Ismail Kadare - Three Arched Bridge

They said that all these calculations had been put down on paper and fixed with a seal, so that anybody who was thinking of being immured could read them beforehand.

To me all this resembled a bizarre dream. This was something we had never heard of before, a kind of death with accounts, seals, and percentages, We were quite unused to it. Sometimes I could not take it in at all I called to mind the delegation and its talks with the count, and what the collector of legends and the bridge’s master-in-chief had said, and I tried to establish some connection between these things, but the more 1 brooded the more perplexed 1 became. This business of calculated sacrifice confused me completely.

Sometimes I told myself that perhaps these were the signs of the new order that the master-in-chief had told me about in that unforgettable conversation. That jumble of words had been full of contracts, accounts, currency exchange, and percentages, percentages, percentages on everything. Even on death.

IT WEIGHED ON ME like a fatal burden. Its stone piers crushed me. One of its arches planted itself directly on my stomach, another on my throat. I wanted to break free and save myself from it, but it was impossible. The only movement I could make was a slight, a very slight tremor…. Ah yes, 1 thought, this was the perpetual trembling of which the ballad spoke. A cry rose in my throat. The cry struggled to come out, pressing against the stone arch. This went on a long time. Then, I do not know how, something was released inside me, and I budged. In that same moment, with eyes closed in terror, I felt the bridge collapse and fall on my body.

I woke drenched in sweat. The room was stuffy. I rose to open the window. Outside a warm, damp wind blew. One could sense that the sky, though invisible, was overcast. Some silent flashes of lightning burst against the mute flatness.

“Oh Lord,” I cried aloud, and I lay down again on my bed. But further sleep eluded me. A few awkward ideas, with a deceptive glitter as if frozen by winter, floated somewhere inside me. I do not know how long I remained in this state. When I finally opened my eyes, it was light. Somebody was knocking at the outside door. There was an anxious rattle at the iron doorlatch. The sky was cloudy, but not as overcast as I had imagined. Spring has unexpectedly come, full of fury, I said to myself.

Two village neighbors were at the door, with distraught faces. Their eyes were troubled and bloodshot.

“What is it?” i asked. “What’s the matter?”

They raised their hands to their throats, as if trying to force out the words.

“At the bridge, Gjon … Under the first arch … They’ve walled up Murrash Zenebisha,”

“No.”

1 was unable to say anything else, or even to think. But these people, who seemed to have lost the power of thought before me, expected something from me. Soon! found myself walking toward the bridge. We hardly walked but were blown where the wind bore us, like three waving scraps of rag, myself in the middle and the others on either side*

I knew Murrash Zenebisha. Among ordinary people, it would have been difficult to find anyone more commonplace than he. His appearance, his average height, and his whole life were ordinary to the point of weariness, I could not take in the fact that this extraordinary thing, immurement, had happened to none other than him. The more I thought about it, the more it seemed an aberration. It was more than turning into a leader or a statue* … Everything had gone too far … now he was divided from us by the mortar of legend.

From a distance, you could see a small gathering of people around the bridge pier. By the first arch. He must be there.

As I drew closer, I tried, I do not know why, to recall Murrash Zenebisha’s commonplace face. Oh Lord, from this moment 1 could not picture it in my mind at all It swam as if under a film of water, with a broken, uncanny smile.

The small group of people moved silently to make room for me, Nobody greeted me, They stood like candles, looking strangely small against the background of the bridge. A part of the arch bent heavy and chill above them,

“There he is,” a quiet voice said to me.

He was there, white like a mask, spattered with plaster, only his head and neck, and part of his chest. The remainder of his trunk, and his arms and legs, were merged with the wall

I could not tear my eyes from him. There were traces of fresh mortar everywhere. The wall had been strengthened to contain the sacrifice. (A body walled up in the piers of a bridge weakens the structure, the collector of tales had said.) The bulging wall looked as if it were pregnant. Worse, it looked as if it were in birth pangs.

The body seemed planted in the stone. His stomach and legs and the main portion of his trunk were rooted deep, and only a small portion of him emerged.

A wall that demands a human being in its cavity, the collector of customs had said. Foul, sinful visions taunted me. The wall indeed looked pregnant, … But this was a perverse pregnancy…. No baby emerged from it, on the contrary, a human being was swallowed up…. It was worse than perverse. It would have been perverse if, in contrast to a baby who emerges into the light, the man who entered the darkness were to shrink and be reduced to the size of an infant and then to nothing…. But that was not to happen. This was a perversion of everything. It was perversity itself.

Around me, people’s voices came as if from the next world.

“When?” asked the hushed voice of a new arrival.

“Just after midnight.”

“Did he feel much pain?”

“None at all”

I heard sobbing close beside me. Then I saw his wife. Her face was swollen with tears, and in her arms she carried a year-old baby, who was trying to nuzzle her breast. Paying no attention to the men standing around, she had uncovered one breast. The breast was swollen with milk, and the nipple occasionally escaped from the baby’s mouth. Her tears fell on her large white breast, and when the nipple missed the child’s mouth, her tears mixed with drops of milk.

“He was very calm,’ explained one of the count’s scribes, who had apparently come in search of explanations. “He asked about the terms of the agreement one more time, and then …”

A workman who stood holding a pail near the place of sacrifice splashed the dead man with wet plaster. The plaster trickled down the hair sticking to his brow, gave a sudden gleam to his open eyes, which was quickly quenched, and then patchily smeared his features before coursing down his neck and disappearing into the walk

“Why are you throwing on plaster? ’ a nervous voice asked. But no one replied.

It seemed that they were sprinkling him at intervals, because after emptying its contents over the sacrifice, the worker went to refill his bucket from a nearby barrel

His wife’s interrupted sobbing became louder after the sprinkling.

“He didn’t tell anyone about what he was going to do?” someone asked his wife softly.

She shook her head.

“No one,” she said.

Only then did I notice the other members of the family, standing around his wife. His parents and two brothers with their wives were there. Their faces were petrified, as if they too had been splashed with that plaster of eternity.

“No one,” his wife repeated. But I could not look at her eyes any longer, they were so swollen with weeping.

The count’s scribe asked something of her too, and she gave a short answer. Then she turned to me and said something, but my eyes were fixed on the immured man; I stared at the lower part of his neck, at his collarbone, just where the cavity above his chest…

But at that moment the man standing by with the pail of plaster in his hands splashed him again, and once more the plaster ran down his forehead, igniting and at once quenching his vacant, blind, oblivious white eyes. Then the trickle meandered down his neck, quickly whitening the very spot from which I could not tear my eyes.