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Yes
we do but it’s
the people in
the office next
door who control
it and they
seem to think
it’s not hot
enough to turn
it on today.
He
lifts his shoulders
with a theatrical
gesture, turning
his head and
raising his
eyes and she
laughs on this
day of drenching
showers and
lounging clouds
with utterly
malevolent intent.
This
isn’t hot, she
says and Ilir
crumples up
a piece of paper
and throws it
at her. Then
he hands her
the papers she
had asked him
to print out.
Staple
the pages together
he says and
then, almost
as an afterthought,
you do know
how to use the
stapler don’t
you?
She
sighs, picks
it up, turns
it over, examines
it.
Well,
she says doubtfully,
I’m not sure,
but I can try.
The
open window
moves a little,
in the breeze.
She staples
the pages together
dutifully. Then
she asks for
an envelope
to put them
in. I can’t
walk through
the streets
with them like
this, she says.
Ilir sighs and
gets an envelope
out of a drawer.
You’re
so demanding,
he complains.
She
smiles at him
sweetly.
And
come here tomorrow
to send off
those emails.
Come after 12,
so I can get
some work done
in the morning.
She
salutes him
and promises
to do as she’s
been told. He
follows her
to the door,
desperate for
any excuse to
avoid having
to look at the
report that’s
lying on his
desk.
She
says goodbye,
closes the office
door behind
her, walks the
few steps to
the lift and
presses the
button. The
dial above the
button illuminates
the progress
of the lift
from floor to
floor, in red
fluorescent
dots, complete
with arrows
tracking its
direction, whether
up or down.
When the lift
arrives on her
floor it gives
a little congratulatory
ping before
the door opens.
She hugs her
envelope to
her and thanks
the lift for
being so amenable
and dedicated
to assistance.
Ilir’s
office is located on the
other side of the river,
which she has to cross,
to go home. Some of the
bridges are pedestrian and
some are for vehicles.
She
avoids those ones, if possible,
for they are usually jammed
tight with traffic, sitting
in a haze of fumes and dust.
They are built with no other
purpose than that of functionality,
there are no curves or arches
to display the broad sweep
of the builder’s mind, or
of his desire to make something
that will strike people,
make them remember, make
them think or pause, affect
them in any way at all.
She
thinks of the Ottoman bridges,
with their arrangement of
arches, curving gently to
the crest, displaying rounded,
coloured, weathered stones
and creating an impression,
not just of something striking
in itself but of something
that implied a significance
beyond itself. See the effort
that’s been put into creating
us, these bridges seem to
say, such nobility belongs
not just to us, but to our
purpose, enduring through
the empires and the civilizations
that will come long after
the people who created us,
are dust. So they became
the representatives of an
idea, living embodiments
of Plato’s noumena - idea,
spirit or imagination that
has taken physical form.
Built
during the Communist regime,
Tirana’s modern bridges
are all level, no suggestion
of a lofty aspiration, they
are functional and merely
serve the purpose of linking
one side of the river with
the other. Level, levelling,
as if aspiration was a dangerous
subversive sentiment. The
minds of people were snatched
at, closed down, bridges
were flat and made of concrete,
this was progress and this
was control.
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