Broken April by Ismaíl Kadaré Page A

noticed that the door, though punched and stuck with so many pieces of iron, had no knocker, nor even any trace of a lock. Only then did he see that the door was ajar, and he did something he had never done in his life before: he pushed open a door, without first calling out: “Oh, master of the house!”
    The long room was in semi-darkness. At first he thought it was empty. Then he made out a fire in one corner. Not much of a fire, and fed with damp wood that gave out more smoke than flame. Some men were waiting in that room. He smelled the odor of the heavy woolen cloth of their cloaks before he could see their forms, sitting on wooden stools or squatting in the corners.
    Gjorg too huddled in a corner, putting his rifle between his knees. Little by little his eyes grew accustomed to the dim light. The acrid smoke gave him a bitter taste in his throat. He began to see black ribbons on their sleeves and he understood that, like him, they had come there to pay the death tax. There were four. A little later he thought he saw five. But less than a quarter of an hour later he thought there were four again. What he had taken for the fifth man was only a log stood on end, who could tell why, in the darkest corner.
    â€œWhere are you from?” asked the man nearest him.
    Gjorg told him the name of his village.
    Outside, night had fallen. To Gjorg it seemed to have come down all at once, as soon as he had crossed the threshold of the long room, like the wall of a ruin that collapses as soon as you have left its shadow.
    â€œNot all that far, then,” the man said. “I’ve had to travel two days and a half without stopping.”
    Gjorg did not know what to say.
    Someone came in having pushed open the door, which creaked. He carried an armload of wood that he threw on the fire. The wood was wet and the flickering light went out. But a moment later, the man, who seemed to be crippled, lit an oil lamp and hung it on one of the many nails hammered into the wall. The yellow light, enfeebled by the soot on the lamp-chimney, tried in vain to reach the far corners of the room.
    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.
    â€œYou’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.”
    â€œI brought along a little bread and cheese with me,” said Gjorg.
    â€œWhy? At the castle they serve meals twice a day to those who come to pay the blood tax.”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œHave a smoke,” he said.
    â€œHow long have you been here?”
    â€œSince noon.”
    Although Gjorg said nothing, the other man seemed to have guessed that he was surprised.
    â€œWhy are you surprised? There are people who have been waiting since yesterday.”
    â€œReally?” Gjorg exclaimed. “I thought I could pay the money tonight and set out for my village tomorrow.”
    â€œNo. If you get to pay before tomorrow evening, you’ll be lucky. You might have to wait two days, if not three.”
    â€œThree days? How can that be?”
    â€œThe
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,