The General of the Dead Army by Ismaíl Kadaré, Derek Coltman Page A
Authors: Ismaíl Kadaré, Derek Coltman
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went on unperturbed. “And that you’re going to dig up all the
ballistes
1 along with them, and take them away too, into a foreign country beyond the sunset. Is that true?” The expert began to laugh.
“That’s the story they’re telling,” the peasant persisted. “So that even now they’re dead they’ll still be with the enemy, just the same as when they were alive. Collaborators yesterday, collaborators today. That’s what they’re saying in the village.” The expert laughed again.
“Well, it’s not true,” he told the man. “No one is going to bother with the dead
ballistes
.”
“Hey, push, will you, I say!” the other peasant shouted again.
The wheel wouldn’t stay on. There were dogs barking in the distance. Someone was approaching from the fields carrying a lantern. The light from it quivered, as though it was afraid.
“One of your wheels playing up then?” the new arrival asked, then lifted his lantern to gaze with astonishment at the strangers and their car.
After standing there for a further moment observing them, the man in the cowsheds wished them a good night and moved on. The light from his lantern threw pale patches onto the haystacks standing in a silent row along the edge of the road. The dogs were still barking.
“Do you always do this kind of work?” the peasant asked the expert.
The expert nodded.
“Yes, I’ve been doing it for quite a while now,” he said a moment later.
The peasant gave a deep sigh.
“Not a very happy job to be doing.”
The driver began whistling a recent popular song. “Come on! One and two and push!” The wheel was back on at last.
“Good night!” The cry had come from a group of villagers returning across the darkening plain, hoes over their shoulders.
“Goodnight!”
At last the cart was pulled clear of the road and the car continued on its way towards the main road ahead.
The October night had now descended over the plain. The moon, having given up its vain attempts to break through, was pouring its brightness down into the spongy layers of cloud and mist, which now seemed to have become saturated with its pale light and were slowly, gently, evenly letting it drift down onto the horizon and the vast open plain. The sky above them had acquired a fecund glow, and the horizon, the plain, the road, all seemed to be covered with pools of milky light.
There were those autumn nights when the sky was possessed by an aspect of strange brightness, wholly steeped in the indifferent, haunting light of the moon. And lying on the ground, on our backs, every one of us must surely have said to himself: “My God! What a skyl”
1 Albanian nationalists, sometimes accused of collaborating with the occupying Italian and German forces.
6
T HE CAR DREW UP OUTSIDE the Albtourist Hotel. In the rain-soaked streets, in front of the neon-lit shop windows, the occasional passer-by was still to be seen. But the cold night wind was sharp as a knife flaying your face, and the travellers hurried into the shelter of the hotel lobby. There were plenty of rooms available because the tourist season was over.
The general went over to the window and pulled back the curtains. Across the plain the same troubling brightness was seeping down from the moon. He closed the curtains again and lit a cigarette.
The priest knocked at the door.
“The lieutenant-general we met two weeks ago up in the mountains is downstairs, in the restaurant,” he said.
The expert, who was waiting for them in the bar, had the same news: “I can only assume that they have some exhumations to do in the town.”
Two weeks before, they had been driving along a road running beneath the flank of a vast plateau when the general, sitting silent in his corner and fitfully dozing, suddenly noticed something very odd.
Up on the mountainside a group of what looked, from their blue overalls, like municipal roadworkers were busy digging holes in four or five separate spots. Further on, in the road
ballistes
1 along with them, and take them away too, into a foreign country beyond the sunset. Is that true?” The expert began to laugh.
“That’s the story they’re telling,” the peasant persisted. “So that even now they’re dead they’ll still be with the enemy, just the same as when they were alive. Collaborators yesterday, collaborators today. That’s what they’re saying in the village.” The expert laughed again.
“Well, it’s not true,” he told the man. “No one is going to bother with the dead
ballistes
.”
“Hey, push, will you, I say!” the other peasant shouted again.
The wheel wouldn’t stay on. There were dogs barking in the distance. Someone was approaching from the fields carrying a lantern. The light from it quivered, as though it was afraid.
“One of your wheels playing up then?” the new arrival asked, then lifted his lantern to gaze with astonishment at the strangers and their car.
After standing there for a further moment observing them, the man in the cowsheds wished them a good night and moved on. The light from his lantern threw pale patches onto the haystacks standing in a silent row along the edge of the road. The dogs were still barking.
“Do you always do this kind of work?” the peasant asked the expert.
The expert nodded.
“Yes, I’ve been doing it for quite a while now,” he said a moment later.
The peasant gave a deep sigh.
“Not a very happy job to be doing.”
The driver began whistling a recent popular song. “Come on! One and two and push!” The wheel was back on at last.
“Good night!” The cry had come from a group of villagers returning across the darkening plain, hoes over their shoulders.
“Goodnight!”
At last the cart was pulled clear of the road and the car continued on its way towards the main road ahead.
The October night had now descended over the plain. The moon, having given up its vain attempts to break through, was pouring its brightness down into the spongy layers of cloud and mist, which now seemed to have become saturated with its pale light and were slowly, gently, evenly letting it drift down onto the horizon and the vast open plain. The sky above them had acquired a fecund glow, and the horizon, the plain, the road, all seemed to be covered with pools of milky light.
There were those autumn nights when the sky was possessed by an aspect of strange brightness, wholly steeped in the indifferent, haunting light of the moon. And lying on the ground, on our backs, every one of us must surely have said to himself: “My God! What a skyl”
1 Albanian nationalists, sometimes accused of collaborating with the occupying Italian and German forces.
6
T HE CAR DREW UP OUTSIDE the Albtourist Hotel. In the rain-soaked streets, in front of the neon-lit shop windows, the occasional passer-by was still to be seen. But the cold night wind was sharp as a knife flaying your face, and the travellers hurried into the shelter of the hotel lobby. There were plenty of rooms available because the tourist season was over.
The general went over to the window and pulled back the curtains. Across the plain the same troubling brightness was seeping down from the moon. He closed the curtains again and lit a cigarette.
The priest knocked at the door.
“The lieutenant-general we met two weeks ago up in the mountains is downstairs, in the restaurant,” he said.
The expert, who was waiting for them in the bar, had the same news: “I can only assume that they have some exhumations to do in the town.”
Two weeks before, they had been driving along a road running beneath the flank of a vast plateau when the general, sitting silent in his corner and fitfully dozing, suddenly noticed something very odd.
Up on the mountainside a group of what looked, from their blue overalls, like municipal roadworkers were busy digging holes in four or five separate spots. Further on, in the road
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