The traitor's niche A novel

Review by New York Times Review

after world war II, tiny Albania became a hermit state, rigidly controlled by a Stalinist dictator, Enver Hoxha, who broke with both the Soviet Union and Maoist China, desecrated the country's mosques and churches and planted the beaches across from the Greek island of Corfu with pillboxes before his regime collapsed in 1990, five years after his death. But the Albanian writer Ismail Kadare's 1978 novel, "The Traitor's Niche," is an allegorical fable, finally (and very elegantly) translated into English by John Hodgson, about an earlier Albania, which for centuries formed part of the sprawling Ottoman Empire. The novel begins with a severed head sitting in a dish of honey. It occupies a special niche in a square of the imperial capital, Istanbul, where it outstares the milling crowds. The head belonged to a hapless pasha who failed to suppress a rebellion in the distant province of Albania; it is tended by Abdulla, the guardian of the heads, and regularly inspected for signs of decay by a benign doctor who also advises Abdulla on how to overcome his impotence. The popular expectation is that the head of Ali Tepelena, the rebel pasha of Albania, will soon come to replace it, now that his uprising is faltering and he is besieged in his castle by the young and vigorous Hurshid Pasha. The imperial courier Ttmdj Hata waits for the head. If Hurshid Pasha succeeds, Ttmdj Hata will pack the rebel's head in salt and ice, according to the regulations contained in the state manual, and transport it posthaste to the niche in the capital; if not, he'll be taking Hurshid's head instead. It's all the same to him - except that All's head will make a better show when the villagers come to gawp at it in the little impromptu displays he always gives on his way to the capital. The display of heads quickens the villagers' sluggish interest: For them, this is "literature, theater, art, philosophy and perhaps love." They live in the terrible wasted lands of the empire, somewhere between Albania and Istanbul, where everything that is theirs, down to their language and their legends, has been erased. They speak in a crude patois, satisfied to gaze mutely at one of the heads the state values so much, inhabitants of a region where a man was found half-strangled and scratched by his own hands, wrestling to compose a ballad in his own tongue. As this riveting novel unfolds - in brilliant, laconic, grimly comic fashion - it becomes apparent that the state is, in its own way, a frightful head. A Medusa, perhaps, with the capacity to destroy. Or, as the courier imagines, an octopus, the only creature he can think of whose head is in the middle of its body. The fleeting thoughts and impulses of Kadare's characters flutter uselessly around the hard, indelible fact of the state: of its organs and deliberations. Everyone is slightly confused, overwhelmed and made lonely by the size of the empire. There is no trust, merely calculation. Even Abdulla, guarding his niche, dreams of being just a head. The head is what pulls the whole edifice together: the head in its niche, the stone of deterrence. "The capital city had been waiting for that little bundle packed in snow and salt for a long time.... More than anything, it needed to have that head." Ali Tepelena, once apostrophized by Byron, was real; Albania certainly exists. But the sultan is unseen, unnamed, almost irrelevant - another titular head, perhaps, whose functions are performed by the terrible ministries of state. In Kadare's Istanbul there are newspaper headlines and tourists, a royal theater, couriers traveling by carriage, who don't belong to the historical period. Are they anachronisms or elements of the surreal or slyly placed hooks that tether the narrative to another period, perhaps our own? JASON goodwin is the author of the Yashim Ottoman detective series and "Lords of the Horizons: A History of the Ottoman Empire."

Copyright (c) The New York Times Company [August 23, 2019]

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Review by Booklist Review

The latest of Kadare's tales to appear in English is, among other things, a meditation on severed heads. Removed from their bodies for displeasing the sultan, human heads are carefully displayed on a stone gate in central Constantinople, steps from the Central State Archive, where their unblinking eyes horrify, and perhaps surveil, passersby. The heads entail their own bureaucracy. Abdulla inspects them twice daily in accordance with the official Regulations for the Care of Heads, wary that the anonymity afforded by his low-level function will not shield him from harsh consequences should he mess up. Head-courier Tundj Hata, by contrast, revels in the spectacle that follows when he passes through the countryside, allowing glimpses at his gory cargo for those who line his pockets. But the head (of state) around which the story truly orbits is that of Black Ali, the geriatric ruler of faraway Albania, whose rebellion against the Ottoman Empire, though futile, has triggered an asymmetric response from the government ministry responsible for subduing rebellion through the destruction of language, culture, and collective memory. Initially published in 1978, this selection, long-listed for the Man Booker, is the last of Kadare's three Ottoman cycle works (The Fall of the Stone City, 2013; Girl in Exile: Requiem for Linda B, 2018) to appear in translation, and with its allegorical style, dark humor, and muscular commentary on contemporary Albania under Enver Hoxha, it is very much classic Kadare.--Driscoll, Brendan Copyright 2010 Booklist

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.

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Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

Forty years after its first publication, Kadare's magisterial novel is available in English. Set during the height of the Ottoman Empire in Constantinople, the novel opens by introducing Abdullah, who tends to the niche in a Constantinople square where the heads of the empire's enemies are displayed for tourists and to discourage would-be rebels. But Albania still resists Ottoman rule under the leadership of Ali Tepelena, its governor. After he is executed, his head is entrusted to courier Tunj Hata, who is charged with bringing it to the Traitor's Niche. On the way, Hata has surreal adventures while earning a little extra money by displaying the head at the small villages between Albania and his destination at the heart of the empire. Once Hata's quest is completed, Kadare turns his attention to those whose cultures face extinction under the law, cutting between Hata, Abdullah, the late Ali in his final hours, and Ali's wife Vasiliqia. In so doing, Kadare brilliantly examines the private cost of despotism while illustrating a crucial episode in the history of Albania. Kadare's powerful, nimble novel is a gem. (June) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

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Review by Library Journal Review

Albania's most prominent author-he claimed the inaugural Man Booker International Prize, among other honors-Kadare writes keenly about tyranny through the ages. Originally published in 1978 and appearing in the United States for the first time in a fine new translation, this work unfolds in the 1800s Ottoman Empire. Albania's Ali Pasha, known as Black Ali, has fomented rebellion against the empire, and -Hurshid Pasha must relieve him of his head or lose his own. In fact, traitors are being regularly decapitated, so much so that a special niche has been created to house their heads in a square in the imperial capital, the better to subdue the populace. Courier Tundj Hata does good business on the side as he storms through an eerie landscape to deliver heads, which are guarded by the hapless Abdulla, his personal life in tatters; life goes on as we learn that Black Ali rebelled as much for himself as for his people. VERDICT Though occasionally slowed by detailed historical layering, this piercingly beautiful work quietly delivers a persuasive sense of human violence. © Copyright 2018. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

(c) Copyright Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

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Review by Kirkus Book Review

A political fable of decapitation amid totalitarian oppression combines wickedly funny satire with darker, deeper lessons.One of a series of books by Albania's premier novelist (Twilight of the Eastern Gods, 2014, etc.) that was banned in his homeland, this novel was published in 1978 but has only recently been translated into English. The only signs that it's set in the early 19th century are offhand references to Byron and Napoleon; otherwise it reads less like historical fiction than timeless prophecy, as it anticipates the relentless expansion of an empire "encompassing three continents, twenty-nine peoples, six religions, four races, and forty languages."In the language of a fairy tale, "the empire was larger than the night. People said that when dusk fell at one end, dawn rose at the other." The title refers to the spot in the town square where the severed heads of rebel leaders are displayed and preserved, offering a cautionary lesson to the visitors who flock to the spectacle. There are a pair of protagonistsAbdulla, who guards the heads as the "keeper of the Traitor's Niche," and Tundj Hata, the imperial courier sent to retrieve the heads and deliver them by horseback for their public display. The narrative concerns a rebellion and its aftermath in the outpost of Albania, which must then undergo the process by which all conquered peoples are absorbed into the empire. Thus, the "full erasure of national identity" encompasses "the reduction of the language into Nonspeak" and the eradication of all other forms of national culture. Though the guard and the courier never appear in the same scene, the novel's resolution finds one in open rebellion, having gone mad, as the other continues with business as usual. The separation of the head from the body, or the intellect from the emotions, takes other forms than capital punishment.Kadare's political impact and significance have made him an oft-mentioned candidate in Nobel Prize handicapping. Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

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1 At the Centre of the Empire The unblinking eyes met the stares of the ­passers‑­by and tourists who poured into the square from all directions. The tourists' own gaze, like that of all moving crowds, was mild and unfocused, but people's eyes suddenly froze as soon as they encountered this sight, as if their astonished pupils struggled to sink back into the depths of their skulls, and only the impossibility of doing this compelled them to stand still and face what they saw. Most went pale, some wanted to vomit. Only a few looked on calmly. The eyes were indifferent, of a colour you could not call bluish or even grey, and which it was hard to name, because it was less a colour than the distant reflection of a void. Looking away at last, the clusters of tourists would ask how to get to Hagia Sophia, to the tombs of the sultan-­emperors, the bank, the old bathhouses, the Palace of Dreams. They enquired hurriedly and feverishly, yet most did not leave the square but wandered round as if caught in a trap. Although not particularly large, the square was one of the most famous in the ancient imperial capital. Paved with green granite, it appeared to be cast in bronze, and its splendour was yet further enhanced by the metal lions' heads behind the railings enclosing the Central State Archive. Above the wing of the Archive peered not only the ­lead-­tipped minaret of the Sultan's Mosque, but also the Obelisk of Tokmakhan, brought over a few centuries ago to commemorate the invasion of Egypt, and decorated with hieroglyphs and the different emblems of the empire all cast in metal, and finally the Cannon Gate, in whose walls was carved the Traitor's Niche. In the language of the country, this niche was called the stone of ibret , a word which might loosely be translated as 'deterrence'. It was not hard to imagine why this square had been chosen for the niche where the severed heads of rebel viziers or ­ill-­starred senior officials were placed. Perhaps nowhere else could the eyes of ­passers‑­by so easily grasp the inter­dependency between the imposing solidity of the ancient square and the human heads that had dared to show it disrespect. It was clear at once that the niche had been sited in the wall to convey the impression that the head's lifeless eyes surveilled every corner of the square. In this way, even the feeblest and least imaginative ­passer‑­by could visualise, at least for a moment, his own head displayed at this unnatural height.When the head's hair fluttered forlornly in the wind, the contrast between those soft wisps and the solid monuments of the square, especially the lions' manes, was a sight beyond endurance.The square had an extraordinary solemnity, metal and stone coming together everywhere. Even on the terrace of the café opposite, metal was present in the copper utensils used for the fragile and human act of drinking coffee. The former government ­news-­criers who had now retired due to age or professional incapacity, having lost their voices, were among those who usually came here to drink coffee. The café owner told Abdulla, the keeper of the Traitor's Niche, how their conversation was restricted entirely to old news and the decrees they had once proclaimed to every corner of the state. In the morning, before the square came to life, Abdulla liked to observe the café. After his working hours, he also liked to sit at one of the little tables, but rarely did so, because the doctor had told him that coffee was bad for his health. Abdulla was ­thirty-­one years old, but there was no strength in his lanky limbs. At times, a ringing in his ears drained him of all energy. Like everything else on this square, the coffee was too potent. Despite this, Abdulla risked a cup now and then. On these occasions he preferred to join the table of the old ­news-­criers. In the past their voices had made glass windows shake, but now only a pitiful squeak emerged from their throats. The café owner said he could easily understand why they considered the decrees of yesteryear more impressive than those of today, just as they themselves had outshone the modern criers. The café owner said that the criers, almost without exception, could remember the day they had lost their voices, and not just the day, but the decree they were issuing, and the very phrase at which their vocal cords had given out forever. 'That's what people are like,' he went on bitterly. 'They never forget anything.' Watching the swarm of people, Abdulla felt sure that the café owner was right and that people deserved the shock that the niche gave them. He knew that the sight of a severed head was not something everybody could stomach, but Abdulla always found that the horror and distress in the spectators' faces went beyond all expectation. It was the eyes in the head that seemed to strike them most, and not because they were dead eyes, but perhaps because people were accustomed to human eyes making an impression on them when connected to a human body with arms and legs. Abdulla thought that the absence of a body made the eyes larger and more significant than they really were. Indeed, it seemed to Abdulla that people in general were less significant than they thought themselves to be. Sometimes, when dusk drew near and the moon cast its light prematurely on the square, he even thought that human beings, himself included, were only a pollutant that spoilt the splendour and harmony of the imperial square. He could not wait for the square to empty entirely so that, although his official working hours were over, he could observe everything in the calm, icy moonlight. Sometimes the light fell at a certain angle on the niche and for an instant the illuminated head would assume a derisive or disdainful expression. The head, now free of human limbs, seemingly useless appendages, appeared slightly worthier of taking its place among the ancient symbols and emblems of the square. At these moments, Abdulla would be seized by a thrilling paroxysm of ­self-­destruction, an obscure subconscious desire to throw off the ungainly tangle of his limbs and become only a head. During the day, Abdulla's face wore a permanently rigid expression. This was fitting as long as he was on duty. In a way, he was forced to adapt himself to the stony aspect of the square. He was the keeper of one of its most important symbolic sites, and he had to look the part. However, although Abdulla stood only a few paces from the niche and it was obvious that he and he alone was in charge of it, nobody took any notice of him. Everybody's eyes were fixed in wonder on the niche. Abdulla felt a faint spasm of jealousy, as if this feeling were mixed in a huge pot with all kinds of other emotions. For the thousandth time he looked at all the features of the square in turn, as if to measure, should he be counted as one of them, how far he fell short of the necessary perfection. Only the hieroglyphs on the Egyptian obelisk were on a similarly diminutive scale and less than majestic. They resembled insects that had become petrified while crawling up the pillar. Sometimes, when he did not feel well, it seemed to Abdulla that the hieroglyphs had suddenly come to life and started to move, as if trying to wriggle free from the grip of stone and metal and set off like nomads towards the desert. But this happened rarely, and only when he was particularly exhausted. Still more rare were his moments of extreme weakness when he thought of escaping in the same way, like a beetle, out of this granite vice. Excerpted from The Traitor's Niche: A Novel by Ismail Kadare All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

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