August 12
Tiranë - Rruga Naum Veqilharxhi, 25.

"The beams, floorboards and staircase creaked slightly, almost imperceptibly, with a dry, uniform, almost constant cracking sound. What’s wrong? Where does it hurt? It seemed to be complaining of aches in its bones, in its centuries-old joints.”
- Ismail Kadare, Chronicle in Stone

It had been three long days since Alexander arrived at his Muggle grandparents' house in the Albanian capital. Unless a critical situation arose, it was customary for the young badger to visit them once a year and spend a few weeks here, maturely conscious of the responsibility of being the only grandchild of this elderly couple. However, if one excludes the usual inconveniences of travelling, it was impossible to assert that Alexander did make these visits merely with a colourless sense of duty. On the contrary, coming to this house had almost a healing effect on his solitary soul, for a couple of reasons. Here he was always treated exceptionally well by the old pair as they had the chance to see their grandson only in the summer time of the year. Moreover, Alexander did not yet fully realise it, but of all the houses he knew, this was the only one in which there was a man in the role of a father. Being in the atmosphere created by his grandfather's masculine presence, a concept with which young Alexander was not particularly familiar, made him feel good in some way.

The boy lay on the carpet with his naked elbows on the wooden floor, dreamily lifting his feet and shaking them in the air. He was half-immersed in the boundless realm of his thoughts and fantasies. Although his thoughts were too disorganised to be articulated and his fantasies too variable to be easily defined, his mind, in quite a stubborn manner, could not help existing in this blurred space. It was one of those times when one's mind, like a horse unharnessed from its bridle, galloping ravingly across wide valleys. Constitutionally unable to avoid dreaming, Alexander had neither the willpower nor the ability to tame that dionysian horse.

One must wonder if anyone who had a commanding view of this room knew that they were witnessing a peculiar spectacle. Alexander's grandfather, the man steadfastly committed to wearing his shirt and trousers despite the unbearably scorching heat, was engrossed in a book. Legs crossed and immune to the dire effects of the weather, he flipped through the pages. Alex's eyes locked on the cover of his book securely held in the old man's terribly wrinkled hands with eye-catching pale blue veins on them. On the crimson-coloured hardcover, the words "Enveri ynë" "Our Enver" were gracefully engraved, and fortunately enough, Alex's brilliance was advanced enough to realise that the author of the book was a man named Ramiz Alia. Alex knew neither Ramiz nor "their" Enver. Nevertheless, from the grinning expression worn by his grandpa, he concluded that the old man was of favourable opinion about these two. Setting his eyes on the intriguing expression of the old man, the boy's face suddenly lit up with a warm smile, and if his grandmother had not preferred to bring the chaos of life into the room at that very moment, Alexander would quickly have returned to his daydreams.

Reducio

But, no. Shefika Harland made her spectacular entrance with all her motherly grandeur. Having seen the title of the book his husband was reading, "Ah, this nonsense again!" the old woman exclaimed. Having shaken her head in bewildered anger, "These men had exiled us from this country, remember?" she asked. Alexander, from his angle, was able to witness his grandfather's obviously devil-may-care expression. Without looking up from the yellowed pages of the old book, "But I told you many times Shefika, comrades had been misinformed about that matter," the old man replied, "I don't see why should I discard these great men because of that." The amusing yet protesting tone of the old man was rather discernible.

The old woman, then, went to her cassette player, which looked like it had just come out of a history museum, and tried to find the play button with her nearsighted eyes. As the sound of a violin filled the room at last, Shefika's milky hair seemed to rise with a joyful shudder. Finally, unable to find a way out but to succumb to his curiosity, Alexander turned his inviting eyes to his grandfather, keeping his hand on his chin. "Who are these men you speak of?” he asked with an intendedly perplexed expression on his face, not taking into account the possibility that posing such a question would spread silence into the room.

The old woman gave her husband a look perfectly designed to warn him not to dare to open his mouth. Upon facing that glance, the old patriarch, albeit reluctantly, raised the flag of surrender. "Nevermind," he answered while staring at the floor with a sense of nostalgia dancing around the creases of his eyes, "Just some men who, regrettably, can never return." After a short pause, "Nevermind," Clifford repeated again but more languidly this time, "Steven."

Steven? Clifford had called his grandson by his late son's name. And as a result of this unexpected confusion from his grandfather, the golden-haired boy involuntarily bit his lower lip. As soon as the name was pronounced by the old man with his shaking voice, a variety of emotions manifested themselves on the faces of the other two indwellers of the room. The recondite circle of regret intertwined with agony that formed around the old and weary eyes of Clifford was the first one Alexander faced. After that, with eyes that had gone intensely green, Alexander beheld the inenarrable countenance on the old woman's suddenly knackered face. It, mysteriously evident to everyone and even to a 12-year-old boy, was a look only seen on the always-mournful faces of mothers who have buried their own children.

Caught completely off guard by this unexpected mention of Steven, Shefika felt her son's, her one and only son's pain once again. Although diligently attempted to try to hide her tears, the sobs escaping from her mouth betrayed her, revealing the old woman's enduring lamentation clearly to Clifford and Alexander.

Wise enough to know that he could not possibly comfort a grieving mother, Grandpa Clifford, with the embarrassment of a father severely burdened by the shame of outliving his son, turned back to his book. Alexander realised that he had no other option but to take shelter in his dreams, where, at the very least, no beloved ones would shed tears. His gaze falling on the photograph placed on the little coffee table, depicting him seated on her grandfather's knee while granny holding the neighbour's daughter Bona on her lap, Alexander retreated into the land of dreams.

Reducio

Reducio

August 15
Vlorë

It was the old habit of life to begin a new parade before Alexander’s hazy green eyes whenever the boy dared to think that he understood its greatness and feel himself ready to appreciate it. Majestic mares with snowy manes reared, and demigods with triumphant crowns on their heads strutted their long legs across the vast steppe where everything ever worthy of being called humane was built across the vast globe. Triumphal arches rose from the ground like boiling springs at the very moment when Alexander’s thoughts were defeated by the greatness of life. Life was always the winner; its comprador hand was used to greedily pull all the tokens from the poker table into its lap. All Alex could find in his arsenal against the splendour of life, on the other hand, was a modest sceptre crafted from the wood of his desire to understand the way the world works and a necklace made by threading on the fishing line the pressures of an infinite number of choices he had to make, never knowing whether they’d bring him exhilaration or disaster.

Alexander was slowly beginning to realise that life was more prominent than anything his feeble mind could ever comprehend. It was greater than morality, to which the boy held an unshakable faith; than poetry, which he valued above all mundane things. It was never what we expected or hoped for, and it was everything we feared and dreaded. A wooden boat blockaded by the galleons and corvettes of life – this was the exact point where Alexander found, or rather lost himself, in the whirlpool of life. The gyring vultures of the concept of what people half-ashamedly call reality were a constant source of shadow on top of the memories that were the carcasses of Alexander’s days gone by.

These were what the boy brooded over as he sat cross-legged on the old beach of Vlora on the Adriatic coast, squinting at the horizon as if he could see the Italian city of Otranto many kilometres away. How many shackles had been put on his arms and how deeply had been buried the anchor that was tied on his heart so that the warmth of it would not spread around. How many crenellated walls, and how many fortified parapets were there to prevent a heart from glowing freely? Only restriction. Only limitation.

With a sigh, Alexander palmed a lump of sand and watched it slip through his fingers.