Ismail Kadare - Broken April

The old man took a few steps forward, and halted beside a stone and a clod of fresh earth. A heavy silence fell upon the plateau, but perhaps that was only an impression, because the grumbling of the mountain heights drowned the noise of conversation, so that the human element by itself, having given way, had no power to still any sound. And yet everyone had the feeling that silence had fallen.

The old man bent down, grasped the big stone with both hands, and heaved it up on his shoulder. Then someone set the clod of earth on that same shoulder. His withered face with its many brown patches showed no emotion. Then in that silence, a clear, resonant voice that came from someplace one could not identify, cried out: “Go forward, then, and if you do not go in good faith, may this stone crush you in the life to come!”

For a moment the old man’s eyes looked as if they had turned to stone. It seemed impossible that his limbs could make the slightest movement without bringing down the whole framework of his ancient body. Nevertheless, he took a step forward.

“Let’s go a little closer,” Bessian whispered.

Now they were very nearly in the center of the group of people who were following the old man.

“I hear someone speaking. Who is it?” Diana murmured.

“The old man,” Bessian answered in the same low tone. “He is swearing by the stone and the earth he carries on his shoulder, as the Kanun requires.”

The old man’s voice, deep, sepulcral, could scarcely be heard.

“By this stone and by this earth that I bear as a burden, by what I have heard from our forefathers, the old boundaries of the pasture are here and here, and here is where I set the boundaries myself. If I lie, may I carry nothing but stone and mud forever!”

The old man, followed by the same small group of people, moved slowly over the pasture. For the last time one could hear, “If I have not spoken truly, let this stone and this earth weigh me down in this life and the next.” And he dropped his load to the ground.

Some of the mountaineers who had been following him started at once to dig at all the places that he had pointed out.

“Look, they’re prising out the old markers and setting the new ones in place,” Bessian explained to his wife.

They heard the sound of hammer-blows. Someone called out, “Bring the children here so that they may see.”

Diana watched the setting of the boundary marks unseeing. Suddenly among the black jackets of the mountaineers she saw those hateful checks coming near, and she grasped her husband’s sleeve as if to ask him for help. He looked at her questioningly, but she did not have time to say a word to him, for the surveyor was already before them, smiling in a way that seemed even more drunken than before.

“What a farce,” he said, cocking his head towards the mountaineers. “What a tragi-comedy! You’re a writer, aren’t you? Well, write something about this nonsense, please.”

Bessian looked at him sternly, but made no reply.

“Pardon me for having troubled you. Especially you, madam, please.”

He bowed somewhat theatrically, and Diana smelled alcohol on his breath.

“What do you want?” she said coldly, without concealing her disgust.

The man made as if to speak, but it appeared that Diana’s manner overawed him, for he said nothing. He turned his head towards the mountaineers and stayed that way for a moment, his face set, and still lit with a spiteful half-smile.

“It’s enough to make you howl,” he muttered. “The art of surveying has never suffered a greater insult.”

“What?”

“How can I not be indignant at it? You must understand. Of course that’s the way I feel. I’m a surveyor. I’ve studied that science. I’ve learned the art of measuring land, of drawing up plans. And despite that I wander on the High Plateau all the year through without being able to practice my profession, because the mountain people do not regard a surveyor as having any skill in these matters. You’ve seen yourself how they settle disputed boundaries. With stones, with curses, with witches and what not. And my instruments spend years on end packed up in my luggage. I left them down there at the inn, in some corner or other. One day they’ll steal them on me, if they haven’t already — but I’ll steal a march on them before they pinch my things. I’ll sell them and drink up the proceeds. Oh, unhappy day! I’m going off now, sir. Ali Binak, my master, is beckoning me. Excuse my troubling you. Excuse me, lovely lady. Farewell.”

“What an odd fellow,” Bessian said when the surveyor had gone away.

“What shall we do now?” Diana asked.

They searched out the coachman among the thinning crowds, and he came to them as soon as they had caught his eye.

“Are we going?”

Bessian nodded.

As they turned towards their carriage, the old man put his hand on the stones that had just been set to mark the new borders, and laid a curse upon all those who might dare to move them.

Diana felt that the mountain folk, distracted for some time by the business of setting the markers, were once again turning their attention upon them. She was the first to climb into the coach, and Bessian waved for the last time to the distant figures of Ali Binak and his assistants.

Diana was a little tired, and all during the ride back to the inn she scarcely spoke.

“Shall we have some coffee before we leave?” Bessian suggested.

“If you like,” Diana said.

While serving them, the innkeeper told them about famous cases of boundary disputes in which Ali Binak had been the arbitrator, the details of which had in some sort passed into the oral legendry of the mountains. You could see that he was very proud of his guest.

“When he is in these parts, he always stays at my inn.”

“But where does he live?” Bessian asked, just to be saying something.

“He doesn’t have any fixed residence,” the innkeeper said. “He is everywhere and nowhere. He’s always on the road, because there is no end to the quarrels and disputes, and people call on him to judge them.”

Even after he had served them their coffee, he went on talking about Ali Binak and the centuries-old hatreds that rend mankind. He brought up the subject again when he came back to take away the cups and collect his money, and once more on accompanying them to their carriage.

Bessian was about to climb into the coach when he felt Diana press his arm.

“Look,” she said softly.

A few paces away a young mountaineer, very pale, was looking at them as if dumbfounded. A black ribbon was sewn to his sleeve.

“There’s a man engaged in the blood feud,” Bessian said to the innkeeper. “Do you know him?”

The innkeeper’s squinting eyes stared into the void a few yards to one side of the mountaineer. It was obvious that he was about to enter the inn and he had just stopped to see these persons of distinction get into their carriage.

“No,” said the innkeeper. “He came by three days ago on his way to Orosh, to pay the blood-tax. “Say, young man,” he called to the stranger. “What’s your name?”

The young man, visibly surprised at the innkeeper’s hail, turned to look at him. Diana was already inside the carriage, but Bessian paused an instant on the footboard to hear the stranger’s answer. Diana’s face, slightly tinged with blue by the glass, was framed in the window of the coach.

“Gjorg,” the stranger replied in a rather unsteady, cracked voice, like someone who had not spoken for a very long time.

Bessian slipped down into the seat beside his wife.

“He killed a man a few days ago, and now he’s coming back from Orosh.”

“I heard,” she said quietly, still looking out of the window.