Ismaíl Kadaré - The Accident

The most hurtful pang was to see her lengthy preparations in the bathroom. He watched her through the half-open door: her concentration in front of the mirror, touching up her eyelashes, giving some last attention to her underarms. This was the first time he had seen her getting ready not just for him, but for all the male sex.

“Of course I remember,” she replied.

Besfort gave her a penetrating look. “Everybody thinks this is a new, modern experience, but it’s been well known down the ages. At least it was described four or five centuries ago in this story.”

Rovena read aloud the title of the little book: “Miguel Cervantes, The Tale of the Foolish Test of Virtue . This is part of Don Quixote , isn’t it?”

“Exactly. Long before he produced his full translation, Fan Noli published this extract, to whet his readers’ appetites. No doubt about it, this describes an early version of a modern singles club.”

“How extraordinary,” she said.

“And to think that Noli was a long-faced bishop of Albania. And a conspirator, I think. You will know more about it.”

“Not just a conspirator, but the absolute linchpin. He was involved in at least three plots.”

“It’s an uncanny story,” Besfort went on.

He had made notes in the margin while reading, as if interpreting an occult text.

She was leafing though it with curiosity, but Besfort gently took it out of her hands.

“You can have a look at it after supper.”

He raised his glass.

“The wine is delicious, but I think I’ve drunk enough,” Rovena said.

Her cheeks bore the blush that naturally brings love to mind. At the entrance to the Loreley her face had been pale. He now knew for certain that she was attracted to the prospect of transgression, avoid it as she might.

“I’ll take a shower,” said Besfort. “You’ve got time to look through that little book, if you like.”

“I certainly will,” she said. “I can hardly wait.”

The same night. A Cervantes text.

Under the jet of hot water, Besfort tried to imagine what Rovena would make of the medieval Spanish city and the two inseparable friends, Lothario and Anselmo. And the sweet Camilla, the latter’s bride who unwittingly becomes the reason why Lothario cools slightly towards his bosom friend. The newlyweds notice this coldness and it worries them.

Besfort imagined Rovena’s tapered fingers turning the pages.

So the young couple are concerned. They encourage their friend to come to them as before, and to make their home his own. Lothario visits, but nervously. He is scared of rumours. But the couple are not worried about these at all. The shadow of anxiety that Lothario sometimes sees cross his friend’s brow has a quite different cause. One day Anselmo opens his heart. He is gnawed by an obsession, one that might drive him mad. Of course he is happy with his bride, but he cannot allay this pain. It involves a suspicion. Lothario should not stare like that. This suspicion is about nothing less than Camilla’s constancy.

Besfort knew that Rovena’s delicate fingers would turn the pages eagerly.

Wait, Anselmo says to his friend, not letting him speak. He knows what he’s going to say. He also knows that his Camilla is spotlessly pure. But… can a woman be called virtuous if she has never had the chance to be wicked?

Besfort imagined Rovena’s eyebrows and lashes, so carefully made up, trembling like a swallow’s wings at an approaching storm.

Lothario does all he can to reassure his friend. But there is no cure for his obsession. As if tormented by a fever, he reverts again and again to his dark suspicions. Finally, he makes a grotesque suggestion. Only Lothario, his faithful friend, can free him from this nightmare. There is only one way to prove Camilla’s constancy; he admits it is a dangerous game, but it is foolproof. Lothario must put Camilla to the test, in short, seduce her. Trap her.

Besfort imagined Rovena’s nervous fingers turning back the pages to reread them, the steady glow on her cheeks matching the ruby in her ring.

Lothario rejects the suggestion with contempt. He takes serious offence. He gets up to leave. For ever. But a single utterance from Anselmo stops him in his tracks. It is a threat. If Lothario will not do it, he will find a total stranger. Some ordinary lecher. Some low rat.

Lothario holds his head in his hands. This threat crushes his resistance. He takes on this appalling task, or rather pretends to. He decides to deceive his friend, as one might humour a lunatic. And so, when the hour of trial comes, sitting opposite Camilla, he does not make the slightest move. Anselmo can barely wait to hear the outcome. Lothario tells him: Camilla is as pure as crystal, as white as mountain snow. She called him a swine. She repulsed his advances. She threatened to tell her husband.

But Anselmo does not believe what he hears. His expression darkens. “Traitor!” he says. “Double-crosser! I watched you through the keyhole. You’re telling lies. You sat there like a poker. Scumbag! What kind of a seducer are you? Now you’ll see, I’ll bring in the real libertines. The real fornicators. At least they don’t lie.”

Lothario tries to calm him down. He begs forgiveness. He asks for another chance. A test of loyalty. One last time. Just don’t bring in any lowlife.

Finally, they reach an agreement. They will both set the trap. Anselmo will go away to the country. Lothario will stay in Anselmo’s home, for three days and three nights. This is Anselmo’s order. Camilla makes no objection. The first evening arrives.

Besfort turned off the shower, as if to listen out for Rovena’s faster breathing.

The two are alone, Lothario and Camilla. They eat dinner together, drink a little wine. They look at the fire in the hearth.

The text describes it in a few words. Lothario makes a declaration of love. Camilla desperately attempts to ward him off, but eventually her defences are exhausted. Camilla gives in. The text is pitiless, and uses the word “surrender” twice. Camilla surrenders. Camilla falls.

Besfort knew that Rovena would close her eyes at this point in the story. Of all the women he had known, not one shut her eyes during lovemaking in the same passionate way as Rovena. So she must have closed her eyes to imagine the scene and identify with it. Would she feel sorry that Camilla had given in? Probably the opposite, she would hardly be able to wait…

At the brightly lit entrance to the Loreley, Besfort put more or less the same question for the umpteenth time. Was she enjoying this? Rovena’s wan face gave no answer.

Finally, they entered and began to explore the club’s premises. Rovena was totally naked apart from the scanty underwear that the rules demanded. He wore even less. And so they wandered though the dim rooms, until they came to a huge bed. Here they sat down to collect themselves. As their eyes grew used to the gloom, they recovered from their shock enough to discern what was happening around them. There were beds here and there, some occupied. On one, a couple was making love. Other people roamed about. There were women wearing only lingerie, sometimes nothing at all. Men in briefs. Single men wandering like ghosts. Someone was carrying a drink to his girlfriend. Everything was calm and harmonious.

“You have the most beautiful breasts of anybody here,” he whispered. There was a gleam in Rovena’s eye that discouraged speech. He said it a second time. “Not just breasts either,” he added.

Her thigh was bent at an angle, and part of the dark region between her legs was visible. At this very spot, at the narrow opening in her underwear, one of the men stared with longing.