Ismail Kadare - The File on H.

They were perfectly aware that their hope was without foundation. The epic awoke from its long slumber in 1913, that was true, but only because a terrible calamity — the dismemberment of the country — had prodded it into a final burst of life. The following period of Albanian history had been utterly uneventful. There was perhaps no imaginable period more appropriate for the final death of an oral epic.

Max and Bill had gone over this in discussion, but they realized with some surprise that, for all that, they had not stopped hoping to find an epivent , the world they had coined for a contemporary event transformed into epic verse.

Whereas they had previously despaired at the dispersion of the Albanian epic tradition, they now felt reassured that the entire corpus was in good order. What had seemed, to begin with, like shards scattered through space and time, as ungraspable as a mane of rainbows, as wind and burnt dust, quite impossible to collect, was now locked in numbered metal reel cases. Sometimes it seemed hard to credit that they had managed to tame all that hatred and all that passion.

Daisy had never watched the path from the front gate to the front door with such concentration. It was raining, and the flagstones gleamed with a strange and disturbing light. She knew the flags intimately, each individual one, and remembered which of them, wobbling slightly, was likely to splash her stockings on rainy days, never forgetting to step around it. But this was the first time that she had studied them from above, from the second-floor window. And on this occasion she could not easily have brought to mind which flagstone might tip and muddy the trouser leg of the man who was on his way.

The English-speaking informer was due to call in a quarter of an hour. A man she did not know calling on her at 11:00 A.M., without her husband's knowledge… But the shudder of the illicit lasted only a few seconds. With some bitterness, she went over the scenario in her mind: The man was coming at her invitation, for a quite specific reason, related to his professional responsibilities. She had not found it easy to draft the brief note that said: "I wish to meet you on an important matter. I beseech you, please ensure that this remains strictly confidential."

She had made her resolution a week earlier, after having tried and failed to meet the Irishmen at the Buffalo Inn. The trip in the horse-drawn carriage on the main north road, supposedly to see a fresco at the church of Saint Mary, the stop at the inn, her going in allegedly for a glass of water, the few words she exchanged with the inkeeper, then the return journey in the carriage— all these episodes came back to her in a haze, as if they had not happened at all but were only figments of her daydreams.

Since her attempt to meet the foreigners had unfortunately failed, she had racked her brains for days to find another way of getting a message to them. Another trip by carriage would undoubtedly have aroused the suspicions of the innkeeper; and she did not have the courage to take the postmaster's wife along with her. She had thought of having her maidservant— the only person in the household whom she trusted entirely — take them a short note. While exploring this possibility in her mind, she suddenly thought of the new informer. What if she should speak to him directly? After all, wasn't the English-speaking spy the key to the whole affair, the alpha and omega of the business? It was a bold idea, and an attractive one. There was no doubt about it: the informer was the key to it all. His ear was the direct connection with them. Who else could tell her whether Bill and Max had in fact spoken about her in their magical English? My lord, my love … Even without admitting it to herself, she was not unaware that the main reason for each of her actions and her final decision to write that note to the spy was her desire to reestablish contact with the Irishmen. Of course, she said to herself in her infrequent moments of lucidity, they are citizens of another country and are not taking any real risks. But she would quickly put that thought aside: most of the time, as now, when she waited for the garden gate to swing open momentarily, she liked to believe that she, Daisy, was saving them both from danger.

It was nearly eleven, and the spy could arrive at any moment.

In her later recollections of the episode, there would be two versions of the man's arrival:

In the first version, the spy came in slowly, and Daisy, watching from the window, followed each of his steps as if the whole thing were happening in slow motion: the gate opening, the steps on the wet flagstones, the ring of the doorbell, his climbing the stairs, then his words: "Madam, I am delighted to be able to be of some use to you."

In the second version, the visitor had seemed to fly from the garden gate to the second-floor sitting room without touching the ground, until he was there, staring at her with eyes incandescent with curiosity, attraction— and something else, halfway between self-confidence and sheer cheek. Good God, exactly what a spy's eyes should be! she thought. Then the same words: "I am delighted to be able to be of some use to you."

He was exactly as she had expected him to be and at the same time not at all what she had imagined. His oiled, black hair was fearfully shiny, as if made of the same stuff as his eyes. She had never seen anyone with eyes and hair in such perfect accord. A spy's eyes, blended with the glance of a courtier. Judging by the way he studied her face, she reckoned that he had indeed overheard the Irishmen chatting about her. Yes, yes, his eyes were full of tacit messages, of the sort that pass between people who have shared a secret. Her desire to know at once what the foreigners had said was overwhelming. Had she not been a rather timid woman, she would have beseeched the spy there and then: I beg you, tell me quickly, just as you heard it, in English (you can translate it later), tell me everything, absolutely everything, they said about me!

But she had some self-control. She began by beating about the bush. In her later recollection, this part of the conversation would be even more of a muddle than the rest of it. In fact, she wouldn't be able to recall anything very precise about it, apart from the fact that while she was speaking, his eyes sparkled like two burning coals constantly fanned, and that she imagined he knew a great deal more about her than she could guess.

"I know the two foreigners who passed through here," she said at long last, in a muted voice. "You would be amazed to know the circumstances…. All the same…"

The spy interrupted in a whisper, as if he was concerned not to wake anyone in the house:

"Madam, I can see that you are embarrassed, but you must realize that I have a great deal of experience in situations of this kind…."

"Of course," Daisy replied, raising her eyes to meet his.

His face was now quite close to hers, and the various stories Daisy had heard about the spy's exploits crossed her mind vaguely. Just as you would expect, she thought, as she smiled limply at the man. Courteously and respectfully, he took her hand in his.

"How beautiful you are!"

"How can you dare to say such a thing!" Daisy's eyes brimmed with outrage.

The spy did not let go of her hand but sought to look straight into her eyes.

"Madam, my professional calling gives me so many opportunities to…"

"I know, I know, I've heard all about you and your…"

He smiled, and continued in an even more conspiratorial whisper:

"…so many opportunities to cast my eyes on ladies in bathrooms and bedrooms — society ladies that other men only dream of greeting from a distance…. Including you, perhaps, when you visited the capital and stayed at the Continental Hotel…"