Ismail Kadare - Broken April

“In my opinion, even your explanation of the murder that you gave judgment on today is much too simplistic,” he said, hoping to find something that he could contradict.

“Not at all. I said it and I’ll repeat it. In every aspect of the events that were discussed today, it was purely a question of settling a debt.”

“Yes, a debt, certainly, but a debt of blood.”

“Blood, precious stones, cloth, it makes no difference. To me, it concerns a debt, and that is all.”

“It’s not the same thing.”

“It’s exactly the same thing.”

The doctor’s tone had become harsh. His delicate skin reddened as if it were burning. Bessian felt deeply offended.

“That is much too naive an explanation, not to say a cynical one,” he said.

The doctor’s eyes turned icy.

“You’re the one who’s naive, naive and cynical at the same time — you and your art.”

“You needn’t raise your voice,” said Bessian.

“I’ll yell my head off if I please,” the doctor said, though he lowered his voice at the same time. But, coming through his lips as if he were whistling, his voice sounded all the more threatening. “Your books, your art, they all smell of murder. Instead of doing something for these unfortunate mountaineers, you help death, you look for exalted themes, you look here for beauty so as to feed your art. You don’t see that this is beauty that kills, as a young writer said whom you certainly do not care for. You remind me of those theaters built in the palaces of Russian aristocrats, where the stage is large enough to accommodate hundreds of actors, while the living room can scarcely accommodate the prince’s family. That’s it. What you remind me of is those aristocrats. You encourage a whole nation to perform in a bloody drama, while you yourselves and your ladies watch the spectacle from your loges.”

At that moment Bessian noticed Diana’s absence. She had to be somewhere ahead of him, perhaps with the surveyor who would be sticking close to her, he thought, half-dazed.

“But you,” he said, “I mean you personally, you who are a doctor, who claim to understand things in the right way, why do you take part in this hoax? How about it? Why do you take advantage of that situation to earn your living?”

“When it comes to what I do, you’re absolutely right. I’m just a failure. But at least I understand what I am, and I don’t infect the world with my books.”

Bessian was looking for Diana, but he did not see her. From one point of view it was just as well that she had not heard those morbid opinions. The man went on talking and Bessian tried to listen, but as he himself was about to speak, instead of answering the doctor he said, as if he were talking to himself, “Where’s my wife?”

Now he was looking for her among the people who were still walking slowly to and fro in the church square.

“Diana!” he called, on the chance that she might hear him.

A number of people turned towards him.

“She may have gone into the church out of curiosity, or into a house to go to the bathroom.”

“That’s possible.”

They kept on walking, but Bessian was uneasy. I shouldn’t have left the inn, he thought.

“Forgive me,” the doctor said in a mild tone. “Perhaps I overdid it.”

“That’s nothing. Where can she have gone?”

“Don’t worry. She must be right in the neighborhood. Do you feel ill? You’re very pale.”

“No, no. I’m all right.”

Bessian felt the doctor’s hand take hold of his arm, and he wanted to move away, but he forgot to do it. Some children were keeping close to the nearest group of people, the one that included Ali Binak and the surveyor. Bessian felt his mouth go bitter. The lakes, he thought, for a second only. That old carpet of leaves, hopelessly rotten, covered over with that deceptive gold.

He was striding swiftly towards the group around Ali Binak. Is she drowned, he wondered while still some distance from them. But their faces were petrified. There was nothing in their expression that could give him reassurance.

“What is it?” he asked in panic, and unconsciously, perhaps because of the expression of those faces, instead of saying, “What has happened to her?” he said, “What has she done?”

The answer came with great difficulty from pitilessly clamped jaws. They had to repeat it to him several times before he could understand: Diana had gone inside the tower of refuge.

What had happened? Not at that moment, and not later, when the witnesses started to describe what they had seen (people felt immediately that it was one of those happenings that had an element of reality and at the same time an element of mist that separated it from normal life, and therefore that it was a happening that lent itself to the legendary), not at that time nor afterwards, then, could anyone establish precisely how the young woman from the capital had managed to get into the tower, where no stranger had ever set foot. And what was even more unlikely than the fact that she had entered there, was that no one had noticed it, or rather that if someone remembered that she had drawn away from the group, that she had wandered in the neighborhood, no one except for some children had paid enough attention to keep their eyes upon her. And she herself, perhaps, if she were questioned about the way in which she had gone down the road that far and had succeeded at last in entering, might she have been unable to explain anything at all? To judge by the few words that she had left behind her on the High Plateau, she would have felt at that moment something like detachment from everything, a kind of loss of gravity, which had lightened for her not only the idea of entering the tower but her going itself — all the way to the gate. And then, it should not be ignored that that very circumstance might help to turn people’s attention from her, and so allow her to take the fateful step. In fact, as some persons remembered thereafter, she had drawn away from the people in the square and approached the tower as lightly as a moth fluttering towards a lamp. She was flying, as it were, and carried along in that way like a leaf in the wind, she had gone inside — or rather, fallen across the threshold.

Bessian, his face ashen, understood at last what had happened. The first thing he did was to dart out to take his wife from that place, but strong hands seized both his arms.

“Let me go!” he shouted in a hoarse voice.

Their faces were aligned around his, unmoving as the stones of a wall. Among them was the pale face of Ali Binak.

“Let me go!” he said to him, though Ali was not one of those who were restraining him.

“Calm yourself, sir,” said Ali Binak. “You cannot go over there; no one can enter there, except for the priest.”

“But my wife is inside there,” Bessian cried. “Alone among those men.”

“You are quite right. Something must be done, but you may not go there. They could fire at you, you see. They might kill you.”

“Then have someone send for the priest, or for the Devil knows who, just so one can get inside.”

“The priest has been notified,” Ali Binak said.

“He’s coming! Here he is!” several voices said.

A small group had gathered around them. Bessian recognized his coachman, who was looking at him with eyes that seemed to be popping out of their sockets, expecting an order from him. But Bessian looked away.

“Move away!” Ali Binak said in a commanding tone. Some persons took a few steps only, and then stopped.

The priest came up, out of breath. His flabby face, with its heavy pockets beneath his eyes, looked very much alarmed.

“How long has she been inside?” he asked.

Ali Binak looked around questioningly. A number of persons spoke at once. One said half an hour, another an hour, and someone else a quarter of an hour. Most of those around shrugged their shoulders.