By Perparim Kapllani

My name is Gent Kodra. I am 45 years old , originally from Albania, a small country on the Balkan Peninsula, which you may have heard of. I am a grave worker by profession. Right now I am at home, which is located close to the biggest graveyard of the city, and I am staring at a photograph. I study it, look at it, and my thick fingers comb my disheveled hair. My atelier looks like Waterloo and I am Napoleon surrounded by an enemy army of crayons, brushes, paints, infinite drawings and all kind of portraits of the dead.

Many hours and days have passed and I still can’t reproduce this photograph. My job is to recreate artistically something that doesn’t really exist any more, but it wants to come to life from beyond death through the vivid colors and shadows filled with pale and sweet visions. I have to paint a dead man as he was alive.

...

I sigh deeply. I am not a professional painter. I was dedicated to sculpture in my youth. I found it interesting to work with gravestones after the communist system collapsed. It was a job just for fun at the beginning, but the business grew rapidly, and after three months I was able to hire all nine members of my big family. My father was a priest during the Second World War and he gave me advice:

“It’s an act of charity to work with the dead.”

I used to get paid 120 dollars for a common portrait. The price was higher – more than 250 dollars -- for a marble work. The price could go up to 500 dollars for a bust. The demands of grave work changed in recent years. People now want not just monuments or portraits, but they order roofs for the graves. Iron fences with fantastic shapes and red, gray or black roofs are part of my daily work. Monuments for young ladies and girls are common. My subjects are also boys, who passed away in their youth from car accidents or the bullets of revenge. Business is growing so fast that my family and I can not handle the work and I am refusing orders from new clients.

As I said, my house is not far from the Sharra Graveyard. The front door of my house faces the highway, where the funeral cortèges pass as they take loved ones to the last destination three times a day. Five years have passed from the first time I got an order to paint a portrait of a dead loved one. My paintings are now on almost 60 per cent of the gravestones. The graveyard is an exhibition hall of my work, a vivid and natural exhibition, and the sections of the graveyard are the rooms of a gallery, sitting there with Mother Nature under the sun with the rain and wind. When money started to flow from my work, I thought seriously about my business; I turned to books and read everything I could find related to this lucrative special art.

I drink a cup of water and turn the pages of a book about Onufri, the most famous Albanian painter of the 16th century. His icons inspire me at my daily work. Onufri painted orthodox churches in the city of Berat in 1547, in Kostur, 1555, in Shelcan and other cities. Onufri used a unique red pigment in his paintings and its ingredients were a secret that he took it with him to the grave. The red color was envied by many professional painters. For me, as an amateur, it is a puzzle that I can not solve.

I take the photograph in my hands again and stare at the closed eyes of the dead man, those eyes closed forever. The photograph shows a young man laid on his bed, with his hands crossed on his chest. The picture is in black and white, a fixation in celluloid of the last moment of a 20 year old man, died from cancer a month ago.

Someone knocks on the door. With my eyes still staring at that photograph, I open the door a little, without even trying to see who is behind it. Then I see that it is Flutura Bani, an old woman around sixty. Her black kerchief slides a little on her left shoulder. I wink at her to sit somewhere, as I am still holding the photograph.

“He was my only son. This is his only photo. As long as he lived, I never took another photo of him, can you believe it? We were so poor. I still live at the far west village of Tirana capital, where chickens eat stones because there is nothing else to eat. I want you to paint him as he was alive. You know what I mean? With his eyes opened! I don’t know how you are going to open his eyes in the picture, that’s your business. Open your mouth and ask: how much do you want and I'll give you the money in cash in your hand.” Flutura Bani's voice trembled.

She puts her hand inside a black purse and takes out two packs of brand new banknotes, hundreds of Albanian leks. She starts to count the banknotes nervously, watching my reaction from the corner of her eye. I am still stuck in one position as I am holding the photograph. The old woman counts the banknotes loudly separating the words into syllables. The sounds of the words climb to the ceiling in the shape of a noisy spiral. It is silent all of the sudden. Even the smell of the flowers, planted by my daughters in the backyard is gone. The smell of those fresh flowers, hundreds of red and black tulips, red and yellow roses, violets and mimosas with the small flowers in globular heads help me to get lost in my job. The flowers are used to make crowns for the dead.

"What was his name?" I ask her.

"Ylli," Flutura says.

I am feeling that the dialogue isn't a dialogue at all, but my long monologue with that god damned photograph.

Her crazy desire to paint him with open eyes will destroy the beauty of my work and the aesthetic of my painting. I feel undervalued when she increases the amount to 20 thousand leks. Twenty thousand leks is the prize just for a simple painting, an ordinary copy of the original.

"I am very poor. I sold everything I had and now that’s all I got. Open his eyes and this money will be all yours,” Flutura says and collapses into the closest armchair.

I see her tears dropping from her eyes and her tired, dried hands. I look again at the photograph.

None of the muscles are moving in his pale face. The dead guy's eyelashes are long and bent like a girl’s. His chin is sharp and his nose normal. His hair is pure black and curly. His forehead is wide and big. I take the pencil in my hands and make another line on the paper. His look has to be vivid, sincere, filled with energy and relieved.

“When the eyes are opened, the muscles of the face have to show motion. It has to be an easy movement, delicate and invisible. The mimic created by the movement of the eyelashes creates a special look, a different human identity,” I murmur.

I draw other lines on the letter. The old woman approaches me. I hear her tired mourning from behind of my back.

“No! That’s not him,” Flutura Bani says painfully.

…

I don’t understand how time passes while I sit with my pencil in front of the white paper which doesn’t stop calling me. The look of the guy in the picture is dead. The eyes are the mirrors of the human soul. The eyes are the only human organ that never gets older. The eyes are two warm suns of life. When the eyes are closed, the day is gone and darkness reigns. I am frustrated. I don't want to lose my self-confidence now. The feeling that I can open those eyes is fading fast. I feel poor and weak. The old woman keeps wrinkling her forehead in a sign of disappointment.

Flutura comes to my atelier almost every day to see how the painting is getting along. Will her son look alive? She has to put it on the grave when it’s done!

I bite my upper lip because of shame, pain and sorrow. I feel worthless like a piece of garbage thrown on the road. I start to understand the terrible truth that I am not a painter at all, but an amateur, a random trader. I thought I could make money in this line of work, by laughing at the feelings of the relatives of the dead. I feel guilty.

…

Maybe I should give up for good; return the photograph to the old woman and tell her that I am not able to get the job done. I close my eyes. That dead body is not moving, his eyes are shut, closed, still. None of the parts of his body give any signs of life. My pencils, my colors, my brushes are useless. I am failing. It is a total failure. Am I just a loser? No, I am not a loser!

I pass my fingers on the photograph. An inner voice speaks to me:

“Please help me bring you back to the previous world. Please tell me about your childhood days, when your mother nursed you. Tell me about when she washed your body in the bathtub with the hot water and soap. You have to help me. The old woman wants you alive in the picture,” I say.

My throat feels raw. The tips of my fingers touch the closed eyelids of that dead body. I draw another line on the paper and another line…The old woman’s lips make a disapproving gesture.

...More days are spent to fix the dead look on the picture.

I am not counting the days any more. It's afternoon. I fall asleep on top of the papers. I am sleeping quite well. I see the dead man coming out of the photograph and walking around. His picture has become big the size of a human and coming straight to me. I stare at him with my eyes wide open with curiosity.

“I am so sorry that I gave you a hard time. It’s over! I give up,” the dead man says.

I open my eyes. It was a dream. I draw another line on the paper, and another. I feel that I am finally making progress.

Flutura comes to my studio the very next day. She sees the picture and cries.

“That’s my son right there,” Flutura Bani says and hugs me. She kisses the dead man on his lips and opens her purse. She always carried her purse, in hope, knowing one day she would see the lost look of life in his face.

I take the money and feel relieved. I feel happy.