Translated from the Albanian by Peter Constantine
Ismail Kadaré (1936–) is an Albanian novelist, poet, essayist and playwright. He has been a leading literary figure in Albania since the 1960s. He focused on poetry until the publication of his first novel, The General of the Dead Army, which made him famous inside and outside of Albania. His works have been published in about forty-five languages. In 2005 he became the first winner of the Man Booker International Prize. After offending the authorities with a politically satirical poem in 1975, he was forbidden to publish for three years. During the 1990s and 2000s he was offered multiple times to become President of Albania, but declined.
He approached the tub of hot water, his eyes clouding with pleasure (how many times had he dreamt of this tub in his cold tent on the plains!), and just as he dipped one foot in the water he turned and looked at his wife, who was walking a few steps behind him. Her face still wore the flickering smile, but, even more than by the smile, his attention was caught by the metallic sheen of the object twinkling beneath the fabric his wife was carrying in her hands. Although his whole body was moving towards the bath, climbing into the tub, his curiosity still made him turn his head to see what the metallic object might be. (Perhaps during his long absence new utensils had been invented — even for bathing.) At that very moment he saw his wife almost above him, ready to cast the unfurled fabric over him (“What is this crazed woman doing?” he thought. “Who has ever heard of a man drying himself before a bath instead of after?”), and an instant later, before he was even seized by the terror of the thought that the fabric looked more like a net, he felt his arms entangled, and in the same instant saw the short axe in his wife’s hands. The pain on the right side of his neck and the first spray of blood seemed to coincide with the shout of “Murder!” which he heard as if from the mouth of another.
He found himself outside the tub again, as if to amend an error, and, as before, he dipped one foot in the water, then saw his wife who was walking a few steps behind him, saw the flash of the axe beneath the fabric and, unable to make out what was happening, before he was even seized by the terror of the fabric turning into a net that bound his arms, he heard the first slash, and the blood reddened the water.
He found himself outside the tub again, as if to amend something, but this time slowly, as if he were coolly trying to resolve a misunderstanding. He approached the tub—the hot steam made everything seem more distant—his eyes clouding with pleasure (how many times had he dreamt of this tub in his cold army tent, when frantically, covered in grime, he had made love to a captive!), and just as he dipped one foot in the water he turned and looked at his wife, as if to assure himself that happiness was very near. Her face still wore that flickering smile, like a flickering, shifting mask, but, even more than by the smile, his attention was caught by the metallic sheen of the object twinkling coldly beneath the fabric his wife was carrying in her hands. And yet he thought as intensely of the love he would be making to her very soon as he thought that this metal—or rather hoped that this metal—had something to do with one of her surprises, those sudden and pleasurable surprises when he returned after long separations … At that very moment he saw his wife above him and the fabric turning into a net, his arms caught, the axe, the slash, the spray of blood, the cry of “Murder!” all happening in such quick succession that they intermingled and became one, until he found himself again outside the tub, moving towards her, found his wife walking a few steps behind him with the fabric in her hands, and this time the memory of the tent on the plains, his wife’s mask-like smile, the flashing of the axe as it hit the water, all intermingled with lightning speed, making way for the slowness that was to follow. Before he saw his wife, he saw her shadow on the water, and then, when he saw her holding the unfurled fabric, he wanted to say to her “Darling, what is this new little trick of yours?” But it was just at this moment when the fabric took on a new guise, with nodes and nerves like those on the wings of bats, and the fabric slowly flew over his head, and the closer it came, the more clearly he saw that it was a net, and before he even felt his arms grow numb as it touched them, before the axe hit him in the neck, he said to himself “This is the end,” and from the moment of this thought to the moment the blood reddened the water it seemed as if an interminable time had passed.
He found himself outside the tub again, moving towards her, as he had a million times before, experiencing with different rhythms this final fragment, these last twenty-two seconds of his life. This was the hell of Agamemnon of the House of Atreus, murdered by his wife on the first day of his return from the Plains of Troy, at thirteen hundred hours and twenty minutes, March 31, in the year eleven hundred and ninety-nine before our era.