Broken April (6 page)

In the days that followed the failure of the attempted settlement, when in the sky that had been empty for a little while the clouds of danger massed again, Gjorg asked himself often whether that attempt at reconciliation had been for the best or not, and he had no answer. The advantage had been that it had given him another year of free life, but in other respects it had been disastrous in that now he had to reaccustom himself to the life from which he had broken away, to the idea of killing someone. Soon he would have to become a justicer, as the Code called those who killed to avenge the dead. The justicers were a kind of vanguard of the clan, the ones who carried out the killings, but also the first to be killed in the blood feud. When it was the turn of the opposing clan to wreak vengeance, they tried to do so by killing the other clan's justicer. Only if that were not possible would they mark down another man in place of him. During seventy years of enmity for the Kryeqyqe family, the Berishas had produced twenty-two justicers, most of whom had been killed by a bullet later. The justicers were the flower of a
clan, its marrow, and its chief memorial. Many things were forgotten in the life of the clan, men and events alike covered with dust; only the justicers, tiny, inextinguishable flames on the graves of the clan, were never effaced from its memory.

Summer came and went, more swiftly than in any other year. The Berishas hurried to finish the work in the fields, so that after the killing they could shut themselves up in their
kulla
. Gjorg experienced a kind of quiet bitterness, something like what a young man might feel on the eve of his wedding day.

At last, at the end of October, he fired at Zef Kryeqyqe, without managing to kill him. He only wounded him in the jawbone. Then came the doctors of the Code, whose business it was to assess the fine to be paid by the man who inflicted a wound, and since this was a head wound, they valued it at three purses of
groschen
, which amounted to half the price of a killing. This meant that the Berishas could choose either to pay the fine or to regard the wound as representing one-half of their vengeance. In the latter case, if they did not pay the fine but treated the wound as a part settlement of the blood that was owed, then they had no right to kill a Kryeqyqe, because half the blood had already been taken. They had the right to inflict a wound only.

Naturally, the Berishas did not agree to reckon the wound as a part payment. Though the fine was heavy, they dug down into their savings and paid it so that the blood account remained intact.

As long as the matter of the fine to be paid for the wound was still going on, Gjorg saw that his father's eyes were darkened by a veil of scorn and bitterness. They seemed to say, not only did you draw out the business of
taking revenge for so long, but now you're driving us to rack and ruin.

Gjorg himself felt that all this had been brought about by his hesitation, which had made his hand tremble at the last moment. To tell the truth, he could not tell if his hand had really trembled when he took aim, or if he had purposely dropped the front sight of his weapon from the man's forehead to the lower portion of his face.

All this was followed by apathy. Life seemed to mark time. The wounded man suffered at home for a long while. The bullet had broken his jawbone, they said, and infection had set in. The winter was long and more dismal than ever before. Over the placid snow (the old men said that no one could remember the snow being so quiet—not one avalanche), the wind made a slight whistling sound as unchanging as the snow. Zef of the Kryeqyqe, the sole object of Gjorg's life, went on languishing in bed, and Gjorg felt like a man out of work, wandering about uselessly.

It really felt as if that winter would never end. And the very moment when they learned that the wounded man was getting better, Gjorg fell ill. Sick at heart, he would have borne martyrdom so as not to have to take to his bed before he had carried out his mission, but it was quite impossible. He turned pale as wax, kept on his feet as long as he could, then collapsed. He was bedridden for two months while Zef Kryeqyqe, taking advantage of Gjorg's illness, began to walk about the village free as air. From the corner of the second storey of the
kulla
where he lay, Gjorg looked out, scarcely thinking at all, at the patch of landscape framed by the window. Beyond that stretched the world whitened by the snow, a world to which nothing bound him anymore. For a long time he had felt
himself a stranger in that world, absolutely superfluous, and if outside his window people sill expected anything of him, it was only in terms of the murder he was to do.

For hours on end he looked scornfully at the snow-covered ground, as if to say, yes, I'll go out there, I'll go out quickly to spill that bit of blood. The thought haunted him so much that sometimes he thought he really saw a small red stain take shape in the heart of that endless white.

In the first days of March he felt a little better, and in the second week of the month he left his bed. When he stepped outside his legs were shaky. Nobody imagined that in his condition, still dizzy from his illness, his face white as a sheet, he would go out to lie in ambush for his man. Perhaps that was why Zef of the Kryeqyqe, knowing that his enemy was still ill, had been taken unawares.

At moments the rain fell so sparsely that one would imagine it must stop, but suddenly it started up again better than ever. By that time it was afternoon and Gjorg felt his legs getting numb. The gray day was the same; only the district was different. Gjorg could tell because the mountaineers he met wore different clothing. The small villages were farther and farther from the highroad. In places the bronze of a church bell glinted weakly in the distance. Then for miles the landscape was empty.

He met fewer and fewer travelers. Gjorg asked again about the
Kulla
of Orosh. First, people told him it was quite close by, then, further on, when he thought he must really be drawing near, they told him it was still a long way. And each time the passers-by pointed in the same direction, in the distance where sight was lost in the mist.

Two or three times Gjorg imagined that night was falling, but it turned out that he was mistaken. It was still
that endless afternoon in which the villages drew further away from the highway as if they meant to hide from the road and from the world. Once more he asked if the castle was still far off, and he was told that it was very near now. The last traveler even stretched his hand in the direction where it was supposed to be.

“Will I get there before nightfall?” Gjorg asked him.

“I think so,” he said. “Just around nightfall.”

Gjorg set off again. He was sinking with fatigue. Sometimes he was ready to believe that the evening, in delaying, was keeping the
Kulla
far off, and sometimes on the contrary, it was the remoteness of the
Kulla
that kept the evening suspended, without letting it settle on the earth.

Once he thought he could make out the silhouette of the
Kulla
through the fog, but the dark mass proved to be a convent, like the one he had seen in the morning of that long day. Farther along, he felt once again that he was close to the
Kulla
, and even thought that at last he could see it clearly on the top of a steep hill, but going on he saw that it was not the
Kulla
of Orosh, it was not a building at all, but a mere rag of fog darker than the others.

When he found himself alone again on the highroad, he felt all hope of ever reaching the castle fail within him. The emptiness of the road on either side seemed emptier still because of the shrubby growth that had sprung up there as if with an evil intention. What is the matter, Gjorg thought. Now, he could see no villages at all, no matter how far back from the road, and the worst of it was his conviction that they would never appear again.

Walking along, he raised his head from time to time, looking for the
Kulla
on the horizon, and again he thought he saw it, but scarcely believing that he did. From the time of his childhood, he had heard about the princely castle
that had guarded for centuries men's adherence to the Code, but for all that he did not know what it looked like, nor anything more about it. The people of the Plateau simply called it Orok, and it was impossible to imagine the appearance of the place from their stories. And now that Gjorg caught sight of it in the distance, not believing that it was really the castle, he could not make out its shape. In the fog its silhouette seemed neither high nor low, and sometimes he thought it must be quite spread out and sometimes he thought it a compact mass. Gjorg found that it gave the impression that the road climbed up in switchbacks, and that his changing point of view made the building change continually. But even when he was quite close, he could make out nothing distinctly. He was sure that it must be the castle and he was certain that it was not. At one moment he thought he saw a single roof covering various buildings, and at another, several roofs covering a single building. Its appearance changed as he approached. Now he thought he saw a castle-keep rising amidst a number of structures that seemed to be outbuildings. But when he had walked on a bit farther, the main tower disappeared and he saw only those outbuildings. Then these too began in turn to break up, and when he came closer still, he saw that they were not fortified towers, but dwellings of some kind, and in part not even that but perhaps galleries, more or less abandoned. There was no one about. Did I take the wrong road, he wondered. But just then a man appeared before him.

“The death tax?” the man asked, glancing surreptitiously at Gjorg's right sleeve, and without waiting for an answer, he extended his arm towards one of the galleries.

Gjorg turned in that direction. He felt that his legs would not hold him up. Before him was a wooden door, a
very old one. He turned round, as if to ask the man who had spoken to him if he should go in there, but the man was gone. He looked at the door for a moment before making up his mind to knock. The wood was all rotten, bristling with all sorts of nail-heads and bits of iron carelessly hammered in, mostly askew and serving no purpose. All that metal had become one with the ancient wood, like the fingernails of an old man's hand.

He started to knock, but he 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.

“Where 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.

“Not 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.

“You'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.”

“I brought along a little bread and cheese with me,” said Gjorg.

“Why? At the castle they serve meals twice a day to those who come to pay the blood tax.”

“I 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.

“Have a smoke,” he said.

“How long have you been here?”

“Since noon.”

Although Gjorg said nothing, the other man seemed to have guessed that he was surprised.

“Why are you surprised? There are people who have been waiting since yesterday.”

“Really?” Gjorg exclaimed. “I thought I could pay the money tonight and set out for my village tomorrow.”

“No. If you get to pay before tomorrow evening, you'll be lucky. You might have to wait two days, if not three.”

“Three days? How can that be?”

“The
Kulla
is in no hurry to collect the blood tax.”