Ismail Kadare - Broken April

Right after lunch, they went upstairs to see the room. The chamber that, according to the innkeeper, was the envy of all the inns in that district of the High Plateau, was the plainest imaginable, with two windows, both with wooden shutters, facing north, and a large bed covered by a thick woolen counterpane. It did indeed have a fireplace, and there were ashes on the hearth.

“It’s a fine room,” Bessian said, looking questioningly at his wife.

“And can one have a fire?” she asked the landlord.

“Certainly. Right away if you wish.”

For the first time in a long while, Bessian thought he saw a gleam of pleasure in Diana’s eyes.

The innkeeper went away, and came back with an armload of wood. He lit the fire in a clumsy manner that showed it was something that he did very rarely. Both of them looked on as if it were the first time in their lives that they were looking at a fire kindled in a fireplace. He left at last, and Bessian, alone with his wife, felt again the secret pounding within his chest. Several times his eyes slid over to the large bed, with its counterpane the color of milk, which made it look warm. Diana was standing by the fire, her back turned to her husband. Timidly, as if he were drawing near to a stranger, Bessian took two steps towards her and put his arms around her shoulders. Her arms crossed, she did not move while he began to kiss her neck and then to kiss her near her lips. At times, from the side, he caught a glimpse of the red glow of the flame reflected on her cheek. Then, as his caresses grew more pressing, she said gently, “No, not now.”

“Why not?”

“It’s too cold. Besides, I have to have a bath.”

“You’re right,” he said, planting a kiss on her hair. Without saying anything more, he moved away from her and left the room. The lively sound of his footfalls on the stairs showed his pleasant mood. He came a few moments later, carrying a large iron bucket full of water.

“Thank you,” Diana said with a smile.

As if he were drunk, he set down the bucket on the fire, and then, looking as if he were thinking of something quite definite, he bent down to look under the mantelpiece, repeated that several times while keeping the sparks away with his hands, and found what he had been looking for, it seemed, since he called out, “There it is.”

Diana too, bent down, and she saw the end of a pot-hook black with soot, hanging above the fire as in most of the fireplaces of the countryfolk. Bessian picked up the bucket, and supporting himself with one hand on the masonry of the fireplace, tried to hang it on a notch of the pot-hook.

“Careful,” Diana said, “you’ll burn yourself.”

But the bucket was already in place, and Bessian was blowing gaily on his slightly reddened hand.

“Did you burn yourself?”

“Oh, it’s nothing.”

Someone was coming up the stairs. It was the coachman, bringing them their bags. Watching him with an abstracted smile, Bessian was thinking that those people who were coming and going on the stairs, bringing wood or their luggage, were arranging things so that he might be happy. He could scarcely keep still.

“What if we go downstairs for coffee until our room and the water are warmed up?”

“Coffee? If you like. But maybe it would be better to take a walk. I’m still a little dazed with travelling.”

A moment later they went down the stairs, that creaked under their tread, and Bessian told the innkeeper to take care of the fire because they were going to take a walk.

“Can you tell me if there’s a picturesque spot in the neighborhood, some place really worth seeing?”

“Something worth seeing in the neighborhood?” He shook his head. “No, sir. These parts are pretty much a desert.”

“Really?”

“Yes, except…. Wait a bit. You have a carriage, don’t you? That makes a difference. A half-hour, three quarters of an hour at most if your horses aren’t tired, you can get to Upper White Water to see the Alpine lakes.”

“Upper White Water is only a half-hour ride by carriage?” Bessian asked in surprise.

“Yes, sir. A half-hour, or three-quarters of an hour at most. Foreign visitors who come by this way never miss the opportunity to go there.”

“What do you think,” Bessian said, turning to his wife. “It’s true that we are tired of riding in the coach, but still it’s really worth seeing that village. Particularly for the famous lakes.”

“We learned that in geography class,” she said.

“The air is wonderful up there. And then, all the while our room will be warming up….” He broke off to look meaningfully at her.

“Fine, let’s go,” she said.

The innkeeper went out to call the coachman, who came in a few moments later, looking not too pleased. He had to harness the horses once more, but he was careful not to say anything against it. Climbing into the carriage, Bessian told the innkeeper yet another time to see to the fire. At the last minute, he wondered, just for an instant, if he had not been wrong in leaving behind so easily the room at the inn that he had been at pains to secure, but he was reassured at once by the thought that after a pleasant tour, Diana would be feeling better in every respect.

The afternoon sun shone gently on the moorland. A crimson tint, with no apparent source, put a touch of warmth into the air.

“The days are getting longer,” Bessian said, and he thought, Don’t I find the most interesting things to say! The weather is still fine. The days are getting longer.

These were things that people who have nothing to say to each other cling to in order to fill the emptiness of their conversations. Had they become strangers to each other so that they must have recourse to phrases of that sort? That’s enough, he thought, as if dismissing something regrettable. It’s already done.

A half-hour later, Upper White Water did in fact come in sight. In the distance, the towers looked as if they were covered with moss. In places the snow had not yet melted, the patches of bare earth looked all the darker.

The carriage followed the road towards the lakes, along the edge of the village. As they stepped down, they heard the bells of a church ringing. Diana was the first to stop. She turned in order to find where the sounds were coming from, but she did not see the belfry. All she could see were the patches of black earth alternating bleakly with the sheets of snow. She turned away from them, and leaned on her husband’s arm. They were walking towards one of the lakes.

“How many are there?” Diana asked.

“Six, I think.”

They walked side by side on the thick dark brown carpet formed by successive layers of dead leaves, here and there richly rotten, as if suffering a luxurious disease. Bessian felt that his wife was getting ready to say something to him. She appeared uneasy, but the sound of the leaves underfoot seemed to relieve her in part.

“There’s another lake,” she said suddenly, on seeing the shoreline through the fir trees, and when he turned his head in that direction, she went on: “Bessian, surely you’ll write something better about these mountains.” He turned as if something had stung him in the back. He almost said, “What?”, but at the last instant he stifled that exclamation. It would be better not to hear that suggestion again. He felt that someone had pressed a white-hot horseshoe to his forehead.

“After this trip,” she said gently, “it would be natural if…. something truer….”

“Yes, of course, of course.”

The glowing horseshoe was still pressed against his forehead. Part of the mystery was dispelled. The mystery of her silence. In fact it had never been that. He had been waiting, almost as a certainty, for her to say those words before the first night of their new love, as the price of their understanding, of their pact.