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Shabana is a
remarkable person. His large smile of stained teeth are his trademark
feature. Acquired from years of smoking, his smile is a part of the
Marlboro man that you don’t see. His cigarettes, if knit together,
would undoubtedly go around Albania twice and still leave enough to tie a
knot.
I know Shabana and have been thrust into many friendly
conversations with him but only with the strictest of rules. Don’t argue
unless you have knowledge of the subject and if defeat is eminent, retreat.
He was a literature teacher in communist schools for thirty years. He knows
how to argue.
He also owns the only bunker left in Vlashaj! With civilization
rapidly encroaching upon this aging monument, I took my camera to preserve
its final dignity before further degeneration took effect. There is only so
much of a good thing.
I took pictures from several angles including this one with the
bunker at the edge of Shabana’s garden. I started to return to the ministry
center when from the corner of my eye a small, plump woman with very earnest
steps caught up with me on the trail.
“That’s not my husband,” pouring out her grievance and pointing to
the scarecrow.
“I know Shabana,” I assured her. “He wouldn’t dress in those
colors.”
Her piercing glare should have signaled my retreat, for my position
was perilous. I was soon under the canopy of her speculation.
“I told you that wasn’t my husband. If you thought Shabana works
in the garden you are wrong. That is not him,” said his wife.
I nodded in agreement, made compassionate gestures, but to no
avail. I told her that I thought I knew her husband but that argument was
slippery and doomed for failure. Then I remembered Shabana’s advice.
When defeat is eminent, retreat! So I turned and ran. Shabana’s wife
knows Shabana. |
