I sat in my office. My chair was hard wood, likewise, my desk was roughly finished, its top obscured by seemingly endless stacks of neatly organized papers and folders. My hand hovered over it, hesitating for about a second, before swooping down to grab a sheet. I quickly read over it. Something about authorizing new weapons manufacturing. I stood up, hurrying to a filing cabinet and sticking the paper in a folder titled “DISCUSS LATER.” I took a second to look around my office. It was sparsely decorated, as I appreciated. A few cabinets flanked a wall. A window cast bleek light on my desk and chair. The wall facing the cabinets was barren except for three pictures. One was a picture taken after the liberation of Tirana, the other a portrait of Stalin, and the final, a portrait of Mao. I frowned, and returned to my desk, tidying the papers I had disturbed, and moving the cup of tea to a less precarious position. I sat for a second, took a sip of tea, and returned to staring until the phone on my desk rang. Snapping out of my lull, I picked it up. My secretary, a young man named Agon, put me through. The person on the other end of the line was someone I didn’t expect at all.
I sighed and smoothed my shirt with my hands. I was standing looking out a window from my third story offices. The squat brick buildings, hastily constructed in the aftermath of the devastation wrought by WW2, were basked in the warm afternoon sun. I thought to myself that they looked quite pretty. I turned back to my office, walking to the door. I paused for a second. Swallowing my doubts, I wrenched it open and called for my secretary. She hurried out quickly, nodding her head. I gave her her instructions, the number she was to dial, and what she should say. Forcing the nerves out of my face, I returned to my desk. She put the handset in my hand, and I thanked her. The door was shut by the time the recipient of the call picked up. Swallowing quickly, I said in a stark voice, “Enver Hoxha? May I speak to him?” His secretary put me through.
“Who’s there?” I asked. The voice came from the handset, loud and clear.
“Enver? Is that you?”
“Yes, Enver Hoxha speaking. Who are you?”
“Do you not recognize my voice? It truly has been a long time since we met.”
“Wait. You sound familiar… “Post too long. Click here to view the full text.