Aleks Farrugia (1978) is an author, historian and journalist. His first work was a drama, Iħirsa fil-Mera. His debut novel Grasshopper (2016) was shortlisted for the National Book Prize. His short story collection, Għall-Glorja tal-Patrija (2019), secured him the prize in that category in 2020, while his second novel Camerata! (2021) was also shortlisted. Ir-Re Borg (The King of Malta), published in 2022, is his latest novel. Farrugia is Director (Culture) at Culture Directorate and Site Manager for Valletta as UNESCO World Heritage Site.
Mikiel Borg, the grocer known as ‘Iċ-Chopper', transforms from a village debater to an unlikely political disruptor in Aleks Farrugia's ‘Ir-Re Borg’. After a trivial incident forces him to face Malta's bureaucratic institutions, Mikiel battles profound depression until a media binge sparks an idea. He launches 'The Monarchical Party of Malta,' challenging the two-party system. Despite initial skepticism, Mikiel wins the election, becoming a populist firebrand. However, a viral video stains his triumph, marking the start of a dramatic downfall. Farrugia's satirical narrative delves into Maltese politics, featuring Machiavellian manoeuvres, the unlikely social ascent of Mikiel’s band club drinking buddies, all framed against the nuts and bolts of the Maltese electoral campaign and its fallout. Mikiel's flaws mirror the nation's, adding depth to the tragicomedy, inviting readers to ponder populist movements and the challenges of positive change.
Excerpt
1. L-irċevuta
“Iż-żgħir jibqa’ ż-żgħir u ebd’ Alla mhu se jidħol għalih!”
Mikiel Borg, magħruf mar-raħal bħala ċ-Chopper, sabbat idejh fuq il-bank u l-laned tat-tonn taż-żejt tregħdu. Iż-żewġ nisa weqfin quddiemu barmu xofftejhom u xenglu rashom jaqblu miegħu. Tħarsilhom minn wara ma kontx tqishom daqstant żgħar; bejniethom kienu jwasslu minn tarf għall-ieħor tal-bank li warajh kien qed jitmasħan Mikiel. Imma! F’dal-pajjiż minn tagħna hekk l-affarijiet: aktar ma fik anqas ma ssarraf – perla oħra li kien ħareġ biha Mikiel Borg, li reġa’ heżżeż il-bank b’żewġ ponnijiet magħqudin.
“Ebd’ Alla!” irrepeta biex żgur ikun sammar il-punt, u sallab idejh fuq żaqqu.
Iċ-Chopper kellu ħanut tal-merċa fih daqs konfessinarju. Kien wieħed minn dawk il-ħwienet werrieta tal-antik, bit-tabella tal-perspex fi gwarniċ tal-aluminju dehbi fuq il-bieb, bil-bank tal-injam bil-wiċċ tal-formajka u fuq ġenb, maqfula fil-plastik, il-cash register trabbi t-trab.
Mikiel iċ-Chopper kelma kien jgħidha. U għal kelma jgħidlek tnejn jew tlieta. Inkella taqbdu l-indiġestjoni.
Mhux anqas żbukkati kienu l-parruċċana. Aktarx imdaħħla fiż-żmien, ta’ kull filgħodu kienu jinġabru biex jixtru l-istess erba’ bċejjeċ ta’ kuljum – dak il-kwart perżut, ħobża mqatta’ kemxejn maħruqa u kartuna ħalib – u waqt li jagħmlu dan itaqtqu bla heda, donnhom il-membri ta’ xi setta mehdijin ifasslu kif se jaħkmu d-dinja. U jekk dawk il-parruċċana kienu setta, Mikiel Borg iċ-Chopper kien il-Qassis il-Kbir tagħhom; leħnu jkarwat fuq ta’ kulħadd, mimli bl-awtorità li kienet tagħtih l-istiker “I’m the Boss” imdeffsa bejn il-gwarniċ u l-ħġieġa tgħatti l-ħarsa ebetika ta’ Dun Ġorġ jifli sieket lil dik il-miġemgħa ċkejkna ta’ opinjonisti.
“Isma’ Mikiel, agħmilli l-kont xbin, għax illum ma nistax indum,” werżqet Ċetta, tqabbeż sidirha jrid jinbeżaq minn bejn il-buttuni se jisparaw.
“Mela mgħaġġla Ċett?” staqsiha Mikiel, filwaqt li hemiżha kollu nelħ u nkejja, “Jaqaw? Irid illum?”
“U ħallini minnek Mikiel! M’għandekx xi tgħid għodu għodu jew?” ħatfitu l-oħra, “Ara, kwart perżut tal-koxxa, ħobża u kartuna mill-bluni. Agħmilli l-kont!”
“Tuni ċans ħa nagħmlilha l-kont,” qal Mikiel lill-bqija, “Għax mid-dehra llum honeymooner Ċetta!”
U mingħajr ma stenna tweġiba lura, ġibed il-ktieb daqs reġistru minn taħt il-bank, tefa’ l-biro bejn snienu u fetħu min-nofs. Ħażżeż erba’ numri fil-kantuniera t’isfel tal-paġna safranija, imbagħad ħasadha minn mal-bqija u newwel it-trijanglu tal-karta lil Ċetta.
“Mela reġ’għola l-ħalib?” staqsietu dik.
“Issa jien xi tridni nagħmel Ċett? Lanqas li għollejtu jien!”
“Ma nafx jien. L-affarijiet jogħlew hekk, mil-lum għal għada. Fejn se nispiċċaw? Li biex tixtri kartuna ħalib trid tissellef mill-bank?”
L-oħrajn qablu magħha, ibarqmu minn taħt l-ilsien donnhom ħamiem, jitkażaw b’kemm għoliet il-ħajja, kif bil-pensjoni ma tlaħħaqx u li jekk l-affarijiet jibqgħu sejrin hekk aħjar Alla jieħdok milli jikkastigak tgħix ta’ pensjonant. Ċetta bħal donnha nsiet x’kellha jistenniha daqstant mgħaġġel u qattgħet kwarta oħra ttaqtaq u xxejjer il-ponnijiet kontra l-gvern, bħallikieku minn ġo dik it-toqba xi ħadd f’Kastilja kien se jisma’ l-ilmenti tagħha. Imbagħad meta kienet għoddha nħanqet sellmitilhom u dabbret rasha ‘l barra.
Bilkemm kienet għadha niżlet l-għatba tal-ħanut li ma sabitx quddiemha ġuvnott bl-ingravata m’għonqu u nuċċali tax-xemx. Bis-saħna li kien għad kellha fuqha kienet diġà lesta biex toħroġ idha u twarrbu min-nofs, imma hu kien eħfef minnha. Għolla idu bħal tat-traffik u amrilha biex tieqaf.
“Xi trid?” staqsietu.
“L-irċevuta,” weġibha.
“X’irċevuta? Ta’ xiex?”
“L-irċevuta fiskali,” reġa’ dak, “Tax-xirja li għadek kemm għamilt.”
“U mur warrabli min-nofs li ma ngħidlikx,” reġgħet hi se taqbad il-pass biex titlaq ‘l hemm.
“Sinjura ...”
“Sinjura xejn, warrabli.”
“Sinjura ma nistax inħallik titlaq. Qed nitolbok l-irċevuta.”
“U jien ma rridx intihielek l-irċevuta!”
“Sinjura, bil-liġi ...”
“U jien nitnejjek mil-liġi.”
“Inħarrkek!”
Ħabat se jibda jgħolli leħnu. U ma’ Ċetta ħadd ma jgħolli leħnu, lanqas żewġha li daħal il-ħabs darbtejn.
“Ismagħni x’ħa ngħidlek,” fetħitilha, “Warrabli min-nofs għax rasek ktieb niftaħhielek. U lili tiġinix bil-liġijiet u mhux liġijiet. Mhux biżżejjed it-taxxi li nħallsu u l-prezzijiet dejjem jogħlew! Xi tridu aktar? Tqaxxruna ħajjin?”
“X’ġara Ċett?”
Kien Mikiel, li kif sema’ l-għajjat ġej minn barra feġġ biex jara x’inqala’.
“X’ġara Mikiel?! Ġej jitlobni l-irċevuta, ja wiċċ ta’ maħmuġ li hu!”
Mikiel daħal bejn Ċetta u l-ġuvnott tal-ingravata.
“Sir, fehemha ftit. Jien hawn xogħli qed nagħmel. Bagħtuni mid-dipartiment.”
“Allura minn Malta u Għawdex kollha hawn bagħtuk?” staqsih Mikiel, b’subgħu ppuntat anqas minn pulzier bogħod minn imnieħer il-ġuvnott.
“Jien fejn jibagħtuni mmur, ħabib,” wieġbu l-ieħor mingħajr ma tmeżmeż.
“Ħabib xejn,” għolla leħnu Mikiel, “Mhux biżżejjed kemm inħallas taxxa? Għax ma bagħtukx wara l-bieb ta’ xi pampalun milli jaqlagħlhom il-belli liri għall-partit, mela wara biebi!”
“Sir, kulma rrid huwa li nara l-irċevuta.”
“U dabbar rasek ‘l hemm ja purċinell!” reġgħet Ċetta, li bl-intervent ta’ Mikiel bdiet tħossha eskluża mill-azzjoni.
“Purċinell!” wieġbu f’kor in-nisa l-oħra, għonqhom imġebbed minn bejn il-ħjut tal-purtiera tal-lewlu, ħerqanin li huma wkoll juru d-diżapprovazzjoni tagħhom.
Iż-żagħżugħ ħabat se jinfixel.
“Jekk mhux se nara rċevuta se noħroġ taħrika u nagħmel rapport!”
“U lil min se tħarrek bħalek?” staqsih Mikiel, wiċċu vjola.
“Lilek u lil din il-mara!”
“Ma tħarrikx l-ommok hux!” qabżet Ċetta.
L-istoriċi ta’ dan il-pajjiż jaqblu li dak li seħħ dak il-ħin kien il-murtal tal-ftuħ għal episodju li jibqa’ mfakkar fl-istorja ta’ dawn il-gżejjer. Mal-kelma ‘ommok’ u l-bżieq kollu li ħareġ minn ħalqha, Ċetta refgħet idha bil-borża tal-plastik b’kulma kien fiha u bdiet il-proċess li tfajjarha f’wiċċ il-ġuvnott. F’nofs il-proċess, l-id żvelta ta’ Mikiel daħlet fin-nofs biex tilqa’ għad-daqqa ta’ Ċetta, imma bis-saħħa li kienet laħqet ġemgħet dik l-id armata bix-xirja, id Mikiel tħarrket ‘il quddiem sa ma sabet il-wiċċ bla leħja tal-ġuvnott u n-nuċċali tax-xemx dlonk tar minn fuq imnieħru donnu missila, li l-ewwel sparat ‘il fuq u mbagħad dawret ir-rotta ‘l isfel sa ma nfaqgħet mal-art.
Iż-żagħżugħ instaram, Mikiel tnixxef, u Ċetta barmet il-ponnijiet fuq qaddha lestha għat-tieni rawnd.
Il-kor tan-nisa wara l-purtiera leħħen ‘O!’ twila, b’vuċi waħda, ‘O!’ ta’ stennija mdendla b’ħajta tħassib.
Kif għaddielu kemm kemm ix-xokk, iż-żagħżugħ mexa sal-fdalijiet tan-nuċċali, ġabarhom u dar lejn Mikiel, li kien għadu wieqaf donnu l-arblu tad-dawl f’tarf il-bankina. Xengel tnejn rasu u telaq ‘l hemm, bla kliem u bla sliem.
Għal Ċetta dik kienet rebħa. U magħha qabel il-kor.
Imma Mikiel ma kienx daqstant ċert. Filwaqt li Ċetta nisġet paniġierku sħiħ dwar kif dawn ‘tal-gvern’ tmurilhom il-pulikarja kollha malli teqfilhom u turihom li taf x’inhu d-dritt tiegħek, Mikiel baqa’ b’fommu mitbuq, imtertaq minn ġewwa, jistenna li minn ħin għall-ieħor jara lis-surġent ġej wara biebu.
Ma kienx żbaljat. Bilkemm il-kor kien għadu ntona l-Amen wara l-paniġierku ta’ Ċetta li ma tfaċċawx is-surġent u kuntistabbli miegħu, inemmsu minn wara l-purtiera tal-lewlu. Qalb Mikiel għamlet tikk. Ir-rappreżentanti tal-bon ordni ferqu l-ħjut tal-lewlu u daħlu fil-ħanut.
“Mikiel, tiġi magħna sal-għassa?”
“Sal-għassa?” tenna skunċertat Mikiel.
“Għandna rapport li ma tajtx irċevuta fiskali, li ħebbejt għal uffiċċjal pubbliku u li għamiltlu danni fi ħwejjeġ personali tiegħu.”
“Imma surġent, jaħasra, dak inċident ...”
“Mhux aħjar tiġi sal-għassa tispjegalna kollox?”
“U l-ħanut?”
“Mikiel, il-ħanut tagħlqu. Ejja magħna bil-kelma t-tajba. Isma’ minni.”
Mikiel ħares lejn il-parruċċana. Quddiem l-uniformi ħadd minnhom ma tniffes. Dlonk nibet f’moħħu d-dubju jekk isibx ruħ fosthom li titla’ tixhed favur tiegħu. Lanqas Ċetta, li issa kienet rasha baxxuta tistaħba wara żewġ membri tal-kor. M’hemmx x’tagħmel Mikiel. Mhux aħjar tmur tagħlaq u tara kif se tfehemhom li ma kinitx l-intenzjoni tiegħek li tfajjarha f’wiċċ dak il-ġuvnott?
“Niġi surġent, imma żball qed tagħmlu. Żball kbir! Għax jien ma ridt nagħmel ħsara lil ħadd. Inċident kien.”
“Issa nitkellmu l-għassa,” qallu s-surġent, “Agħlaq, u aħna se nkunu qegħdin nistennewk hawn barra.”
Mikiel fetaħ idejh donnhom se jsallbuh u l-parruċċana ħarġu mill-ħanut f’purċissjoni. Is-surġent u l-kuntistabbli kienu laħqu qabbdu sigarett. Mikiel għalaq il-ħanut u rħewlha t-tlieta li huma lejn l-għassa.
Ma dewmuhx aktar minn nofsiegħa. Talbuh il-verżjoni tiegħu ta’ kif seħħew l-affarijiet, iffirma l-istqarrija u bagħtuh ‘l hemm. Qabel ma ħareġ mill-għassa s-surġent wissieh biex imur ikellem avukat u jelenka x-xhieda li ried itella’ l-qorti favurih.
Kif ħareġ minn hemm la kellu ħajra u lanqas saħħa jerġa’ jiftaħ il-ħanut. Martu Karmena nħasdet kif ratu ġej lura d-dar qabel il-ħin. Mill-ewwel bassret li nqalgħetlu xi ħaġa u mill-bixra ta’ wiċċu ntebħet li l-ħaġa kienet kbira sew. Ma kellux aptitha. Ried jitla’ jorqod imma kien jaf li jekk ma kienx se jitmagħalha l-kurżità kienet se tibqa’ tippersegwitah u xorta ma tħallihx imidd rasu fuq l-imħadda. Malli qalilha li kien għadu ġej mill-għassa u rrakkuntalha kulma ġara ħasibha se tibqa’ sejra dritt id-dinja l-oħra.
Is-sagħtejn ta’ wara qattagħhom magħha l-poliklinik.
Excerpt - Translation
Translated into English by Kat Storace
“The little man will always be the little man, and no god will ever stand up for him!”
Mikiel Borg, known as Chopper to everyone in the village, slammed his hands down onto the shop counter and the tuna cans trembled. The two women standing in front of him pursed their lips and nodded their heads in agreement. Looking at them from behind, you wouldn’t exactly consider them little; between them, their figures took up the entire length of the counter behind which Mikiel was simmering with rage. Nevertheless! That’s how things are in this country of ours: the more of you there was, the less you were valued – another of Mikiel Borg’s pearls of wisdom, who shook the counter again with two closed fists.
“No god!” he repeated, to really hammer the point home, and crossed his arms over his belly.
Chopper owned a grocery the size of a confessional booth. It was one of those old-style shops with a cast acrylic sign set in a golden aluminium frame above the entrance, and a wooden counter fitted with a formica top. The cash register stood to one side, secured in a plastic bag, gathering dust.
Mikiel was not one to mince his words. Whenever someone said something to him, his retort would be as immediate as it was lengthy. Any restraint risked giving him indigestion.
His regular customers were just as chatty. Mostly older in age, they’d congregate every morning to buy the same four daily items – a portion of ham, a sliced loaf, slightly toasted, and a carton of milk – and, in the meantime, they’d natter away endlessly like members of a sect scheming about how they were going to take over the world. And if those customers had indeed been a sect, then Mikiel would’ve been their High Priest; his voice booming above everyone else’s, filled with the authority bestowed upon him by the words on the sticker “I’m the Boss” jammed between the hanging frame and its glass, and obscuring the idiotic gaze of Dun Ġorġ Preca quietly observing that small gathering of opinionated critics.
“The bill, Mikiel. I can’t stay long today,” screamed Cetta, her bosom bouncing up and down threatening to burst through the stretched-out buttons on her shirt.
“In a hurry are we Cett?” asked Mikiel, winking saucily at her. “How come? In the mood, is he?”
“Oh leave off Mikiel! Haven’t you got anything better to do this morning?” she snapped. “Listen, some ham off the bone, a loaf and one of the blue cartons of milk. And make up the bill!”
“Just a second, let me add up her bill,” said Mikiel to the others, “because by the sound of things Cetta’s a honeymooner today!”
And without waiting for a reply, he pulled out the giant ledger book from under the counter, and taking a pen between his teeth, opened it somewhere in the middle. He scribbled four numbers in the bottom corner of the yellowing page, then ripped it out and passed the triangle of paper to Cetta.
“Price of milk’s gone up again, has it?” she asked.
“And what do you want me to do about it, Cett? It’s not like I put the price up myself!”
“Oh, I don’t know. Everything’s becoming more expensive, just like that, from one day to the next. Where will it leave us? We’ll all have to borrow money from the bank just to buy some milk.”
The others agreed with her, cooing under their breaths like pigeons, shaking their heads at the cost of living, at how their pension didn’t take them far, and that if things continued the way they were going, you’d be better off dead than being condemned to life as a pensioner. Cetta had forgotten whatever it was that was waiting for her in such a hurry and spent another quarter of an hour babbling and waving her fists at the government, as if from that hole in the wall someone in the Prime Minister’s office could hear her complaints. Then, when she’d shouted herself hoarse, she said her goodbyes and left.
She’d barely stepped beyond the shop’s doorstep when she found a young man standing before her, sunglasses on and tie knotted around his neck. Still feeling riled up, she was prepared to push him out of the way, but he was quicker than her. He lifted his arm like a traffic controller and gestured to her to stop.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“The receipt,” he replied.
“Receipt? For what?”
“The fiscal receipt,” he continued, “for the stuff you’ve just bought.”
“Get out of my way, you…” she said, ready to take off again.
“Sinjura…”
“Don’t Sinjura me, out of my way.”
“Sinjura, I can’t let you leave. I’m asking you for the receipt.”
“And I don’t want to give you the receipt!”
“Sinjura, the law states…”
“And I don’t give a damn about the law.”
“I’m warning you, I’ll take you to court!”
He was starting to raise his voice. But nobody raised their voice with Cetta, not even her husband, who’d been to prison twice.
“Now you listen to me,” she said. “Get out of my way before I smash your head open. And don’t come to me with your laws and not-laws. Isn’t it enough that we pay taxes and the prices keep rising! What more do you want? To skin us alive?”
“What’s wrong Cett?”
It was Mikiel, who when he heard the commotion coming from outside, rushed to see what was happening.
“What’s wrong?! He’s asking me for the receipt, this grubby-faced shit!”
Mikiel stepped between Cetta and the young man wearing the tie.
“Sir, please explain to her,” he said to Mikiel, “I’m just doing my job here. They sent me from the department.”
“Out of all the places in Malta and Gozo they sent you here?” Mikiel asked, with his finger pointed less than an inch from the young man’s nose.
“I go where they send me, my friend,” the young man replied without blinking.
“I’m not your friend,” Mikiel said, raising voice, “isn’t it enough that I pay my taxes? Why didn’t they send you to the door of some fat cat who donates regularly to the party, why to mine?”
“Sir, all I’m asking is to see the receipt.”
“Why don’t you get the hell out of here,” exclaimed Cetta, who felt left out of the action after Mikiel had arrived.
“Purcinello!” chimed in the other women, their necks poking out from in between the beaded threads of the curtain, enthusiastic to show their disapproval too.
The youth was looking flustered.
“If I don’t see a receipt I’m going to issue a fine and file a report!”
“And who do you think you’re going to fine?” Mikiel answered back, purple in the face.
“You and this woman!”
“Why don’t you go and fine your mother!” Cetta piped in.
Maltese historians are in agreement that what followed was the opening firework in an episode that will continue to be remembered in the history of these islands. As she spat out the words ‘your mother’, Cetta lifted the arm carrying the plastic bag with everything in it and started the process of launching it at the young man’s face. Mikiel’s hand got in the way to break Cetta’s swing but, with the force of the arm loaded with the shopping, Mikiel’s hand flew forward and connected with the youth’s bearded face, causing his sunglasses to fly off his nose like a missile shooting upwards then changing route and smashing onto the floor.
The young man was stunned, Mikiel remained speechless, while Cetta stood with her hands on her hips, ready for the next round.
The choir of women behind the curtain let out a big ‘Ooo!’, all together, an ‘Ooo!’ of anticipation hanging by a thread of anxiety.
When the initial shock had subsided, the youth walked over to the remains of his sunglasses, picked them up and turned to Mikiel, who’d remained standing still as a lamppost at the edge of the pavement. He shook his head to and fro, and left without uttering another word.
For Cetta, this signalled a victory. And the choir agreed with her.
But Mikiel was less certain. While Cetta let loose with a long tirade about how these ‘government lugs’ lost all their bravado when you stood up to them and showed them that you knew your rights, Mikiel kept his mouth shut, petrified on the inside, expecting to find the police sergeant at his door any minute.
He wasn’t wrong. The choir had barely finished singing the Amen to Cetta’s sermon when the sergeant showed up with the constable in tow, looking in through the shop curtain. Mikiel’s heart jumped. The representatives of law and order parted the beaded threads and stepped into the shop.
“Mikiel, will you come with us to the station?”
“To the station?” asked Mikiel.
“Yes, we’ve received a report that you didn’t issue a fiscal receipt, that you assaulted a public official and that you caused damage to his personal belongings.”
“But Sergeant, please, it was an accident…”
“Hadn’t you better come with us to the station and explain everything?”
“And the shop?”
“Close up the shop, Mikiel. Come away quietly. Take my word for it.”
Mikiel looked at the customers. No one breathed a word in the presence of the uniforms. A doubt came creeping in as to whether any of them would be willing to testify in his favour. Not even Cetta, who was now hiding behind two members of the choir with her head bowed. There was nothing to be done, he thought to himself. Hadn’t you better close the shop and figure out how you were going to explain to them that it hadn’t been your intention to smash that boy in the face?
“I’ll come along Sergeant, but you’re making a mistake. A big mistake! I didn’t mean to hurt anyone. It was all an accident.”
“We’ll speak at the station,” the sergeant said to him. “Close up, we’ll be waiting for you out here.”
Mikiel spread his arms like he was about to be crucified and the women left the shop in procession. Meanwhile, the sergeant and the constable lit a cigarette. Mikiel closed the shop and the three of them made their way towards the station.
They detained him for no longer than half an hour. They asked him for his version of events, he signed his statement and they sent him away. Before he left the station the sergeant advised him to consult a lawyer and to gather the witnesses he wanted to testify in his favour in court.
By the time he left the station he had neither the will nor the strength to open the shop again. His wife Karmena was surprised when she saw him coming back home so early, long before closing time. She knew immediately that something was wrong, and by the look on his face she realised that it was something serious. He wasn’t in the mood to explain what had happened. He wanted to go straight up to bed but knew that if he didn’t satisfy her curiosity she’d continue to hound him and wouldn’t let him rest. When he said he’d just come back from the police station and recounted the whole incident to her, he thought she was going to die of shock.
He spent the following two hours by her side at the doctor’s clinic.