the history hour

darien levani

The history teacher, one Agron Agronaj, was explaining their common descent from the Illyrians and their social organization when the door opened and in walked Burbuqe, the maths teacher, his secret lover. The students looked up from their books and stared at the maths teacher in amazement, the older ones exchanging meaningful glances. Agronaj sent a charming smile to his girlfriend. In the certainty that she would sit down, he announced a five minute break to the class, while Burbuqe took a seat next to him, with their legs touching under the table.
Now it needs to be said that Agronaj was a man respected and admired by his colleagues, and even by Libohova’s bourgeoisie. Besides, as a historian he could be considered “not bad at all”. At the age of forty-three he felt he was a reasonably fulfilled man. Exactly one year before, while he was looking for a more suitable job, he’d understood that he really was irrevocably destined to be a history teacher and he’d decided to make sure he would be respected for this, too. What better way than through scholarly research? The city government had given him a modest grant and for several months he wandered around Albania searching for evidence for his most important project (which had won him two flattering articles in the local paper): to demonstrate that Gjergj Kastrioti had returned to Kruja in 1439 and not in 1443, as was commonly thought.
“Let’s take a five-minute break” – he said, taking a peek at Burbuqe out of the corner of his eye – “ Stay seated and don’t make any noise. Meanwhile, read about the Illyrian wars to learn something new.”
Now he turned towards Mrs Burbuqe to show her the various tones of voice he used to address his students. According to Agronaj there was a correct tone for saying everything, and if the children weren’t obedient it wasn’t their fault because it meant he’d used the wrong tone. Right then, for example, the tone he’d adopted to order this five-minute break had been reached by adding a touch that suggested divine intervention: the students were to realize that it was providence that had given them that gift of five minutes, and so they had to act appropriately by taking the best possible advantage of the break.

Mark was the oldest boy in the class. He would turn twelve in November and he could hardly wait, since he now knew for sure that for his birthday his grandmother would make honey fritters.
Mark was also one of the students who were most unhappy with the five-minute pause the teacher had granted. He hated sitting there with nothing to do, so he looked around for something interesting. Since he couldn’t find anything, he decided to grow up -- they all decided to grow until they were of age, so they could leave the classroom without being scolded by the teacher.
“I think we can do it!” – said the note Mark passed to Engjëll - “ Let’s try it!” said another note, sent to Genti.
“Spread the word to the whole class!” was Mark’s last order.
By now the notes were flying through the air, since Agronaj was no longer paying any attention to the class. In less than a minute everyone knew what they were supposed to do, but they were afraid to go through with it.
“I don’t want to grow up, no I don’t want to in the least,” said Mira to her desk-mate, clenching her small fists. But the other girl didn’t answer, and perhaps hadn’t even heard her, so hard was she concentrating on what she had to do.
Agronaj still didn’t know anything about what was going on, and at the precise moment when Mark was writing the notes he was telling his charming friend that the difference between one system of jurisprudence and another lay in whether or not a there was a guillotine in the middle of the town square.
“Couldn’t we do it, too?” asked Burbuqe, referring to the revolution. .
“A revolution is a great thing, my dear - answered Agronaj – it can’t be done just like that, from one day to the next”.
“Tomorrow I have a lesson from eight o’clock to nine, after that I’m free. I still haven’t decided what to do for the rest of the morning, but maybe we could find a guillotine and start the revolution, if it really is the great and just thing you say it is.”
“And where are going to find a guillotine?”- thought Agronaj - “It’s already hard enough to find a bedroom where we can lie down in peace. We can’t go to the hotel in the centre of town, they’d see us. I can’t even have her come to my house, everyone would know in two minutes. It’s a small town…”. “ …People talk – she was thinking“ – we can’t do much in this small, provincial town. To be sure, Libohova isn’t Tirana, but a small-sized revolution is always possible. Tomorrow morning he’ll find a guillotine somehow and I’ll make some meat sandwiches, and after the revolution we’ll have a picnic in the woods. But maybe Agron will have something else to do?”
“What will we do after the revolution?”
“After the revolution?”- he repeated, amazed. He still hadn’t thought about that, and he hadn’t the least idea what happened afterwards. “We could go and have a coffee at the headmaster’s house, unless we kill him, too”.
Burbuqe was too stunned to reply. She couldn’t swallow the idea of killing the headmaster.
“The revolution - said Agronaj – is a banquet, the revolution is a poem, the revolution is not an act of violence.⁽¹⁾”.
“That’s a very beautiful phrase – commented Burbuqe – really very beautiful, that’s just the way to do it. But listen, do we really have to kill the headmaster? I mean, he has the record-player, and we’ve spent some very nice evenings at his house. And then, you still haven’t told me where we’re going to get the guillotine.”
That was true, the guillotine was still a problem. It wasn’t as though they lived in a big city where they could find one at the antique market. That was why Agronaj put down his head and began to think. A guillotine, a nice, working guillotine. It really was irksome. But maybe the guillotine was a only symbol after all, and so could be replaced with something else. Poisonous mushrooms, for example, or else a good plain rope.
As far as the record-player was concerned, he already had a solution. Proletarian expropriation, he’d called it.
“What in heaven’s name is going on?” cried Burbuqe.

Agronaj looked at the class and was dumbfounded. The students were growing out of all proportion. Mark was already a young man, tentatively touching his moustache and pulling off his blue school uniform. Blerta had grown into a green-haired punk and was really a bit frightening. Two model students were boxing, while Engjëll was intent on rolling up a reefer. Then there was silence.
Uncomfortable in their small seats, the students crossed their arms and looked at Agronaj, accusing him of something he couldn’t quite grasp.
He stared at them in amazement while he searched for the suitable tone of voice to tell them that the break was over.

Darien Levani was born in 1982 in Fier, Albania. After finishing secondary school in Tirana, he moved to Ferrara, where he is now in the fifth year of Law School.