Chronicle in Stone by Ismaíl Kadaré Read Free Book Online Page A

serves the interests of the reactionaries by diverting public attention from the real problems. Here, look at the newspaper: ‘Magic is in some sense part of a nation’s traditional folklore.’”
    “A fascist theory,” Isa said.
    Javer tossed the paper aside.
    “Those barbarians with feathers in their hats are happy to resurrect any medieval custom, as long as Mussolini can get something out of it.”
    Javer had been expelled from the secondary school two weeks before for having taken part in acts of violence against an Italian teacher. He was now working in Mak Karllashi’s tannery.
    He took a small piece of paper out of his pocket and scribbled on it in his slanted handwriting: “Forget about this idiotic magic. We have other things to worry about.”
    “Not bad,” said Isa, polishing his glasses, “but maybe it would be better if we explained it a little more scientifically.”
    Javer scowled, but not for long. The two friends finally noticed that we had been listening to them.
    “Hey, you ghost-hunters! Have you been spying on us?”
    The truth was that, like most kids in the neighbourhood, we were always on the lookout for magic talismans. We spent entire days searching everywhere: under doorsteps, in old cabinets, on roofs, in the bottom of fireplaces. Traces of our searches could be seen everywhere, and were especially apparent when it rained and the roof slates we had moved let in leaks. We had concentrated our investigations around Nazo’s house, because of her beautiful daughter-in-law.
    Despite all our efforts, we had not found a single talisman, and we never imagined that we would discover one just when we had finally given up all hope.
    It happened one sunny day in Fools’ Alley. We wouldn’t have traded this crooked ugly alley for any boulevard in the world, because no great street would ever have been so generous as to let children peel off its cobbles in broad daylight and do whatever they wanted with them. But Fools’ Alley, crazy as it was, allowed us to do that.
    That day we were playing at throwing stones, when suddenly someone shouted in fear: “Look at this!”
    We all ran towards him, then stopped, petrified. His face was tinged with green as he pointed to a dark spot on the ground. There among the rocks lay a magic ball the size of a fist. We cast frightened glances at one another and words stuck in our throats. (Xhexho later told me that the magic had stolen our power of speech.) But then suddenly great courage came upon us, as sometimes happens in a dream when you find yourself alone in some dark, deserted street, and your heart pounds in fright, and you sense that something evil is going to happen in this strange street, and you wait and wait for the evil but it holds back and you wait some more and your fear mounts and then somewhere something moves and a shadow, a half-seen face, comes near and your knees buckle and your voice goes and you’re about to faint but then suddenly, at the last minute, some insane fury grips you and your limbs feel free and your voice booms like thunder and you cry out, you charge the ghost and you . . . wake up. And that’s what happened to us.
    “The magic! The magic!” we all yelled. Ilir picked it up and carried it off
    “Witchcraft, witchcraft!” I yelled along with the others, and without knowing why, we raced down the alley, Ilir in the lead. We charged after him, screaming and panting in a mixture of joy and horror.
    Shutters flew open noisily, and women young and old stuck their heads out in terror. “What is it? What’s going on?”
    “The magic! The magic!” we howled, thundering through the neighbourhood like a pack of mad dogs.
    Kako Pino appeared in her window and made the sign of the cross, Nazo’s beautiful daughter-in-law smiled with her big eyes, Mane Voco poked the long barrel of his rifle out of the dormer, and Isa’s face lit up behind the big lenses of his glasses, which shone like two suns.
    “Ilir!” cried Mane