The General of the Dead Army by Ismaíl Kadaré, Derek Coltman Page B

certain regions,” the priest said. “As soon as there are three or four of them together like that they begin singing together. It’s a very old tradition.”
    “Perhaps they’re singing because it’s Saturday evening.”
    “It’s quite possible. They were paid today of course, and they must certainly have brought a bottle of raki from some passing villager.”
    “I’d noticed they like a drink or two now and then,” the general said. “I suppose they find this work depressing too. They’ve been away from their homes a long time!”
    “When they drink they generally start telling one another stories,” the priest said. “The oldest one tells them stories about the war.”
    “Was he a partisan?”
    “I think so, yes.”
    “So this job must bring back a lot of wartime memories for him.”
    “It’s bound to,” the priest said. “And at moments like this singing is a spiritual need for these men. Can you conceive of any greater satisfaction for an old soldier than that of pulling his old enemies back up out of their graves? It’s like a sort of extension of the war.”
    The melody of the song was drawing itself out, languishing, and the accompanying chorus seemed to be winding round and round it, like a soft, warm, outer garment protecting it from the dark and the wet of the night outside. Then the chorus faded, and from its quiet heart a single voice sprang up in isolated song.
    “That’s him,” the general said. “Do you hear him? But what is he singing?”
    “It is an old song of war,” the priest answered.
    “It’s a sad song. Can you make out the words?”
    “Yes, quite clearly. It’s about an Albanian soldier who has been wounded in the Arabian desert. When their country was under Turkish rule, you know, the Albanians had to do military service all over the Ottoman empire.”
    “Ah, yes, I remember your telling me about it.”
    “If you like I could try to translate it for you.”
    “Please do.”
    The priest listened attentively for a while. “It is difficult to render it faithfully, but the meaning is more or less: ‘I have fallen struck to death, my comrades, I have fallen in the depths of Arabia.’”
    “So it is a song that takes place against the desert,” the general said as though in a dream, and in his memory, like a dazzling carpet, the desert unfurled itself to infinity. He tried to walk on that carpet as he had done a quarter of a century before, in his lieutenant’s uniform.
    The priest continued to translate:
    “‘Go and see my mother on my behalf and tell her to sell our bullock with the black coat.’”
    Outside the song was being drawn finer, finer, as though it was about to snap, then suddenly recovered itself, was wrapped once more in the thick texture of the accompanying chorus, and finally flung itself again at the sloping walls of their tent.
    “ ‘If my mother asks you about me…’”
    “Yes, what will they say to that mother?” the general said.
    The priest listened again for a moment.
    “It goes more or less like this,” he continued, “‘If my mother asks for news of me, say that her son took three wives’ and ‘that many guests attended the wedding’; in other words he was struck by three bullets and the crows and rooks came to prey on his corpse.”
    “But it is horrible!” the general said. “Didn’t I warn you?” the priest answered.
    Outside, like a spring being stretched, the song was drawn out finer and finer until it finally snapped.
    “They are sure to begin another in a moment,” the priest said. “Once they begin singing it takes a lot to stop them.”
    And before long, as he had predicted, the chanting did begin again in the other tent. First of all they heard only the high, heart-piercing voice of the old workman, then another joined in to repeat a phrase, and finally the chorus enveloped the song in its folds and sent it soaring up, proud and harmonious, into the night.
    They listened for a long while without