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ISSN 1409-6900 | UDK 82+7     Blesok no. 22 | volume IV | August-September, 2001



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                     Peer-reviewed journal
Blesok no. 22August-September, 2001
Prose

The Lame Historian

/7
p. 1
Murat Isaku

   He arrived sometime in the evening, when the first street lights came on in the city, and, with crutches under his arms, entered his small one-story house, not far from the two rows of poplars. He entered the room that he used both as a kitchen and a bedroom, his eyes fixed on the door. He immediately pulled the string on the pear-shaped night lamp soiled by flies, which immediately lit his entire face. Both eyebrows were not revealed at once, but one of them was sufficient to disclose all his bile. He tossed his hat (he had worn it summer and winter for the last ten years) carelessly on the couch, and he put on his thick-framed glasses, after cleaning them with a soft, thin piece of cloth. He eventually sat in the corner covered in dust from the couch, where he used to sit all the time--a place between the light-orange night lamp and the open drawer. Burdened with the many headaches that troubled him constantly, he turned his back to the window in spite. He sighed loudly through his nose as if to expel the rage from his chest, and with his enfeebled hand he removed a stack of papers from the drawer: documents, manuscripts, and other thick piles, pale from the hands of the sun. He scattered them on the carpet just as the light of the night lamp was scattered. He himself did not know why the hell he had so mercilessly strewn the papers that had consumed most of his life. It seems that he did it when the cigarette between his lips went out. Perhaps that is why both his heart and brain now started working together.
    Suddenly, he placed his mangled fingers on the spilt papers with sharp angles. He turned them over and jumbled them up as though he were kneading the dough of his mind, then he poked his short pencil into one of the papers with bent ends, whose back had been stained by coffee long ago. He remembered immediately that it was on this very table that he had spilt coffee when his wife was collecting her clothes from the house, to move in with her parents, never to return. Although they were married five years, he never felt happy. They fought each other over nothing, they did not talk to each other over nothing, they threatened each






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