By: Remzi Lani
Ramon Sanchez Lizarralde, “writer, critic and translator of Albanian literature died peacefully at the age of 60 in his home La Vera, in Soto de Agues, after spending his last days and nights enjoying the rain, panoramic landscapes, music, BN cigarettes, Gin and Tonic, and the company of his wife and friends,” his wife Maria stated on Sunday evening.
At 13:30, he dictated a last message for his friends, telling them of his coming departure and instructing them to drink a Gin and Tonic in his memory and for the health of his wife, Maria.
As I am writing this line, his ashes have been scattered over the nearby river, flowers, and trees. His beloved music, Mahler or Mozart, resonate through the waning evening hours. On his table lie “El Pais,” and the final page he had translated from Kadare.
I don’t want to believe these things, but I know they are true. Ramon expected and awaited his repose; after which he did not expect anything further. Regardless, if there were a paradise, he would have certainly earned a place in the front row.
I don’t want to believe that when I return to Madrid, Ramon will not make his usual morning visit to Caf顁rmenia to discuss Ismail’s latest book, the books brought back from Tirana, or a recent journey. I don’t want to believe that in the afternoon I will not spot him sitting among friends at Caf顃entral with a glass of Gin and Tonic and a lit BN cigarette.
Yesterday morning, as I was reading the daily paper in which his colleagues and friends and written about him, I was reminded of Markez who wrote that “I am sorry that I had to participate in one of the most important events of my life, my funeral.” If that were possible, today would have been a strange day for Ramon.
“What is all this?” he would have asked. And I would have liked to respond that the articles in yesterday’s daily papers in Tirana, remembered not just the irreplaceable world ambassador of Albanian literature, but they honored also the faithful readers of his works.
I am trying to remember our first meeting, but my memory is foggy; though I have no problem recollecting our last meeting, which he actually made impossible. However, today I remember our meeting which occurred a few weeks after receiving news of his serious illness. It took place at Caf顁rmenia. Feeling panicked and insecure, I ordered a coffee and waitedطhich I didn’t have to do for long. Ramon arrived quickly; and he had changedנhe no longer had his typically Spanish mustache. I asked him how he was, which at that moment sounded unnatural. “I was not wellإspecially in the beginning,” he said. “But I have decided to fight until the very end.”
After this he returned to his work table and continued translating. He also went to Tirana to look for the book he needed. Eventually, he reappeared at Caf顃entral, seeking a cigarette and Gin and Tonic; as if to bring truth to Kieslovski’s saying, “The most precious thing is life itself.”
