Elegy for Kosovo by Ismaíl Kadaré Page A

believe that this calamity could come about, said that if the sultan was moving the capital nearer, it was perhaps so that it would be easier for him to keep an eye on the quarrels of the peninsula’s princes. “To keep an eye on our wrangling?” others objected incredulously. “Our wrangling is so deafening that there is no need to come closer — in fact you can hear it better from afar!”
    The discussion about the quarrels of the native princes turned spontaneously to their secret alliances, particularly their bondage to the Turk. Of all the rumors, these were the most unsubstantiated. No sooner did word go around that King Tvrtko of the Bosnians had bowed down to the sultan, than other news came that it wasn’t King Tvrtko, nor Mirçea of Rumania, but Sisman, czar of the Bulgarians, who had knelt before the sultan. “I am not surprised about the Bulgarian czar,” an unknown man said, “but my soul aches when I call to mind Emperor John V!”
    â€œAh, Byzantium!” others sighed. “Byzantium, my friend! You have sinned and now you must pay the price.”
    The news that people were wrangling not only here in this godforsaken part of the world but everywhere, even among the Turks themselves, was a consolation. Everyone was talking about the affair of the two princes, the Turk Cuntuz, son of Sultan Murad, and Andronicus, the heir of John V. While the fathers had formed an alliance and were busy waging war in Asia, the sons were conspiring to overthrow them. The fathers clapped them in irons, and Sultan Murad, in order to reaffirm his friendship with his Christian ally, had his treacherous son punished with the official Byzantine torture — blinding. And, needless to say, the Christian monarch reciprocated with his son.
    Talking about the savagery of these two fathers reminded people of their evils and caprices. Many of these monarchs’ actions, which seemed to defy reason, were beyond understanding not because they were inscrutable but because of their inherent madness. The idea of moving the capital, for instance, might well have had a sound motive but was more likely the outcome of one of the sultan’s whims. With an empire of such boundless proportions, such whims were to be expected. Too often the great are permitted what lesser men are not. The Montenegrins might have liked to move their capital, Cetinje, but where would they have put it? Two miles over, and the wretched city would have landed in the talons of the Albanian eagle. The same goes for Skopje, and as for Sofia, God knows where it would have ended up! In Russia, probably, or in the Black Sea!
    Twilight fell, and before the taverns closed and everyone wished each other a good night, the conversation turned to the latest piece of news — the Turkish monarch’s change of title. Until recently, he had been called “Emir,” but now he was going to be called “Sultan,” This was definitely a bad sign. The last time there had been a change was on the threshold of a war. Besides which, the title “Emir” sounded tender to all ears — in the languages of the southern Slavs the word mir means peace, while in the language of the Albanians it sounds like i mirë, good man, or e mirë, good woman.
    â€œAnd yet, did he not slash us all to pieces under that title at the battle of Maricë?” someone asked as he put on a skullcap. “Slashed us to pieces, by God!” said another, scratching his head. “And not only the Serbs and the Hungarians, but also we Albanians who had rushed off to help them, and even the French king, Louis d’Anjou. It is where my lord Count Muzaka fell, may he rest in peace!”
    â€œSultan.” The people muttered the new title to themselves as if they were trying to fathom its secret.
    It was clear as the light of day that the Turkish monarch wished to adopt a new title, just as he had invented new weapons in the last