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Translator David Bellows shares a series of illuminating, funny and moving memories of the great Balkan literary figure who died earlier this week.
Between 1995 and 2014, David Bellows translated several works by Albania’s most famous novelist and poet, Ishmael Kadare (photo), from French into French, including The Besieged, H. Files, The Inheritors, Pyramids and Twilight of the Eastern Gods, and revised earlier translations of The Stone and Ghost Rider. In 2005, Kadare won the inaugural International Booker Prize for his complete works, a prize he shared with Bellows, who was then his latest translator. After Kadare’s death at the age of 88, Bellows recalled some of his fond memories of the writer.
In the summer, on doctor’s orders, he takes a 30-minute walk every morning on the beach in front of his summer home. The communist-era bunkers are covered in graffiti and piled with trash; some are sunken into the sand at odd angles. There are wisps of plastic everywhere, and the smell of tidal seaweed isn’t pleasant, but we stride along anyway, he in brown worsted trousers and 1950s walking boots, me in sandals and shorts.
“The beach was not crowded, but it was large, with many people swimming or playing with their children in the warm Ionian Sea (I think it’s technically still the Adriatic). One by one, men and women, young and old, began to look at us, then stood up, and then walked towards us, their bodies stretched out in an arc. There was nothing threatening about the crowd in their wet bathing suits as they approached. In fact, they were well disciplined, forming a line around us, smiling, with their hands outstretched, welcoming the great man.
“As for him, he would whisper a greeting every time he passed. I realized that he did this every day, and every day a different group of retainers, followers and loyal servants would emerge from the water and line up to receive the touch of his finger. It was the only time in my life that I felt so close to royalty.
“In 2008, the Scottish National Gallery was the venue for a gala gala celebrating the Edinburgh International Book Festival, where he presented his newly translated novel to an audience of several hundred. The invitation said something like “formal sparkling attire,” and he knew the dress code in advance, so he rented a tuxedo and the necessary finery, and under the flashes of the photographers, he walked up the steps, or rather waddled up the steps, more like a penguin than most.
“The host of this party was none other than actor Sean Connery, the first and unforgettable James Bond in the movies. Tall, handsome and with a soft voice, he was the same on screen, in his kilt and sequined smoking jacket. He sat for a while with Connery and took a photo. Twenty years ago, he told me, with a rare smile and almost a giggle, that photo would have gotten me shot as an MI5 agent! He was glad to leave all that behind him.
“But the most curious part of the evening was the late night return to the hotel. It was too far to walk, we hadn’t booked a car and taxis were hard to come by. So we got in a pedicab and set off along Princes Street, which was packed with festival crowds, and no one could have guessed that the old fellow in the ill-fitting tuxedo sitting on the back of the pedicab was the greatest writer of our time.”
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