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Song – By Ismail Kadare

2022-07-03 14:40:05Pikëpamje SHKRUAR NGA ISMAIL KADARE
Song – By Ismail Kadare
ismail Kadare

More and more often he dreamed of only one thing: to be sung a song. A song that he could listen to when evening fell on the mountain and there were clouds in the sky.

But so many years had passed and no one was singing to him. Will no one ever sing a song for me? he thought, even though he was still young and had a part of his life ahead of him.

The dream for a song was born to him a few years ago, while he was traveling one autumn night, alone, between the mountains, to his bajrak. On all four horizons, the night added to the terrifying height of the mountains, and as he walked alone, with his rifle at his side, he began to feel small under the dark weight of the great mountains. Just then, as he felt his soul crushed by his smallness, he heard a song somewhere in the distance. A slow, shrill voice sang a song of bravery, somewhere in a hut that had been covered by darkness. The wind changed the direction of the voice, and he could not understand in which direction this song was sung, until it slowly died away and remained somewhere, behind the mountains, more elusive and eternal than the mountains themselves. And, suddenly, he had his big dream: to have his name sung in a song, in a lullaby,

Years had passed since then and his life had remained songless. It is true that new songs in the Highlands were very rare, but, nevertheless, there were such, just as there were songs about the living. Won't anyone sing a song for me? he thought and grew sadder every day.

One day, in the market of a distant city, he killed a man right in the middle of the cafe. This man was from a family, with which his tribe had been in blood for years. It was not up to him to take the blood, because his tribe was large and he was the most distant of the man who was killed last between the two families. However, he risked his head and killed the bloodsucker right in the middle of the cafe of the distant city. But even after that, no one sang to him. In the dark evenings, he waited in vain to hear his song. The evenings came and went, cold, dull and dull.

Never, anyone? he thought faintly, looking at the tired fellow villagers, who returned in the evenings with a sack of corn on their backs from distant places. I mean, never, nobody.

- The song costs a lot, - an old man from his bajrak had told him one day. - Don't crave for a song, boy, the song begs for a head.

I can't believe it, he said to himself, so expensive to pay for a song? But even if it is so…

One night he kidnapped a girl from another bajrak and married her. He didn't love that girl, but he kidnapped her so that his name would be heard everywhere. But the weeks and months of winter passed, with snow and wind, and he spent his days with his new wife, who had realized that he did not love her, and still there was no song for her.

Maybe, when spring comes, he thought, and there was a deep sadness in his eyes. In the spring it is easier to raise songs.

But spring came and went, and nowhere was a song heard about it. Maybe, in the summer, he thought later. Then the nights will be warm and people will be less hungry.

But the summer went on and his eyes grew deeper and darker. The birds, trumpet-trumpa, abandoned the mountains and rain-laden clouds came continuously from the northeast. The wind howled over that great void.

One autumn evening, the wedding party, which had taken a bride to a distant village, was caught by the rain near a large village. While the horses were speeding, they saw a man lying on the side of the road. The rifle was still by his neck and the rain had soaked his hair and washed away the frozen blood. One of the wedding guests brought back the murdered man, but no one recognized him. The wedding party left the murdered man in the middle of the road and led the horses to the village, where they had to spend the night. At the inn, while they were drinking brandy, one of them, a dry old man, started a song on the lute about an unknown man, killed in the middle of the road, pouring in the rain, upside down.

Early in the morning, the wedding party set out again for the gorges of the high, cloud-covered mountains, taking the song with them.

ismail Kadare

1967.


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