Broken April by Ismaíl Kadaré Page B

stirred up the fire as he went by it, and went out again. Gjorg’s eyes followed him.
    â€œAre these people the prince’s servants?” he asked his neighbor in a low voice.
    The other man shrugged his shoulders.
    â€œI can’t rightly say. It seems that they are distant cousins of the family who also work as servants.”
    â€œReally?”
    â€œDid you see those buildings round about? A lot of families live in them who have blood ties with the captain. Those people are both guards and officials. Did you see how they dress? Neither like mountain people nor townsfolk.”
    â€œYes, that’s true,” Gjorg said.
    â€œRoll yourself another smoke,” said the other man, reaching him the tobacco tin.
    â€œNo, thank you,” said Gjorg. “I don’t smoke much.”
    â€œWhen did you kill your man?”
    â€œThe day before yesterday.”
    You could hear the sound of falling rain outside.
    â€œThis winter’s dragging on.”
    â€œYes, that’s true. It’s been a long one.”
    Far off, from deep within the group of buildings, perhaps from the main tower itself, there came the sharp grating of a gate. It was one side of a pair of heavy gates opening, or closing, and the grating noise went on for a time. It was followed at once by a cry that was like the cry of a night bird, and that might just as well have been a sentinel’s cry, or a shout of farewell to a friend. Gjorg huddled deeper into his corner. He could not convince himself that he was at Orosh.
    The creaking of the door cut through his drowsiness. For the third time Gjorg opened his eyes and saw the crippled man enter with an armload of wood in his arms. After throwing the wood on the fire, he turned up the wick of the oil lamp. The logs dripped water, and Gjorg thought that it must still be raining.
    In the lamplight, Gjorg could see that nobody in the room was sleeping. His back was cold, but something kept him from moving nearer the fire. Besides, he had the feeling that it gave no warmth. The wavering light, splashed here and there with black stains, deepened the silence that hung over the waiting men.
    Two or three times it occurred to Gjorg that all these men had killed, and that each had his story. But those stories were locked deep within them. It was not just chance that in the glow of the fire their mouths, and even more their jaws, looked as if they had the shape of certain antique locks. All during his journey to the
Kulla
, Gjorg had been terrified by the thought that somebody might askhim about his own story. And his fear was at its worst when he had entered this long room, though once he was inside something had persuaded him that he was out of danger. Perhaps he found reassurance in the stiff manner of those who were already there, or even from the log, that the newcomer mistook for a man before realizing his mistake, or on the contrary, took it for a log and then, smiling at what he supposed to be an error, greeted it as a man—only to find out the truth later. And at this point, Gjorg was inclined to think that the log had been put there for just that purpose.
    As soon as the wet logs had been thrown upon the fire by the crippled man, they began to crackle. Gjorg took a deep breath. Outside, the night had certainly grown darker. In the distance, the north wind whistled low as it skimmed over the earth. He was surprised to find that he felt the need to say something. But besides that he was surprised by a very strange feeling indeed. It seemed to him that the jaws of the men around him were slowly changing their shape. Their stories were rising in their throats, and they began to chew them the way cattle chew their cud during the cold winter nights. Now their stories began to drip from their mouths. How many days now since the killing? Four. And you?
    Little by little the stories came out from under the coarse cloth of their cloaks, like blackbeetles, wandered out quietly,