A text of Jean-Jacques Didier, Doctor in Philosophy and Letters, UC Louvain (with his authorization)
« It was not easy being a child in this city », declares Ismail Kadare in the foreword to his Chronicle[1].
Yet, we shall focus on laughter rather than tears, mindful of the dramatic role it plays in this wartime story experienced through a child's eyes. Tragedy viewed from a child's perspective does not, of course, mirror an adult's perception; we shall see how the two perspectives converge to share the realm of laughter. Laughter also performs a truly structural function through recurring motifs.
Situations and Portraits
The form of comedy most often expected is situational comedy. It abounds in this chronicle, which is punctuated by the major and minor events of the city. Quoting any of these situations *in extenso* would take too long; let us simply highlight the episodes involving the evil ball (pp. 52–54), the monocle (p. 66, with sporadic reappearances), the opening of a brothel (p. 104 ff.), Akif Kashash’s daughter (p. 124), Father Avdo’s anti-aircraft battery (pp. 170–175), and the murder imagined by the children (pp. 300–301).
This humor rooted in action finds a significant counterpart in the colorful character sketches. They range from the high-ranking officer to the prison "regular" who laments the lax security ("The doors are wide open. It’s enough to make you weep," p. 162); from elderly gossips to children; from the bearded lady to the *agas’* wives ("[...] sitting in a row on the divans, sipping endless coffees, they awaited the return of royalty," p. 29); and from the schoolteacher who, for educational purposes, dissects every cat in the neighborhood (pp. 57, 73, 120) to Argyr Argyri—"half-man, half-woman"—who wants to get married and does so (p. 107). As the city passed from Italian to Greek occupation, then back to Italian, and finally to German, a great many people came and went—and more than a few coats were turned! Such was the case with Gjergj Poula.
"—Apparently, he’s changed his name again.
—And what’s he calling himself now? Grandmother asked.
—Yorgo Poulos!
—The wretch!
He lived in the neighborhood next to ours. When the Italians first occupied the city, he had called himself Giorgio Pulo." (p. 185)
« "Gjergj Poula had been killed in the city. He had just submitted a fourth request to the civil registry office to change his name to Jurgen Poulo (It was said that, aside from the names Giorgio, Jorgo, and Jurgen—which he never managed to adopt—he had the name Yogoura in reserve, in case of a Japanese occupation.)" (p. 296) » (p.296)
Verbal humor: naivety
Naivety feeds on paradoxes. During a bombardment, the children boast to one another about whose house will burn the best.
“– That one up there is my house—my house that’s burning! Hurrah!
– That’s not true, it’s mine. […]
– What about mine, then, spewing out all that smoke! Once, when there was a chimney fire…
– Smoke doesn’t count.
– You’ll see what happens when my house burns down.” (p. 303)
Adult expressions raise questions in the young narrator’s mind and offer the opportunity for another paradox:
“In particular, expressions like ‘May you eat your own head!’—which were used in our household as a curse—tormented me. Added to the horror I felt at the image of a man holding his head in his hands and devouring it was the difficulty I had understanding how a man could eat his own head, given that one eats with one’s teeth, and those teeth were located inside the head—even a cursed one.” (p. 99)
Childlike speech gives rise to metaphors:
“ – Grandfather, can you read ants?
He would laugh softly, then stroke my tousled hair.
– No, my child, they cannot be read.
– Why not? When they’re gathered together, they look exactly like Turkish characters.
– That’s just an impression.
– But I saw them,” I insisted one last time. " (p. 63)
The adults are not to be outdone; they mask their ignorance with peremptory retorts. Take, for instance, the picture of Stalin formed by three old women:
“– They’re talking about a certain Youssouf, with a red beard—a certain Youssouf Stalin […].
– Is he a Muslim? asked Nazo.
Djedjo hesitated for a moment.
– Yes, she said confidently.
“That’s fortunate,” said Nazo." (pp. 94–95)
From old women, let us turn to old men:
“–Once, in Smyrna,’ said the old artilleryman, ‘a dervish asked me what I loved most: my family or Albania. Albania, of course, I answered. A family is easily made. One evening, leaving the café, you meet a woman on a street corner, take her to a hotel, and—presto—family and child are created. But Albania—you can’t create that in a single night after having a drink. No, Albania cannot be made in one night, nor in a thousand and one nights.’
–A fine way to talk!’ his wife interjected. –You’re getting senile. You have less and less control over your language.’
–Oh! Leave me alone! You women don’t understand a thing about the country’s affairs.’
–Yes, Albania is a very complicated business,’ said another old man.
–Very complicated, it’s true. ” (p. 122)
The editor of the local paper would later apologize in print for “the poor quality of the last issue,” attributing it “to the fact that he had been suffering from stomach trouble.” (p. 55)
Another form of verbal naivety is the mangling of new words, such as aerodrome (p. 96) or perpetuum mobile (p. 126). Who pronounces them correctly? Tempers flare, and eventually it comes to blows... and “a few broken teeth—which, of course, only further distorted the pronunciation of those strange words” (p. 126). Still, some look back nostalgically to the days when “there were real brawls! [...] and they would leave disappointed.” (p. 27).
Figures of opposition
The novelist employs figures of opposition. Words, sentences, or even entire paragraphs clash in a burlesque manner, whether positioned side-by-side or at a distance from one another.
The close contrasts are all the more amusing as they are put in the characters' mouths, and it’s a novelist’s quality to let them speak by erasing themselves. Like Aunt Djemo, confessing: "God knows if I have seen armies, but I never thought I would one day meet soldiers with scents." (p. 102, emphasis added). Similarly, the women inquiring about the brothel opened by the Italian occupant, "house [...] strangely qualified as the epithet of public" (p.104, we emphasize).
The local newspaper, when the news, in itself harmless, are placed side by side, offers cheerful contrasts:
« It has been revealed that Ahmet Zogu, the people-devouring Albanian sultan, had offered his mistress Mizzi in Vienna a hotel bought for two million. Currently the heaviest man in town is Akif Kashash, who weighs one hundred fifty kilos. The turbulent elements were sent back from the high school. " (p.39)
More developed oppositions, those built on the chaos of events. During the brief occupation of the city by the Greeks, the gazette informs about the orders received:
« The Albanian lek and the Italian lira are no longer in force. From now on, the only legal tender will be the Greek drachma... Yesterday, the prison doors were opened. The inmates, after thanking the Greek authorities, left each one for his own account. [... ] I proclaim a state of siege [...]. The city commander: Katantzakis. » (p.157)
A page later, without any further comment between the two, we understand in a burst of laughter that the Italians have returned:
«[...] I order the removal of the state of siege. I order the reactivation of the prison. All prisoners are ordered to return to prison to serve their sentences. The city commander, Bruno Arcivocale. Hurry and exchange your money. The Greek drachma is no longer in use. The only legal currencies are the Albanian lek and the Italian lira. » (p.159)
These two martial statements, which are opposed to each other, their close connection makes them laughable. Their gravity gives way to buffoonery; their posture becomes blustering ; events go off the rails, and statements turn into absurdities. In this above-ground stiffness, words have no meaning except for the laughing ones. Such is Kadaré’s burlesque talent.
Repeat patterns
The contrasts mentioned above combine with such a large number of repetitions. They are also close together or echo each other from a distance.
« These figures, it was said, had aroused the interest of Austrian or Japanese scholars (on this point the rumors were not precise), who invited him to go and continue his work at their home, but he refused. Subsequently, the scientists, Austrian or Portuguese (their nationality remained uncertain), had applied for the patent of his invention [...] » (p.126)
“– What did they do [these are deportees]? Why are they being taken away?
– They spoke against.
– What?
– They spoke against.
– What does that mean? How can I be against it?
– I’m telling you, they spoke against it.
The other one turned his back on him.
– Why are they being taken? What have they done? he asked again.
– They spoke against it.
» (p.245)
An advertisement repeated remotely takes a different meaning depending on its context. The newspaper announces the death of Argyr Argyri "the day after his sinister marriage." Follows the announcement: "Dr. S. Tschuberi. Venereal diseases." (p.113). One hundred pages later, the doctor’s announcement reappears (we assume it will never have left the newspaper columns): it means that the mess worked well! Another pleasant repetition is the mention of a trial (also called "old" from the first mention) between the Karlachs and the Angoni (p.139, 204, 217). We will not know more about this mysterious trial nor about the Angoni. The Karlachs will appear in flesh and blood at the end of the book, during a hasty purge that will kill two family members.
One personality particularly sticks in our minds because of a formula. It is the mother Pino. With each news item that does not fit her beliefs, she exclaims: "It’s the end of everything!"
“It seems that we will have to plug even the chimneys. It’s the end of everything.” (p.94)
"– There is barely one wedding a week. It’s the end of everything." (p.94
The expression comes back a dozen times in a well-studied tempo. The expression is so closely tied to her that there is no longer any need to name her in an exchange of retorts:
“Did we send out leaflets at your place?
– Yes. And at your place?
– Ms. Maïnour notified the gendarmerie.
– This is the end of everything.
– What does that mean, “communist party”?
– Do I know!
– These are strange things, "says grandma." (p.244)
The reader becomes attached to this old radot, guardian of tradition; and we are all moved when the inhabitants, driven out of the city by the bombardments, return home and discover it hanging from a telephone pole by the Germans. "It’s the end of everything" then echoes melancholically, tragically.
"The world was falling apart before my eyes. This is surely what Mother Pino was referring to when she constantly spoke of the "end of everything." (p.100)
Other figures of laughter
There are few lexical inventions. A sultan is called a poplar people-devouring (p.39). When the days follow one another, monotonous, the narrator comments: "Wednesday and Thursday passed. Then came Vendresamedimanche. The days would pile up like a gelatinous mass." (p.219)
Kadaré amuses himself by mentioning the name of the secretary of the Italian fascist party, Muti," shit" in Albanian, who is "the great friend of Albania" (p. 39). And how not to smile at this hodja, a Koranic teacher commissioned to purge the city of evil objects... (p.43)
Black humor is irresistible in this line:
“– The perpetrator of the attack [against the King of Italy in Tirana] had hidden his revolver in a bouquet of roses.
– What a shame that he didn’t reach him! said my aunt. It was the roses that bothered him." (p.33)
Irony often invites itself, but like a veil, a vapor that surrounds the whole. Few identified antiphrases, paradoxes, litotes or hyperboles, figures by which it is usually expressed. The naivety mentioned above are ironies that are ignored, and the contrasts and repetitions also when they are worn by the protagonists. Let Mother Pino conclude with this delightful reflection on the age of suspicion: "It’s crazy [...]. We no longer know whom to be wary of first." (p.74, emphasis added)
Things and animals are not left out. Personification animates them, gives them a soul: the mice above the child’s room become the horde of Genghis Khan invading the continent (p.69); the alarm siren, "It must be Bido’s stepmother," said grandmother. Only she can scream like that." (p.106-107) ; the large living room with its wide windows in the family home excites "the jealousy" of the other rooms, and "their envy could be read on their small windows, on their crooked supports, on their narrow doors" (p.118); the characters of a book that the child reads: "Run them a, run the f, the g, the y, the k. They gather to form a horse, or the hail. They start running again. It’s about creating a dagger, at night, a murder." (p.78) ; the onions that an inquisitor father holds, questioning his son: "The onions are moving in his hand like snakes." The boy’s answer having satisfied him, "the onions calmed down and their tails fell back with weariness." (p.32).
Structural role of laughter
The collage of opposites or remote repetitions, in addition to laughter, truly structures the story; repetitions and oppositions trace lines of force through its 300 pages; or, better, they are lianas thanks to which the reader is constantly performing aerobatics. Repetitions and lexical and phrasal oppositions orchestrate the round of characters. They encamp them, because it is their verb that builds them here, more than their actions. Isn’t the chronicle built on dialogues, newspaper excerpts, children’s words, official posters, gossip?
Chronicle in Stone is a tragicomedy. Against a background of war are narrated deportations, attacks, evacuations, bombings, but also societal gossip, family episodes, jokes, loves, work. We find the same spirit as in Les jeux inconnus (Unknown games), by François Boyer (and its adaptation on screen by René Clément under the title Jeux interdits (Forbidden games). In both works, war is experienced from the point of view of children. On this subject, it is useful to note that the child narrator of Kadaré is of an undetermined age[2], which allows him to make observations with a very wide range, from the naivety of the ant observer to the parodist of Macbeth.There is also no border between the six- or twelve-year-old child who says "I" without quotation marks, and the thirty-something novelist who unravels the narrative by repeating it regularly, without a break in tone. It is with great tenderness that he makes the past vibrate.
«She said she was very bored among grown-ups. She was bored at home embroidering, she was bored at the fountain, and she was bored when she had her meals. In a word, she was infinitely bored. She loved this word very much and took it out of her mouth, articulating it with great care, as if she were afraid of accidentally bruising it with her teeth." (p.64)
The child will replace this coquettish vocabulary a hundred pages later, causing the reader to smile and tenderness mixed.
“ – Did you hear that? said Illyr. We are terribles.
– Yes, infinitely, I replied. ” (p.150)
[1] Ismail Kadare, Chronique de la ville de pierre (Chronicle in stone), Folio, 1991 (1re éd.fr. 1973), transl. by Yusuf Vrioni.
[2] The novelist likewise avoids naming the city whose chronicle he is depicting, nor does he date the events or give them an overly realistic twist.