Ismail Kadare - Broken April

No one spoke. The man left the room, and a moment later another man came in. He resembled the first one, but he carried nothing in his hands. He looked at them all as if he was counting them (two or three times he looked at the log, as if to make sure that it was not a man) and he went out. A little later he came back with an earthen pot. After him came another man carrying bowls and two loaves of cornbread. He set down before each man a bowl and some bread, and the other poured bean soup from the pot.

“You’re lucky,” Gjorg’s neighbor said. “You came just at the time when they’re serving a meal. Otherwise you’d have to tighten your belt until dinnertime tomorrow.”

“I brought along a little bread and cheese with me,” said Gjorg.

“Why? At the castle they serve meals twice a day to those who come to pay the blood tax.”

“I didn’t know,” said Gjorg, swallowing a great mouthful of bread. The cornbread was hard, but he was very hungry.

Gjorg felt some metal thing fall across his knees. It was his neighbor’s tobacco tin.

“Have a smoke,” he said.

“How long have you been here?”

“Since noon.”

Although Gjorg said nothing, the other man seemed to have guessed that he was surprised.

“Why are you surprised? There are people who have been waiting since yesterday.”

“Really?” Gjorg exclaimed. “I thought I could pay the money tonight and set out for my village tomorrow.”

“No. If you get to pay before tomorrow evening, you’ll be lucky. You might have to wait two days, if not three.”

“Three days? How can that be?”

“The Kulla is in no hurry to collect the blood tax.”

The door creaked and the man who had brought the pot of bean soup came in again. He picked up the empty bowls, stirred up the fire as he went by it, and went out again. Gjorg’s eyes followed him.

“Are these people the prince’s servants?” he asked his neighbor in a low voice.

The other man shrugged his shoulders.

“I can’t rightly say. It seems that they are distant cousins of the family who also work as servants.”

“Really?”

“Did you see those buildings round about? A lot of families live in them who have blood ties with the captain. Those people are both guards and officials. Did you see how they dress? Neither like mountain people nor townsfolk.”

“Yes, that’s true,” Gjorg said.

“Roll yourself another smoke,” said the other man, reaching him the tobacco tin.

“No, thank you,” said Gjorg. “I don’t smoke much.”

“When did you kill your man?”

“The day before yesterday.”

You could hear the sound of falling rain outside.

“This winter’s dragging on.”

“Yes, that’s true. It’s been a long one.”

Far off, from deep within the group of buildings, perhaps from the main tower itself, there came the sharp grating of a gate. It was one side of a pair of heavy gates opening, or closing, and the grating noise went on for a time. It was followed at once by a cry that was like the cry of a night bird, and that might just as well have been a sentinel’s cry, or a shout of farewell to a friend. Gjorg huddled deeper into his corner. He could not convince himself that he was at Orosh.

The creaking of the door cut through his drowsiness. For the third time Gjorg opened his eyes and saw the crippled man enter with an armload of wood in his arms. After throwing the wood on the fire, he turned up the wick of the oil lamp. The logs dripped water, and Gjorg thought that it must still be raining.

In the lamplight, Gjorg could see that nobody in the room was sleeping. His back was cold, but something kept him from moving nearer the fire. Besides, he had the feeling that it gave no warmth. The wavering light, splashed here and there with black stains, deepened the silence that hung over the waiting men.

Two or three times it occurred to Gjorg that all these men had killed, and that each had his story. But those stories were locked deep within them. It was not just chance that in the glow of the fire their mouths, and even more their jaws, looked as if they had the shape of certain antique locks. All during his journey to the Kulla , Gjorg had been terrified by the thought that somebody might ask him about his own story. And his fear was at its worst when he had entered this long room, though once he was inside something had persuaded him that he was out of danger. Perhaps he found reassurance in the stiff manner of those who were already there, or even from the log, that the newcomer mistook for a man before realizing his mistake, or on the contrary, took it for a log and then, smiling at what he supposed to be an error, greeted it as a man — only to find out the truth later. And at this point, Gjorg was inclined to think that the log had been put there for just that purpose.

As soon as the wet logs had been thrown upon the fire by the crippled man, they began to crackle. Gjorg took a deep breath. Outside, the night had certainly grown darker. In the distance, the north wind whistled low as it skimmed over the earth. He was surprised to find that he felt the need to say something. But besides that he was surprised by a very strange feeling indeed. It seemed to him that the jaws of the men around him were slowly changing their shape. Their stories were rising in their throats, and they began to chew them the way cattle chew their cud during the cold winter nights. Now their stories began to drip from their mouths. How many days now since the killing? Four. And you?

Little by little the stories came out from under the coarse cloth of their cloaks, like blackbeetles, wandered out quietly, passed one another. What will you do with your thirty-day truce?

What will I do? Gjorg wondered. Nothing.

Sometimes he thought he would be stuck forever in that damp room, by that fire that never really burst into flame, that made you shiver rather than warmed you, and with those black bugs shining on the floor.

When would they call him to pay his tax? Since the time he had come there, only one man had been called out. Would he have to wait for days and days? And what if a week passed and nobody called him out? What if they did not take him in at all?

The door opened and a stranger came in. One could see that he had come from far away. The fire gave a couple of contemptuous flickers, just enough light to show that he was all muddy and drenched to the skin, and left him in the semi-darkness, like all the others.

The man, looking confused and bewildered, found a seat right by the log of wood. Gjorg watched him out of the corner of his eye, to see how he himself had looked when he had come in a few hours ago. The man threw back his hood and let his chin sink to his raised knees. His story, obviously, buried deep inside him, was still far from his throat. Or perhaps it had not entered his body but was still outside, on his icy hands with which he had done murder, and that now stirred nervously about his knees.

* A tower without windows where a man who has killed may seek permanent refuge, and be maintained indefinitely with food and drink set just inside the door.

* Plateau, in Albanian.

The carriage went on climbing the mountain road at a lively pace. It was a rubber-tired vehicle of the kind used in the capital for excursions, or as a hackney coach. Its seats were upholstered in black velvet, but there was also something velvety about its very aspect. Perhaps that was why it rolled along on that rather poor mountain road much more easily than one would have expected, and perhaps it would have done so more quietly still but for the panting of the horses and the clopping of their hooves, which the upholstery could do nothing to muffle.