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ISSN 1409-6900 | UDK 82+7     Blesok no. 23 | volume IV | October-November, 2001



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SLOVOKULT.DE
KRUG
BALKANI
OKF







                     Peer-reviewed journal
Blesok no. 23October-November, 2001
Prose

In Medias Res

/7
p. 1
Teuta Arifi

    Once upon a time there was a city in whose stores, whenever somebody would like to call somebody, and not with a letter with soft words, there was no way to find any postcards. Maybe it was because of this that tourists with cameras around their necks would visit the city less and less. After meters of film would be spent, they would first stop at the mosque door where the shop of the late uncle Arif was and they would buy postcards. Then they would write in several foreign languages things like “I’m OK”, “I’ve been thinking of you”, “I’m coming back the day after tomorrow”, or “Greetings from T.” As a matter of fact, even if one would find postcards, I’m not sure that he’d find the ones with a view of the old city ammam, whose round windows and stone walls have nested in my childhood memory as the main part of the city. I don’t know myself how many times I have asked the older who held me by the hand passing by the ammam what that strange, ununderstandable, stone building with corners closed with big locks was. The answer was short and simple: “Ammam”. This, just to tell me that I shouldn’t ask any further, all explanations finished. That was how they’d let me know such things are not discussed in front of children and that there were things that were kept quite in front of them. Leaning at the bridge stairs under which the river calmly ran, I often thought that it was it that knew the secrets of the old ammam. The older told that once the river water flew in some small springs through all the yards of the city houses. Passing in this way, the water should have collected with it all those stories of the houses, because there was not a house without a history of love, jealousy, evil or wisdom. There were stories and then when the gates and windows would close with locks, so that they do not get out to the markets as gossip. But those histories could not be hidden from the springs that abducted them from the thresholds of the houses and poured them in the river that flew by the old ammam.

    The beautiful Aska often passed by the ammam to visit her aunt, who lived on the other side of the river, in a






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