The File on H. by Ismaíl Kadaré

bad as people say?”
    â€œThey are probably even worse than you think,” Shtjefen said as he laid the logs on the hearth. “Do you know what an Albanian poet wrote? 'We were born to mutual anger...'”
    â€œA poet wrote that?”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œâ€˜We were born to mutual anger,'“ Bill repeated. “There’s that word
anger
, or
resentment
, again, just like at the beginning of the
Iliad
. …
    The memory of the Albanian diplomat in Washington flashed across their minds.
    â€œAre there any mice here?” Max asked distractedly. “That’s not the first time it seemed to me that.
    â€œWe disinfested the inn especially for you, sir.”
    The fire blazed up quickly. Shtjefen left and the two scholars continued talking, pacing up and down the room or standing with their backs to the fireplace, their hands spread out to catch the warmth.
    They spent the whole afternoon sorting out their notes and file cards. Outside,, the light was failing by the minute, and there came a time when their conversation flagged. On this late winter’s afternoon, they felt completely cut off, swaddled in silence, in a faraway inn. Would every day be the same?
    Max was the first to think how to shake off the encroaching glooms he lit the oil lamp, whose beam kept at bay the somber dusk that had now covered the face of the world outside like a death mask.

6
    T HE FIRST RHAPSODE put in at the Buffalo Inn four days laten Windswept rain rattling the shutters had been getting on the Irishmen’s nerves.,When Shtjefen appeared in the doorway, they realized from the expression on his face that their keenest wish had been granted.
    "He’s downstairs,” the innkeeper whispered, as if imparting a secret.
    The rhapsode was on his way to a different part of the country on personal business; he would come back by the same route in a fortnight; if Shtjefen had understood the scholars correctly, this was exactly the kind of circumstance they were seeking in order to record twice over the singing of the same bard.
    â€œLahuta players are not easygoing people,” Shtjefen continued," and it wasn’t simple to persuade this one to stay. ‘It’s dreadful weather,' I told him, 'and it’s getting late. Believe me, I have no stake in this, and of course you’ll get free lodging. five got only one request to make …,’ and that’s when I told him about you two.“
    In the common quarters on the ground floor, there sat a handful of highlanders, all soaked to the skin. Before making out which of them was the rhapsode, the scholars noticed the
labuta
propped against the wall Then Shtjefen put his hand on the shoulder of one of the men (just at the spot where the cut-off ribbons were sewn to his cloak), and the man turned around. They reached agreement on the spot. The rhapsode looked hard at one of the foreigners for a long moment, seemingly to remove a doubt from his mind. The Irishmen had rarely seen eyes so fair or so piercing, with what seemed like a crack running through them, as if they were staring through a broken mirror. The innkeeper kept talking to the rhapsode, who did not appear to be listening, but then he lowered his head sharply, a gesture signifying yes. In accordance with ancient custom, he would not accept any reward. It was understood only that he would not pay for his night at the inn.
    Getting the tape recorder downstairs was a troublesome business, just as getting it up to the room in the first place had been. The highlanders watching from the ground floor were intrigued.
    Night had fallen, and Shtjefen lit the tall oil lamp, the one used for important occasions. There was a special, party atmosphere at the inn this evening. Only the rhapsode, who was aware of being the hero of the night, stood aside, looking calmly at the tape recorder. Bill kept glancing at him, trying to imagine what feelings this ultramodern device aroused in the