Ismaíl Kadaré - The Accident

For some reason she tried to contain her cries, and almost succeeded. But afterwards she whispered in his ear, “That was heavenly.” That was how it always seemed to him. But they did not open up to one another. When this didn’t happen at midnight, nor before they parted the next day, she gave up all hope. As her train travelled across those same plains which the torn mask of snow could not totally cover, her heart felt heavy with the same sadness as two days before. It was so hard to deal with that she did not know if sadness was the right name for it.

Her misery was accompanied by a nagging thought that Besfort Y. was dangerous under any circumstances. Life with him was difficult, but without him it was impossible.

With her former fiancé, restoring normality after a quarrel had been a matter of moments, but with Besfort it took months. She sometimes wondered whether this question of freedom had turned into an obsession. Since the fall of communism everything in Albania had gone to extremes: money, luxury, lesbian groups. Everybody was in a hurry to make up for lost time. One afternoon in a café, an actress’s sidelong glance had stirred her to the depths. From the way Besfort responded to this story, she thought she must have put her finger on something.

Then, too, nothing had been the same as before, she thought. But she hadn’t said anything. She hadn’t shouted it to high heaven as he had.

In fact, nothing had ever been the same as before, she thought.

She recalled her first infidelity – only in Albanian did it deserve the name – as a hurried mess, vindictive and without regrets. Kisses amidst music and accented German. Shamelessly groping her partner before he lunged at her. Undressing in the bedroom, the condom, then his accented words: Ich hatte noch nie schöneren Sex . That was the best sex I’ve ever had.

That’s all you’re getting, she said to herself.

In fact, it was a year after Luxembourg that she told him what had happened in that spring of temptation. The little birthday party in her hall of residence, embracing a classmate on the dance floor, pressing first her lips and then her belly to his, then his whispered invitation, “Let’s go to my room.” She had followed him without a word. Besfort knew everything that happened between then and the next day, when half the student group gathered in a late-night bar and Rovena was astonished to find that a miniature love story had already been woven around her. They had found out that the pretty Albanian girl had finally slept with their Slovak friend. They gave them special attention, made sure they sat next to each other and treated them as a couple in every respect. She found it amusing and not in the least embarrassing that this engagement business followed her everywhere she went. Somebody said that on the news there had been disturbances in Albania, but she knew nothing about this.

What happened later, you know as well as I do, Rovena had said. In fact, what Besfort knew was not quite the truth. The inaccuracies started in the late-night bar, where Rovena and the Slovak were being treated as a couple. She liked him, in fact she liked him a lot. He tasted different, and had a kind of sweetness that she missed. Somebody said again that there was unrest in Albania. But she still knew nothing.

At two in the morning they noisily departed, arranging to meet the next day in the same bar. At ten in the morning the telephone tore into her sleep and ripped everything apart. It was Besfort. He had phoned her several times during the evening. She could not be irritated again, or use the stale words “You’re preventing me from living.” He was in Vienna, at an OSCE meeting. Things looked bad in Albania, as she may have heard. He was free that evening. For the first time she hesitated.

“Why didn’t you tell me before?” The journey was hard for her… the seminar… the professor…

“As you like.”

The chill in his voice brought back her old fear. “Wait a moment, could you come here?”

“I don’t know,” he replied. He would see what he could do and phone back.

He did not call back for a long time. There was no reply from his mobile. He must be punishing her for hesitating. Tyrant, she thought. Then she turned against herself. See what she’d done. She had risked everything for a night out. As if there hadn’t been enough boring evenings in Graz, she had chosen this one to trawl through the bars with their cheap jokes and laughter, just at a time when he needed her.

Finally the phone rang – a double triumph. He was coming. The address of the hotel? What time?

She strode briskly down the frozen street as if intoxicated. The pang of conscience over the date she had made at the bar increased her exhilaration. Even her hesitation towards Besfort seemed to her a good sign. For the first time in eighteen months she felt, if not the superior, at least the equal of Besfort Y. The issue about being his slave would resolve itself naturally.

Her sense of security, flattered by the luxurious carpet in the long corridor leading to his room, was dashed by the expression on his face.

His frown did not emphasise his tiredness but had the opposite effect, perhaps because of the vacancy in his eyes, that aspect of him that was so impersonal.

They lay on the sofa clasped in a half-embrace. He still suspects nothing. Why not? she thought. Why does he still think he owns me?

That vacancy in his eyes still troubled her.

In the bathroom, as she was getting ready, she noticed a dark bruise at the top of her thigh, a mark left by the Slovak’s teeth.

Secretly, she wanted him to notice this. Does this persuade you that you don’t own me? This is crazy, she thought. Behind the closed door, she heard the phone ring.

When she came out of the bathroom he was still talking.

“What’s going on?” she asked as she lay down beside him.

He stroked her, not answering. They made love, almost without speaking. In the restaurant, as she glanced at the expensive menu, she remembered that by now the others would be meeting in the late-night bar. They would look at her empty seat for ages before realising she wasn’t coming. And even then they would never understand the truth. They would think that she had followed the standard pattern, rejecting the poor student with the soul of an artist, with whom she would share the cost of a pizza, in favour of luxury and a man with power.

They can think what they like. The red wine and the crimson nail varnish of her fingers holding the glass provoked the gentle intoxication that was so delicious before making love. After dinner they sat for a while in the bar.

“Don’t even think about it,” she said to him, caressing his hand. And when he asked about what, she continued, “You know what. The bad news, down there.”

The phone rang again after midnight. How dreadful, she groaned, not surfacing enough from sleep to realise what time it was. Two in the morning. Was he crazy? He was talking. Whoever it was calling him at that hour must be out of their mind. In vain, she buried her head in the pillow. She could hear everything. “I think it’s a communist uprising… Yes, I’m sure… reclaiming power by force… Of course it’s terrible…”

Despite her annoyance, she was curious to listen. She understood only half of what he said. “Intervention is the only solution. Immediately. Couldn’t it be seen as an invasion?… By whom?… Aha… at one time it would have been, but not now…”

When he put down the phone, she sat up, leaning on her elbow. “Brussels?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said. He added, “There’s been a coup in Albania.”

“That’s what I thought.” For a while the only sound was their breathing. “Would you support military intervention?”