A Reportage
It was June of this year. Together with the poets Dëshira Haxhi and Anila Dahriu, we found ourselves at the National Museum in Tirana to organize the promotion of their books. I had sent out the invitations days ago, and we had put together a small program and a cocktail reception for the guests. Meanwhile, from the large event hall, a resonant, deep baritone voice could be heard. We opened the door and looked inside. On the podium, I heard a man speaking, with uncombed white hair and a mustache. I turned to the women and said:
“Do you know that man who is speaking about the writer Selman Selmani’s book…”
They looked at me, smiled, and answered in unison, as if they had tuned and prepared the sounds of their violins for a duet:
“How would we know him? You know very well we don’t live in Albania!”
“I have never met him either, because like you, I have lived outside Albania for twenty years, but that man is from Kosovo and his name is… Prend Buzhala…”
The women looked at each other, and I noticed a radiant, bright smile bloom on their faces…
“We are lucky,” Dëshira said!
“If you organize events, you get to take part in events…” Anila chimed in!
“We will meet him,” their lips tuned in unison once again, laughing and blooming, expressing a sense of pleasure that was visible on their faces.
***
I had heard of and read Prend, but I had never met him in person. Time has scattered us to the four corners of the world to make a living, and so we have somehow lost the connections and the desire for meetings between artists and art itself. I had read his poetry, criticism, and various studies. This was a pleasant surprise for Prend as well, but also for us, who went to the National Museum for one thing and found another. We waited until the meeting ended and the guests poured into the large reception hall, where the tables with drinks and fruit for the celebration were set up. I approached with the women; I took a glass of whiskey, Dëshira a glass of squeezed cherry juice, and Anila a glass of cola. Meanwhile, far across from us, I saw Prend with a glass in his hand… Noble, calm, with a pleasant smile wandering through his long mustache, giving him the look of northern nobility. He wore a light blue, open shirt, and a light-colored xhamadan. His steps were slow, as if he did not want to weigh down on the marble tiles laid on the floor. He took short, controlled steps, as if measuring them, as if seeking complete certainty about where he would place his foot… just as he does with words in his works… he refines them, caresses them, gives them weight and thought, and then, after polishing them linguistically, puts them in their place. In his books, meticulousness, simplicity, and care are of the highest degree, but today I saw this care, this beauty, in his face, his steps, his gaze, and his silence. The two sides of his xhamadan looked to me like the two covers of an open book being leafed through, and inside it I read his portrait, his works, his values, and his culture, which I had seen in his works, but now I had their manufacturing plant right in front of me… I could hear how the breathing, the movement, the inspiration, and the creative force worked. His whole being, as I looked at him, resembled a living museum that required attention, care, and a special perspective to visit… From within this chest, this silently beating heart, the beautiful arts of poetry, criticism, and studies had emerged. He came very close, and I took the opportunity to speak to him:
“Mr. Prend!”
He turned his head without moving the glass of drink from his hand. I looked at him and understood the exclamation mark in the book of his gaze. He smiled and turned to me:
“Pilo, you’re here?!”
Even though we had never met, he recognized me too, perhaps from the many photos circulating on the internet, or the various gatherings we attended. From television or different newspapers. We hugged, and then I introduced the women:
“This,” I told him, “is Dëshira Haxhi, and this is Anila Dahriu! Tomorrow they are promoting their books in this hall.”
I saw a light of joy slip across his very calm face, and then I heard his deep, resonant voice well up, as if it had stolen the roar of the White Drin:
“Very good, very good… I am glad. Pilo, our ranks are growing every day, this is a pleasure for us. These women are a generation after us. They are the springs that fill the great lake of art, and which in the future will turn into rivers.” There was kindness, love, and brotherly joy in his words. But then I saw his face fall, and his eyes lost their previous shine. “What a shame,” he whispered, “I won’t be able to be there, as we have to leave for Kosovo after this meeting, we are on an organized trip.”
“Even this is no small thing for us, Mr. Prend! I am glad we met and got to know each other.” Anila spoke openly, just as she always does.
“Shall we take a photo?” Dëshira said.
Meanwhile, I raised the camera to capture these moments, which were indeed the first, but would not be the last. We gifted each other our books and were chatting as if we had known each other for years. The beautiful atmosphere was interrupted by the horn of a bus parked outside, and a young man who stepped off and called from the museum door:
“Mr. Prend, we are waiting for you, the bus is parked in an unsuitable spot, we might get fined!”
Prend looked at us, as if asking for permission.
“In that case,” I told him, “we all get fined together. We are forced to part, even though we wish we could stay longer.”
Prend shrugged.
We hugged and parted ways, taking with us mutual respect and love, leaving our published books with one another like friendship postcards for future meetings…
