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Vintage Kadare, The Successor seamlessly blends dream and reality, legendary past, and contemporary history.
A powerful political novel based on the sudden, mysterious death of the man who had been handpicked to succeed the hated Albanian dictator Enver Hoxha. Did he commit suicide or was he murdered? That is the burning question. The man who died by his own hand, or another’s, was Mehmet Shehu, the presumed heir to the ailing dictator. So sure...
Vintage Kadare, The Successor seamlessly blends dream and reality, legendary past, and contemporary history.
A powerful political novel based on the sudden, mysterious death of the man who had been handpicked to succeed the hated Albanian dictator Enver Hoxha. Did he commit suicide or was he murdered? That is the burning question. The man who died by his own hand, or another’s, was Mehmet Shehu, the presumed heir to the ailing dictator. So sure was the world that he was next in line, he was known as The Successor.
And then, shortly before Shehu was to assume power, he was found dead. The Successor is simultaneously a mystery novel, a historical novel-based on actual events and buttressed by the author’s private conversations with the son of the real-life Mehmet Shehu, and a psychological novel. How do you live when nothing is sure?
Kadare is a writer who maps a whole culture--its history, its passion, its folklore, its disasters. He is a universal writer in a tradition of storytelling that goes back to Homer.
— John Carey
“The Successor evokes extremely well the hyperattentiveness produced by a totalitarian regime. . . . Intelligent, rich and fascinating.”
—The Globe and Mail
“A multi-layered historical novel based on actual events. . . . Kadare writes in lean, understated prose. . . . The Successor is an emotional roller-coaster ride that will haunt readers for a long time afterwards.”
–The Winnipeg Free Press
“[Kadare is] the best-known Albanian writer of his generation, perhaps of all time, and is one of the most remarkable European novelists of the 20th century. His work is as immense as Balzac’s, as unrelenting in its critique of dictatorship as Orwell’s, and as disturbingly fantastical as Kafka’s. It is an invention as well as a reflection of what it means to be Albanian, and an exploration of both ugliness and the dignity of a small, ancient, oppressed nation. Kadare is perhaps the last “national writer” of European history. . . . With each new work connected to all the others, the Kadarean universe goes on acquiring ever greater self-sufficiency. It adds up to a portrait of an imaginary land – Kadaria, some have called it – with a single, central topic: how to remain human in a world ruled by fear and suspicion. It is a singular, magnificent achievement, and has long been thought worthy of the highest honour.”
–The Independent (UK)
"Ismail Kadare has done much to educate the west about his native land, and his new novel [The Successor] is a magnificent addition to his menacing, lyrical, darkly funny oeuvre. . . . Of Kadare's many great gifts, perhaps the most powerful is his ability to release the wraiths of that world while staying completely unruffled himself."
–The Independent (UK)
"[A] gripping, fitfully brilliant new book. . . . It invites us, dares us even, to identify not only with the oppressed or the nobly defiant, but also with those whom force of circumstance has turned into cogs in the machinery of oppression. In doing so it obliges us to look for the sources of terror in our own psyche rather than that of some conveniently ghoulish Other (though it acknowledges the existence of these too)."
–The Guardian (UK)
"“Kadare's pliant sentences are at once disturbing and funny. . . . [The Successor] valorizes the imagination by arguing that the truth of a man is not always found in what he does or says but in his numinous interior, the place all great literature celebrates.”
—The New York Times Book Review
"[The Successor] partakes of both fiction and fable, refracted history and bad dream. It draws you in even as it fends you off, and like the very best books, demands that ultimate tribute from the audience: a second reading.”
–The Los Angeles Times
“Recent Balkan history is reshaped with mordant wit in this wry 2003 parable. . . . A master novelist’s blackest and most bracing report yet from Communist Cloud-Cuckoo-Land.”
–Kirkus Reviews (starred review)
"In seven chapters laced with the blackest comedy, Kadare plumbs the souls of those most affected [by the death of The Successor]. . . . Meanwhile, the heart’s ineradicable darkness is exquisitely, painfully, reconfirmed.”
The Designated Successor was found dead in his bedroom at dawn on December 14. Albanian television made a brief announcement of the facts at noon: "During the night of December 13, the Successor succumbed to a nervous depression and took his own life with a firearm."
International news agencies circulated the Albanian government's version of the story around the world. Only later that afternoon, when Yugoslav radio voiced a suspicion that the suicide might actually have been murder, did the wire services amend their bulletins to allow for both versions of the event.
In the middle of the sky, which stretched as far as the eye could see and carried the news far and wide, stood a high clump of clouds like a celestial wrath.
Whereas the death shook the whole country, the absence of national mourning, and especially the unaltered television and radio schedules, failed to provoke the intended shock. Once their initial puzzlement had passed, people were persuaded by the explanation that was doing the rounds: despite the country's rejection of the cross, suicide remained implicitly just as blameworthy as it was in the Christian faith. What was more - and this was the main thing - throughout the fall and especially after the onset of winter, people had begun to expect the Successor to topple.
Albanians had long been unaccustomed to the tolling of bells, so they looked next day for signs of mourning wherever they might be found - on the facades of government buildings, in the musical offerings broadcast by national radio, or on the face of their neighbor stuck in the long line outside the dairy. The nonappearance of flags at half-mast and the absence of funeral marches on the airwaves eventually peeled the scales from the eyes of those who had chosen to believe that things were just a bit behind schedule.
News agencies around the world persisted in reporting the event and in giving the two alternative explanations: suicide and murder.
In fact, it looked more and more as if the Successor had intentionally chosen to depart this vale of tears in a particular way, wrapped in not one but two shrouds of mourning, as if he had decided to have himself hauled away by two black oxen, one being insufficient to his needs.
As they anxiously opened their morning papers, hoping to learn something more about the event, people were actually trying to fathom which of the two alternatives - self-inflicted death, or death inflicted by the hand of another - would affect them less harshly.
For lack of news in the media, people fell back on what was being repeated in after-dinner gossip all over town. The night of the Successor's death had been truly terrifying - and it was certainly not a figment of their imagination, for everyone had seen it. Lightning, downpours, and wild gusts of wind! It was no secret that after an autumn full of fears, the Successor had been going through a psychologically difficult time. The next day, in fact, he had been due to attend a decisive meeting of the Politburo where the errors he had to confess in his self-criticism would presumably have been forgiven.
But like so many people born under a cloud and who, on the very brink of salvation, slip and fall into the abyss, the Successor had been in too much of a hurry. He had penned a letter of apology for taking his leave and then ended his own life.
That night, the whole family had been at home. After supper, as he was on his way to bed, the Successor asked his wife to please wake him at eight in the morning. For her part, she who had found it impossible to sleep for weeks on end, as she would later admit, fell into a deep slumber that lasted all night. Her daughter, who had spotted light coming from under her father's bedroom door as late as two in the morning, when it went out, turned in to bed shortly thereafter. Nobody heard any noise whatsoever.
And that was pretty much all the information that emanated, or seemed to emanate, from the house of the deceased. But other stories seeped out from the gated compound - the Bllok - where state officials lived. If the night had indeed been particularly wet and windy, an unusual number of cars had nonetheless been seen entering and leaving the Bllok. The strangest thing was that around midnight, or maybe a little later, the silhouette of a man had been seen slipping into the residence of the deceased. A prominent member of the government ... but it was forbidden to say ... not under any circumstances ... so, an extremely high-ranking official ... had gone in ... and come out again shortly thereafter ...
The files on Albania lay moldering under a thick coat of dust. That wasn't by any means the first time that such lack of rigor had been observed inside various intelligence agencies. As can be imagined, the observation carried more than a hint of criticism on the part of the ranking officers and spread a sense of guilt among the subordinates, who set about reopening said files, promising never to shirk their duties again.
What was known about Albania was mostly obsolete, and some of it was distinctly romanticized. A small nation whose name meant "Land of Eagles." An ancient people of the Balkan Peninsula, who had succeeded the Illyrians and perpetuated their tongue. A new state that had emerged from the ruins of the Ottoman Empire at the dawn of the twentieth century. A land of three faiths: Catholic, Orthodox, and Muslim, declared a monarchy under a minor German prince of the Protestant persuasion. Then a republic under the leadership of an Albanian bishop. Who was overthrown in a civil war led by the next king, this one a native. Who was overthrown in his turn by another sovereign - an Italian monarch, as it happened, who confiscated the Albanian crown and proclaimed himself "King of Italy and Albania and Emperor of Abyssinia." And finally, after that grotesque coupling, where for the first time in their history Albanians were led to constitute a state on an equal footing with Africans, came the outbreak of Communist dictatorship. With new friendships and bizarre alliances solemnly made and haughtily repudiated.
On that part of the story, in fact, and in particular on the two major squabbles, first with the Russians then with the Chinese, most of the files bore traces of subsequent revision. Several extra sheets had been slipped in, containing analyses, reflections, facts, and forecasts, most of which ended in a question mark. The addenda were mostly attempts to work out which way Albania would turn next: toward the West, or once again to the East? The answer was rendered even more uncertain by its being dependent on other questions for which answers had never been found. Was it in the West's interest to draw Albania into its bosom? Some position papers seemed to refer to the possibility of a secret accord between the Communist bloc and the West: We'll drop Albania - on condition you keep your hands off it too. One of the files even quoted a brief in which the issue was stated explicitly: Should the West risk alarming the Soviet camp by seducing poor little Albania, or keep the sweet talk for a better-endowed bride, namely Czechoslovakia?
But interest had manifestly waned as the years went by, and you could measure the growing distance by the resurgence of archaic and romantic terms in the notes and briefs in the agency files - words related to the royal fowl, the eagle, and to the age-old law book called the Canon of Lek, or Kanun.
All that seemed to be but a dress rehearsal for what would take place years later, when Albania broke off relations with China. The same questions would be asked, the same answers suggested, and apart from the fact that it was all a bit more bland, and that the word "Poland" replaced "Czechoslovakia," the conclusions were roughly the same as before.
The death of the Successor that cold December was therefore the third time the files on Albania had been dusted off. Supervisors in various intelligence agencies grew ever more critical of their clerks: We've had enough folklore, and to hell with your avian raptors! We need some serious background on the country! There were forecasts of upheaval in the Balkans. An uprising in northeastern Albania, which some people called Outer Albania and others called Kosovo, had just been put down. Was there any connection between that rebellion and the event that had just taken place inside the country?
On one of the files, some exasperated hand had inked a red circle around the words "Are there six million Albanians, or only one million?" and added an exclamation mark to the question. Then scrawled his own exclamation: "Unbelievable!" In the view of the unnamed annotator, such hazy reporting, such imprecision, boggled the mind. Lower down the page, an identical question mark stood next to the query "Muslims or Christians?" A penciled note in the margin added, "If there are not just a million Albanians, and if they are not all Muslims, as the Yugoslavs assert, but six times as many, that's to say roughly the same size as other Balkan peoples, and if they're not just Muslim but split three ways between Catholicism, Orthodoxy, and Islam, then the geopolitical picture we have of the whole peninsula will probably have to be turned completely upside down."
A transatlantic intelligence agency was the first to realize not only that its espionage operation in Albania was completely outdated, but that a significant number of its agents, most of whom were getting on in years, had gone over to the Albanian Sigurimi. That was presumably why the news from the country following the death of the Successor was so disconcerting.
Nonetheless, the western cemetery of the capital was the scene of the burial of the deceased, which took place in a biting December wind. Members of the family were in attendance, together with a couple of dozen high-ranking state officials. There were some government ministers and the heads of a number of institutions, among them the white-maned president of the Academy of Sciences. Soldiers and other officials bore wreaths. The funeral oration was pronounced by the dead man's son. As he reached his final words - "Father, may you rest in peace" - his voice cracked. No salute was fired, no funeral march played. Suicide was still, very obviously, a mortal stain.
The December night swallowed the hills that surround Tirana one after the other, as if it was in a hurry to get the day over with. Two solitary soldiers in arms standing guard at the head and the foot of the newly filled grave of the Successor appeared to be all alone in the civilian necropolis. About a hundred feet away in the dark, other people not in uniform slunk behind the hedge, on the lookout.
The relief that a newly buried corpse brings to the living did not fail to materialize. Not to mention that, for reasons readily imagined, it was more profound than ever before.
The days of anxiety gave way to unseasonable quiet. Milder weather altered the December skies and drained off what had been tormenting the population, or at least made it seem less terrifying. Even the underlying question - deciding whether it had been suicide or murder - no longer had the same weight, since the Successor had taken the answer with him to the grave.
Now they were free of the bottomless dread that the deceased had exuded. Now that the man's corpse had finally disappeared into the dark, people found it easier to grasp all that had happened in the course of that long-drawn-out fall. The event and its unfolding were now cast in a very different light.
It had all begun with the first days of September. On their return from vacation, city-dwellers found the capital buzzing with rumors of the kind that in the past might have been called scandals. The Successor had just promised the hand of his only daughter to a suitor. In addition, he'd just moved into his new residence, a building project that had attracted a great deal of interest and attention in Tirana. In fact, what was referred to as the "new residency" was the same villa he'd been living in for years, but it had been remodeled with such skill that over the course of the summer it had been transformed beyond recognition. Despite innumerable campaigns to eradicate superstitions, the old saw that "new houses bring new curses" seemed to be coming true as the fall set in. It was never known whether the Successor believed in the saying or not, but there was unending gossip about his rushing to celebrate his daughter's engagement on the very day of the housewarming party. It looked as though, by taking this step, the Successor had wanted to force a blessing into his new house. In other words, he had tried to trick fate, or to defy it.
Everybody responded to the summons: family members and members of the government, the relatives of the putative son-in-law, and of course the young man himself, who had played the guitar, as well as the architect who had designed the new home, and who, having gotten roaring drunk, began to weep. Some people laughed and some cried as they wandered around a house lit by the glint of crystal and camera flashes. But before the party lights went out, and as the Guide (whose attendance and good wishes had constituted the high point of the soiree) was on his way back to his own residence on foot, an icy draft coming out of nowhere suddenly seemed to chill all who were still there.
Had he heard some unexpected news during the brief walk from the house of the Successor to his own? Had it been handed to him en route, as he plodded with short stride, weighed down by his black coat - or had he found it on the doorstep as he reached home? Nobody ever knew. On the other hand, it is true that from that point on, the first rumors of ill omen began to circulate: namely, that the Successor had made a political error in agreeing to the engagement. Despite the fact that the Party granted the future bridegroom's father, the famous seismologist Besim Dakli, permission to give an occasional lecture at the university, the Dakli clan still belonged to the ancien regime. You could have turned a blind eye if the bride had been the daughter of a second-rank official, but there was no way you could pass over such an issue where the Successor was concerned.
The dread question, which was expressed less in words than through pregnant glances and oblique allusions, related to the fact that the alliance between the family of the Successor and the Dakli clan had been made public at least two weeks before the Guide had paid his visit. It could thus be inferred that his attendance at the party, and the expression of his good wishes, signified his approval of said engagement. That is, moreover, the probable reason why that unforgettable day had been so exceptionally joyous. Nonetheless, as soon as the Guide had left the house, something strange happened. Was it a last and unexpected discovery about the Daklis? A piece of information coming from who knows where, or maybe from far away, about some disturbing fact that two weeks of intense investigation by every branch of the service about every imaginable dimension of the Dakli case had failed to turn up until then?
As often happens to people who stave off asking dangerous questions by showing uncommon interest in matters they believe much safer, gossipers kept on circling back to the issue of whether or not what was forbidden to others might be permitted the Successor. Most people thought not, and they ventured to recall numerous instances where ill-considered marriages had brought families, and even whole clans, to sorry ends. But there were some people who thought differently. The Successor had done so much for the country, he had followed the Guide every step of the way with such touching steadfastness through the most horrible turns of fate, that he surely deserved an exception to be made for him. What's more, they said, maybe this case in particular would set the wheels of change in motion. It was hard luck for people who'd already come unstuck, but that shouldn't stop the rest of us from profiting from new rules. That's just our point, the naysayers insisted, that's how rot sets in. No good can come of setting a bad example to others.
Excerpted from THE SUCCESSOR by ISMAIL KADARE Copyright © 2003 by Ismail Kadare. Excerpted by permission.
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Posted July 29, 2006