TIRANA – That morning, Gorgon Gjeçbelanaj was hastening his steps to arrive at the right desk in front of the door of the parliament. He wanted to see the money crap with his own eyes, to then sharpen the quill - which he told everyone he had left with the widows himself, that Pllumi himself, that he was related to - and to embroider one of those chronicles of his so fine, that they competed in their own kind, with the scrawls of the Long during the meetings of the government.
Gorgoni is not a deputy anyway. And not even petakok anything. The incorrigible red-faced man who looks as if he has worked for three generations under the scorching sun of the Mosquito Barn Mosquito, is the deputy speaker of the Assembly from the opposition side. And what's more, he doesn't get involved in the smuggling of fireworks and smokers that his colleagues bring into the Assembly hall - that task has been taken over by the democratic women's union, which uses tights, thongs, perfume bottles and cigarette boxes to smuggle the precious commodity. - Gjeçbelanaj is always somewhere nearby, witness and chronicler of parliamentary history. It doesn't mix, but it doesn't stay away either. He stays somewhere in the middle, so that his own people do not insult him and so that his opponents take him with them to delegations abroad.
As long as he was outside, he couldn't wait to get inside. But the moment it entered right-wing politics run by the most anti-communist history has seen, the latter was pushed out of history by order of America.
Gorgon Gjeçbelanaj, bewildered, found himself in a kind of political purgatory, neither hell nor heaven, neither inside nor outside, neither frozen nor warm. Just like those pieces of meat that the hosts take out of the freezer and leave on the main floor of the refrigerator, in the 2-5 degree department, to thaw slowly and be ready for cooking. But for some reason they forget them there, neither in heaven nor on earth.
"Gorgon, get something ," Aherzaj said to himself with a mixture of dialects, " how are you going to do it or shut them up?" Go with Lulash, it's better, that you testify pro-American. But it awakens the Doctor's Achillean grudge. Then who assures me that America and the Doctor don't find the chatter tomorrow or the day after tomorrow, and I remain like a shell in eternal purgatory".
And since then, he decided to do what he hadn't done when he had to do it: To write prose with rumours, in the first person, about the actions and actions of friends - and enemies - MPs. In other words, to put down on paper what happens before his eyes, he pretends to be an impartial reporter, objective and distanced from the petty petty grudges of this world, in which you pick peppers and pick eggplants, as a satirical poet would say communist.
Gjeçbelanaj was pleased by the scenes he saw at the entrance of the Assembly. Guards, left and right MPs, ministers, checks, coquettish protests by female MPs (Mr. Officer, you have no right to check me by the saddles), eye violations, false screams... There was plenty of material to start the next satirical satire , that his voters in Lezha, Manati and Ishul-Shengjin were looking forward to.
He would use some Turkishisms at first - they are cute and delicious like the behars of Ceylon, flagged - but in order not to fall into contradiction with his pronounced Catholic background, he would also introduce a lot of Shkodranoid dialectics. There was a time when he was dusting off and taking note of Fishtian, Median and Zef-Plumian expressions and words. He mixed them with the Turks and came out with a finger-licking tongue carp casserole.
The names of the deputies, he had decided to change them only a little, but they should remain identifiable. But not all. He would not mention the Prime Minister, for example, by name at all, but would call him Babo. Jorida would become the Mistress of Trays (from the cute form it will look like I'm itching, but art has sacrifices, he said to himself), while Taulanti would become vizier Tao.
From the first peuton, he had received praise. Qerrata, his former petakoc colleagues and fellow MPs told him, "what a thin mood you had, damn it." Even we barely understand it, then think about the people who don't know where Magyar is related to". He was happy right away, but when he lost his mind later, a cloud of doubt arose: "Did they want to tell me that people didn't understand me?" Or that I'm so intelligent that only someone of my age can figure out where I want to go?". But he quickly gathered his mind, "bo, e chi se ne frega".
There were also those who said - and continue to say - that Gorgon Gjeçbelanaj's capricious humor is another skin byproduct of this worn-out, straw-and-green and discreet opposition that has no eye for Kaaba to be reformed and revived . And that Gorgoni himself has found comfort - even remembering that he contributes to Albanian parliamentarism - by falling for the two-faced pseudo-barcaletas.
Still others compare it to the Titanic's orchestra, which immediately plunged into the icy waters singing Ra Faja Pri Fiku / Iku Titanicu.
But in a moment of weakness, Gorgoni himself said that at most, he can be compared to Fan Noli, the prime minister who played the flute while Ahmed Zogji's forces were surrounding Tirana. " You don't understand that you're a pig," said Gorgoni, " why do you know that you're miserable, that politics comes and goes, but art remains!"
And he wrote down some rare words that he would use in the next satirical satire: "Hyxhym... Te pegherat... Çehreli... pooo, this is beautiful".
Note: Patronageist is a quasi-parliamentary satirical column