. And as I smiled modestly, a little embarrassed, insisting, really, I don't want any special treatment, I was escorted quietly into my room: no light fixtures, no electri cal outlets. All that remained were the twisted, uprooted wire ends sticking out of the walls and ceiling. Half the window panes lay shattered on the ground outside. The blackboard was punctured and smashed. The desks were wobbling patchworks of nailed splinters. It was suggested they'd likely wobble more by mid-winter, as they'd be stripped further to fuel the wood stove. I should be weary of this and try to prevent it. I nodded, oh, okay, alright, not quite sure what else to say. The mangled rusted heap in the corner was the wood stove. You look worried, they laughed, don't worry! - the wood stove will be refitted by winter. Oh, okay. The tabletop to the teacher's desk was punched in, giving me easy access to the drawer without having to pull the drawer out. They then apologized, somewhat ashamed, saying the kids' English was . .. uh, well, not very good. I nodded 99
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