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  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.”

  The door creaked and the man who had brought the pot of bean soup came in again. He picked up the empty bowls, stirred up the fire as he went by it, and went out again. Gjorg’s eyes followed him.

  “Are these people the prince’s servants?” he asked his neighbor in a low voice.

  The other man shrugged his
shoulders.

  “I can’t rightly say. It seems that they are distant cousins of the family who also work as servants.”

  “Really?”

  “Did 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.”

  “Yes, that’s true,” Gjorg said.

  “Roll yourself another smoke,” said the other man, reaching him the tobacco tin.

  “No, thank you,” said Gjorg. “I don’t smoke much.”

  “When did you kill your man?”

  “The day before yesterday.”

  You could hear the sound of falling rain outside.

  “This winter’s dragging on.”

  “Yes, 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 ask him 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, passed one another. What will you do with your thirty-day truce?

  What will I do? Gjorg wondered. Nothing.

  Sometimes he thought he would be stuck forever in that damp room, by that fire that never really burst into flame, that made you shiver rather than warmed you, and with those black bugs shining on the floor.

  When would they call him to pay his tax? Since the time he had come there, only one man had been called out. Would he have to wait for days and days? And what if a week passed and nobody called him out? What if they did not take him in at all?

  The door opened and a stranger came in. One could see that he had come from far away. The fire gave a couple of contemptuous flickers, just enough light to show that he was all muddy and drenched to the skin, and left him in the semi-darkness, like all the others.

  The man, looking confused and bewildered, found a seat right by the log of wood. Gjorg watched him out of the corner of his eye, to see how he himself had looked when he had come in a few hours ago. The man threw back his hood and let his chin sink to his raised knees. His story, obviously, buried deep inside him, was still far from his throat. Or perhaps it had not entered his body but was still outside, on his icy hands with which he had done murder, and that now stirred nervously about his knees.

  * A tower without windows where a man who has killed may seek permanent refuge, and be maintained indefinitely with food and drink set just inside the door.

  * Plateau, in Albanian.

  CHAPTER III

  The carriage went on climbing the mountain road at a lively pace. It was a rubber-tired vehicle of the kind used in the capital for excursions, or as a hackney coach. Its seats were upholstered in black velvet, but there was also something velvety about its very aspect. Perhaps that was why it rolled along on that rather poor mountain road much more easily than one would have expected, and perhaps it would have done so more quietly still but for the panting of the horses and the clopping of their hooves, which the upholstery could do nothing to muffle.

  Holding his wife’s hand, Bessian Vorpsi moved his head close to the window to make sure that the small town they had left half an hour before, the last one at the foot of the Rrafsh, the high plateau of the north, had disappeared from view. Now, before them and on either side there stretched away heathland on a slight slope, a rather strange piece of country, neither plain, nor mountain nor plateau. The mountains, properly speaking, had not yet begun, but one felt their looming shadow, and it seemed that it was that very shadow which while rejecting any connection between the plateau and the mountain world, kept it from being classed as a plain. So it was a border region, barren and almost uninhabited.

  Now and then droplets of rain pearled the glass of the carriage window.

  “The Accursed Mountains,” he said softly, with a slight tremor in his voice, as if he were greeting a vision that he had been expecting for a very long time. He felt that the name, with its solemnity, had made an impression on his wife, and he took a certain satisfaction in it.

  Her face came closer, and he breathed in the perfume of her neck.

  “Where are they?”

  He nodded ahead, and then he pointed, but in that direction she saw nothing but a heavy layer of mist.

  “You can’t see anything yet,” he explained. “We’re far away from them.”

  She left her hand in her husband’s and leaned back into the velvet cloth of her seat. The jostling of the carriage sent the newspaper in which they were mentioned, and which they had bought in the small town a little before their departure, sliding to the floor, but neither of them moved to pick it up. She smiled vaguely, recalling the title of the short piece announcing their trip: “Sensation: The writer, Bessian Vorpsi, and his young bride are spending their honeymoon on the Northern Plateau!”

  The article was rather vague. You could not tell whether the author, a certain A.G. (could that be their acquaintance, Adrian Guma?) was in favor of the trip or was being slightly ironic about it.

  She herself, when her fiance had announced it to her two weeks before the wedding, had thought the idea pretty bizarre. Don’t be surprised at anything, her friends had told her. If you marry a man who’s a bit odd, you have to expect surprises. But at bottom we have to say you’re very lucky.

  And in fact she was happy. During the last days before the wedding, in the half-fashionable, half-artistic circles of Tirana, people talked about nothing but their honeymoon trip. Her friends en
vied her and told her: You’ll be escaping the world of reality for the world of legend, literally the world of epic that scarcely exists anymore. And they would go on talking about fairies, mountain nymphs, bards, the last Homeric hymns in the world, and the Kanun, terrifying but so majestic. Others shrugged their shoulders at all this enthusiasm, hinting discreetly at their astonishment, which was aroused particularly by the question of comfort, the more so since this was a honeymoon trip, something that called for certain conveniences, whereas, in the mountains the weather was still quite cold, and those epic kullas were of stone. On the other hand, there were others—few in number—who listened to all those opinions with a rather amused air, as if to say, “Right, go on up north among the mountain nymphs. It will do both of you good, and especially Bessian.”

  And now they were heading towards the grim Northern Plateau. This Rrafsh, about which she had read and heard so much during her studies at the institute for young ladies named “The Queen Mother,” and especially later during her engagement to Bessian, attracted her and alarmed her at the same time. In fact, what she had read and heard on the subject, and even Bessian’s own writings had not given her any idea of what life was really like up there in the highlands amidst the never-ending mists. It seemed to her that everything people said about the High Plateau took on at once an ambiguous, nebulous character. Bessian Vorpsi had written half-tragic, half-philosophical sketches about the North, to which the press had responded in a rather halfway fashion too: some reviewers had hailed the pieces as jewels of the first water, and others had criticized them as lacking in realism. On a number of occasions it had occurred to Diana that if her husband had decided to undertake this rather strange tour, it was not so much to show her what was so remarkable about the North as to settle something that he felt within him. But each time she had given up the idea, thinking that if that was his object he could have taken that trip long ago, and alone at that.

  She was watching him now, and from the way his set jaw made his cheekbones more prominent, and the way he stared through the carriage windows, she felt that he was holding back his impatience—which she found quite understandable. He was certainly telling himself that this part-imaginary, part-epic world that he talked about for days on end was taking its time about showing itself. Outside, on either side of the carriage, the endless wasteland unfolded, without a sign of human presence, its countless grey rocks watered by the dullest downpour in the world. He’s afraid that I’ll be disappointed, she thought, and several times she was on the point of saying, “Don’t worry, Bessian, we’ve only been travelling an hour, and I’m not so impatient or so naive as to think that all the wonders of the North are going to appear before our eyes at once.” But she did not say those words; unselfconsciously, she rested her head on his shoulder. She knew that the gesture was more reassuring than any words, and she stayed a long time like that, looking out of the corner of her eye at her light chestnut hair moving upon his shoulder with the motion of the carriage.