Ismail Kadare - Broken April

From where he stood as if rooted to the ground, the mountaineer stared feverishly at the young woman.

“How pale he is.”

“His name is Gjorg,” said Bessian, settling into his seat. Diana’s head was still quite close to the window. Outside, the innkeeper was lavishing advice on the coachman.

“Do you know the way? Be careful at the Graves of the Krushks . People always go wrong there. Instead of taking the right fork they take the left.”

The carriage began to move. The stranger’s eyes, that seemed very dark, perhaps because of the paleness of his face, followed the square of window where Diana’s face appeared. She too, even though she knew that she should not be looking at him still, did not have the strength to turn her eyes from the wayfarer who had loomed up suddenly at the side of the road. As the coach drew away, several times she wiped away the mist that her breath left upon the glass, but it condensed again at once as if anxious to draw a curtain between them.

When the carriage had rolled a good distance, and not a soul could be seen outside, she said, leaning back wearily in her seat, “You were right.”

Bessian studied his wife for a moment with a certain surprise. He was about to ask her what he had been right about, but something stopped him. To tell the truth, all during the long morning’s trip he had had the feeling that on some matters she did not agree with him. And now that she was adopting his views of her own accord, it seemed superfluous, not to say imprudent, to ask her to explain herself. The main thing was that she had not found the journey a disappointment. And she had just reassured him on that point. Bessian felt enlivened. It seemed to him that he was beginning, if only vaguely, to understand more or less what it was that he had been right about.

“Did you notice how pale that mountaineer was, the one who killed a man a few days ago?” asked Bessian, staring God knows why at the ring on one of her fingers.

“Yes, he was dreadfully pale,” Diana said.

“Who can tell what doubts, what hesitations he had to overcome before setting out to commit that crime. What are Hamlet’s doubts, compared with this Hamlet of our mountains?”

The look she gave her husband was one of gratitude.

“You feel it’s a bit much for me to call up the Danish prince in connection with a mountaineer of the High Plateau.”

“Not at all,” Diana said. “You put things so well, and you know how much I value that gift of yours.”

The suspicion crossed his mind that it was perhaps that very gift that had won Diana for him.

“Hamlet was spurred to vengeance by his father’s ghost,” Bessian went on excitedly. “But can you imagine what dreadful ghost rises up before a mountaineer to spur him on to vengeance?”

Diana’s eyes, grown enormously wide, looked at him fixedly.

“In houses that have a death to avenge, they hang up the victim’s bloodstained shirt at a corner of the tower, and they do not take it down until the blood has been redeemed. Can you imagine how terrible that must be? Hamlet saw his father’s ghost two or three times, at midnight, and for only a few moments, while the shirt that calls for vengeance in our kullas stays there day and night, for whole months and seasons; the bloodstains become yellow and people say, ‘Look, the dead man is impatient for revenge.’ ”

“Perhaps that’s why he was so pale.”

“Who?”

“The mountaineer we saw just now.”

“Oh, yes. Of course.”

For a moment Bessian thought that Diana had uttered the word “pale” as if she had said “beautiful,” but he dismissed the idea at once.

“And what will he do now?”

“Who?”

“Well, that mountaineer.”

“Ah, what will he do?” Bessian shrugged his shoulders. “If he killed his man four or five days ago, as the innkeeper said, and if he has been granted the long bessa , that is to say thirty days, then he still has twenty-five days of normal life before him.” Bessian smiled sourly, but his face was still expressionless. “It’s like a last authorization to go on leave in this world. The well-known saying that the living are only the dead on leave has a very real significance in our mountain country.”

“Yes,” she said, “he looked just like a man on leave from the other world, with the insignia of death on his sleeve.” Diana gave a deep sigh. “You told me so — just like Hamlet.”

Bessian looked through the window with a fixed smile; only the upper part of his face smiled.

“And it has to be said, too, that once Hamlet was sure of what it was he had to do, he carried out his murder in hot blood. As for him—” Bessian waved his hand at the stretch of road they were leaving behind them—“he is moved by a machine that is foreign to him, and occasionally even to the times he lives in.”

Diana listened to him attentively, even though some of the import of his meaning escaped her.

“A man must have the will of a Titan to turn towards death on orders that come from a place so far away,” Bessian said. “For, in point of fact, at times the orders come from a really distant place, the place of generations long gone.”

Diana took a deep breath again.

“Gjorg,” she said softly. “That is his name, isn’t it?”

“Whose?”

“That mountaineer, of course… at the inn.”

“Oh, yes, Gjorg. That’s his name all right. He really impressed you, didn’t he?”

She nodded her head.

Several times it looked as if it was going to rain, but the raindrops were lost in space before they could reach the earth. Only a few splashed on the carriage window and these quivered on the pane like tears. Diana had been watching them for some moments, and the glass itself seemed troubled.

She did not feel tired at all now. On the contrary, as if she had been unburdened within her, she felt that she had somehow grown transparent, but it was a cold sensation, not at all pleasant.

“This has been a long winter,” Bessian said. “It simply refuses to yield its place to spring.”

Diana was still looking at the landscape. There was something about the scene that disturbed one’s attention, that emptied one’s mind — by diluting one’s thoughts, as it seemed. Diana thought about the examples of Ali Binak’s subtle interpretations of the Kanun that she had heard the innkeeper recount. Actually, she remembered only certain facets or fragments of those reports, moving slowly along on the current of her thoughts. For example, two large doors of two houses were ordered lifted from their hinges and exchanged one for the other. One of those doors had been pierced by a bullet on a summer evening. The master of the house, wronged in that way, had to avenge himself for the affront, but how was he to go about it? A door holed by a bullet is not a cause for blood vengeance under the Code, and yet the offense must nonetheless be atoned for. To decide the matter, they appealed to Ali Binak, who declared that the door of the offender must be taken from its hinges and replaced by the one with the bullet hole, which that man was to keep forever.

Diana imagined Ali Binak going from village to village and from banner to banner, escorted by his two assistants. It was hard to imagine a more curious group. And, on another night, a man who had a friend visit him unexpectedly, sent his wife to the neighbors to borrow some victuals. Hours passed, and the woman did not return, but the husband controlled himself and hid his disquiet until the morning. Well, she did not come back on that day or the next. Something without precedent had happened on the High Plateau: the three brothers who lived in the neighboring house had kept her by force, each of them spending one night with her.