Scene 3
Adham-Uti, Zeneli

Adham-Uti (tapping his watch): Strange. It’s 8:30 and Skëndo Bey does not seem to be coming! Zeneli, has Miss Lulushe not arrived yet?
Zeneli: Not yet, sir! I haven’t seen any women coming our way in a long time!
Adham-Uti (angrily): What is this all about? They are making a fool out of me. To hell with it all! (He sits at the table and casts a glance at the manuscripts on the table. After a moment, he rises suddenly and, dumbfounded, utters): Haxhi Aliu has died! Good lord! I don’t believe it. He has died without a sound. He was fine when I last met him. Perhaps a bit weak, but certainly not at death’s door. Poor Haxhi Aliu! The poor man, and a Member of Parliament, too. He had many friends. He wanted me for government service. Oh, poor Haxhi Aliu has died.
Zeneli: No, milord! He is not dead. Perhaps he is just giving up the ghost.
Adham-Uti: What, and has not died? What do you mean, my good man? (Reading from the text): "We are deeply distressed to learn that His Excellency, Member of Parliament Haxhi Aliu, has passed away"... (to Zeneli): What a dreadful loss! You have lost a good man indeed!
Zeneli: But he is fine. A newspaper as well-known as ‘Lirija’ must be prepared for any eventuality, for anything that might occur so we are never caught empty-handed, so to speak. What would happen tonight, for instance, if in the middle of the night, we should receive a telegram saying that Haxhi Aliu had dinner, and then choked on it and died? The editor-in-chief of ‘Lirija’ has no time to start investigating where the gentleman was born, who his parents were, and what he accomplished or did not accomplish during his lifetime. For this very reason, Skëndo Bey prepares the texts in advance. Haxhi Aliu can die in peace and tranquility whenever he wants. Our newspaper is ready for him anytime.
Adham-Uti (glancing at the text): Ha, ha! Haxhi Aliu would certainly be pleased at such a flattering obituary. Tell me, Zeneli, how many days ago was this text written?
Zeneli: Oh, quite a while ago, milord. The editor-in-chief always prepares for everything in advance. We have obituaries ready for all public figures! For kings, for instance, since their lives often hang by a thread, or a noose or a knife or a revolver. We have obituaries ready for Members of Parliament since many of them are exceedingly advanced in age. We have obituaries for noted writers and for other figures of renown.
Adham-Uti: Figures of renown, you say?
Zeneli: Yes, of course. A renowned healer, for instance, could kick the bucket anytime, just like the rest of us.
Adham-Uti: Yes, I suppose you are right (stopping to think for a moment): And what about me? Do you consider me to be a figure of renown?
Zeneli: What do you mean? Are you asking me if you are old?
Adham-Uti: No, I mean, do you consider me to be a great figure?
Zeneli: With a long life?
Adham-Uti (patiently): No, Zeneli, I want you to tell me if I too, am a figure of renown, I mean, whether or not I have a reputation as a healer and am known as a writer?...
Zeneli: Well, that’s what you, I mean, they say.
Adham-Uti: Tell me openly, am I, Doctor Adham-Uti, a figure of renown, or not?
Zeneli: A what?
Adham-Uti: A great man!
Zeneli: Why do you even bother to ask? Of course, you are a man of considerable stature.
Adham-Uti: You’re not making fun of me now, are you?
Zeneli: Not at all, I swear it. I have no doubt whatsoever that you are a big man!
Adham-Uti: How do you know?
Zeneli: Because you are not short.
Adham-Uti: Why else?
Zeneli: Because you have a beard and thinning hair. In fact, when I think about it, you’re as bald as a cucumber. That’s why you must be wise.
Adham-Uti (satisfied): Where did you learn things like that?
Zeneli: It’s what my grandmother taught me, God bless her.
Adham-Uti: God bless her indeed. She seems to have been a woman of sage judgments. That would mean then that your employer, Skëndo Bey, must have an obituary about me, too! Tell me the truth, Zeneli, don’t keep anything from me!
Zeneli: I’m sure he must have, After all, you are a Member of Parliament, and you are not that young anymore. You are an elderly statesman. I can assure you of that.
Adham-Uti: Alright, alright, Zeneli. Can you give me your word?
Zeneli: About what?
Adham-Uti: Can you keep a secret?
Zeneli: No need to worry about that. I am discretion itself. No one ever gets a word out of me. (To himself): I don’t think so, anyway.
Adham-Uti: Very well. You have done me a great favour. Take this silver coin.
Zeneli: A real coin? For me?
Adham-Uti: For you.
Zeneli: I may be a Moslem, but I have the impression I am going to be ‘bearing the cross’ with my own two hands.
Adham-Uti: Why is that?
Zeneli: They say you are a bit stingy, actually.
Adham-Uti: Don’t listen to rumours.
Zeneli: A coin, all for me?
Adham-Uti: I have two others for you, too, Zeneli, if you tell me...
Zeneli: Oh, damn, now I understand. You want to know what my boss wrote about you, the text which ‘Lirija’ will print when you pass away.
Adham-Uti: You will tell me, won’t you?
Zeneli: Damn it! But then... why not. If I, for my part, were to ask a favour of you, not a coin, but something which wouldn’t cost you a thing. They say after all that your wife only doles you out a few cents a day...
Adham-Uti: What do you want of me, my boy?
Zeneli: You can’t make money here. I’ve got barely enough to survive on.
Adham-Uti: And?
Zeneli: I was thinking to going to Egypt, to Alexandria.
Adham-Uti: And then what?
Zeneli: To put it short, milord, I would like to ask you to give me a letter of recommendation for the president of the Bashkimi Club so that I can get a job.
Adham-Uti: Do you know his name?
Zeneli: No, I don’t. I can’t remember, but I’ve heard he has a huge moustache, a tall body and two eyes that...
Adham-Uti: What you mean is a big chunk of meat with two eyes attached to it. Ha, ha, ha! And of course he has money?
Zeneli: Yes, sir. He has income from his spouse. He’s one of those types who live off their wives!
Adham-Uti: There is nothing wrong with that, damn you, even I myself... But what do you mean exactly? What line of work do you want to get from the president of the Bashkimi Club?
Zeneli: I would like him to get me a job as a messenger and a crier at the stock exchange.
Adham-Uti: Do you know how to do that?
Zeneli: Of course I do. I have a voice as deep as a cave.
Adham-Uti: You do have a good voice, and long droopy ears to boot, but whether they’ll help you make enough money to support yourself and your family, I don’t know, Zeneli.
Zeneli: I have no family, Doctor Efendi. Actually, I have been living with a lady for a number of years but I haven’t tied the knot yet.
Adham-Uti: Tied the veil, you mean. You’re a Moslem, aren’t you? It would be better for you to make the woman your own and live a proper life in the open.
Zeneli: Everyone thinks I’m married because that’s what I always tell them, and the ‘Kuvendi’ newpaper once mentioned I was married too.
Adham-Uti: So you and the ‘Kuvendi’ newspaper have lied.
Zeneli: milord, a lie is the salt of truth, as the president of the Bashkimi Club once put it when he was here on a trip to Salonika.
Adham-Uti: What the hell?
Zeneli: Oh, don’t use that word. May the Lord... the Lord...
Adham-Uti: You can’t remember a thing, my good lad, you’ve got a brain like a sieve. I have written quite an exceptional book on that tonic of mine.
Zeneli: I’ve got it, doctor. I found it.
Adham-Uti: You found what? You sound like Archimedes?
Zeneli: No, no, not Archimedes, the president’s name is Machi.
Adham-Uti: And what did this Mr Machi have to say for himself?
Zeneli: He said that all the Albanians in Egypt are blind and only he has two eyes. He must be lying and trying to deceive everyone.
Adham-Uti: It’s true, the Albanians in Alexandria have always been fanatics for the Greeks and all the more, Mr Machi. He is a despicable and disgusting individual, a traitor to his country like those doctors Harisi, Naumi and Turtulli, who are notorious for their gossip, their muck-raking and their sleazy deeds. And this Mr Machi of yours, Zeneli, is the same as the rest of them. Probably worse. Lord preserve us...
Zeneli: What a fool I must then have been not to understand. To tell you the truth, he did smell a bit. But when I saw him all dressed up in his fine clothes, I said to myself, Zeneli, I said to myself, this gentlemen must be a great Albanian.
Adham-Uti: Dressed up in his fine clothes, he may have been. But don’t forget that he bought those clothes by stealing funds from the Bashkimi Club! I know the story well. He may look like a great figure, but in reality he is nothing but a worm. Let him and his friends go to hell and let us take care of our own affairs. What were we talking about?
Zeneli: What were we talking about?
Adham-Uti: Oh yes! We were talking about the obituary which ‘Lirija’ is going to publish about me when I die. Tell me what’s in it. I gave you a silver coin, after all.
Zeneli: And you promised me two more, didn’t you?
Adham-Uti: He can remember things when it suits him. Tell me about it now and when you go to Egypt, I’ll write you the letter of recommendation for the head of Bashkimi, whoever he may be, the man with the big moustache, that chunk of meat with two eyes attached, to get him to help you.
Zeneli: You promise?
Adham-Uti: I give you my word. For God’s sake, just show me the obituary Skëndo Bey has written about me.
Zeneli: Why not. Except that I can’t remember where it is.
Adham-Uti: Well, look for it then!
Zeneli: You’ll have to come back later.
Adham-Uti: Alright.
Zeneli: Fine. And the day I find it...
Adham-Uti: What day, you fool? I want it now.
Zeneli: Right away? (The telephone rings and Zeneli rushes to answer it): Hello. It’s Zeneli speaking. Who? Yes, of course. Doctor Adham-Uti has arrived and is waiting for you. No, Miss Lulushe has not come yet. (Turning to Adham-Uti): It’s my boss, Skëndo Bey.
Adham-Uti: Let me speak to him. (He goes to the telephone): Hello. This is Adham-Uti speaking. Very well, thank you. And yourself? Yes, the moment you told me, I went to visit him at his residence. He has an eye infection. What should be done? Well, if you ask me, I think the bad eye should be taken out so that the other one is not infected. I told him so, but he was not to be convinced. Are you going yourself? Very well. But who is going to pay my bill? Oh, you yourself! Very good... When? Well, I’ll perform the operation if he lets me! And then, right afterwards, we’ll come back here to talk about the Albanian alphabet. You’ll see for yourself. You’ll see that it’s... Well, when can I meet you at the club?... Miss Lulushe will have to be here too. Thank you very much. All the best.
Zeneli: Who has the eye infection, doctor?
Adham-Uti: You don’t know? Mehdiu.
Zeneli: The governor?
Adham-Uti: Skëndo Bey has asked me to heal him.
Zeneli: And you want to remove his eye?
Adham-Uti: If we don’t, he’ll lose both of them. It is a new method of healing I have devised. If one hand hurts, cut it off to save the other one. If one leg is hurt, amputate it as quickly as possible to save the other one. An eye ache? Remove it so that the other one is not infected! That is my method and that is how I have treated my wife. Her right eye was aching one day. I operated right away and now her left is in splendid condition. She can even see at night...
Zeneli (dumbfounded): Good Lord. You have amazing healing methods. What happens if someone has a headache? Do you chop it off?
Adham-Uti: Don’t talk nonsense, Zeneli. These are serious and profound matters which you don’t understand. I have spent my entire life... But don’t forget what you promised me, for the obituary.
Zeneli: Well, don’t forget the two silver coins either, milord.
Adham-Uti: Cash in your little hot hand, my boy. Try to find the text while I am visiting Mehdiu, before I get back. Oh, and if Miss Lulushe shows up, tell her to stay put and wait for me here.
Zeneli: Very well, doctor. Have a good time!
(Adham-Uti departs.)