THE PRIEST LIT THE PARAFFIN LAMP AND PLACED IT ON THE
small table. His shadow and that of his companion wavered, bent in the middle, against the sloping sides of the tent.
'Brrr ! How cold it is!' the general said. 'With this damned humidity it soaks right into your bones.'
The priest began opening a tin.
'We shall last out till tomorrow, I expect.'
'Well, I wish I was already in tomorrow, that's all I can say. So that we could get the hell out of here. I've had enough of living like a·savage. And I need a bath.'
'It might be bearable without the cold.'
'It's a job that should have been done in summer,' the general said. Though in fact, he thought to himself, there was no possibility of that: we began our preparations the moment the contract was signed, and by the time we'd finished them the rainy season had already begun.
'It's true it's hardly the best of weather for such an under taking,' the priest said philosophically, 'but we must just accept that an earlier start_ was not possible. The government always has its reasons .. .'
'Needs must when the devil drives would be nearer the mark, I'd say!'
The general had unfolded their large-scale map of the cemetery and was pencilling in marks of some sort onto it.
'And those other two, where are they, I wonder?' 'What two?'
'The other general and the mayor.' 'Who knows?' the priest said.
'Perhaps they're still back there digging up that football field where we last saw them.'
'Well, their task is no easier than ours. And they do seem to be very badly organized.'
'Whereas with us everything goes like clockwork. We are the most up-to-date grave-diggers in the world.'
The priest didn't reply.
'Though admittedly we are also very dirty ones,' the general added.
Outside there came the sound of a song through the dark ness. Beginning quietly, supported by deep, dark-toned voices, it rose steadily in pitch, increased in volume, and finally hurled itself against their tent in a fierce onslaught, just as the rain and the wind were perpetually doing all through those autumn nights. And it was almost as though the canvas, physically affected by the weight of sound, had quivered as the song struck.
'The workmen are singing,' the general said, raising his eyes from the map.
They both listened for a moment.
'It is a very common custom among the Albanians of cer tain 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 pull ing 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?'
'Yes.'
'He has a beautiful voice. But what is he singing?' 'It is an old song of war,' the priest answered.
'It's a sad song.' 'Yes, yes indeed.'
'Can you make out the words?'
'Yes, quite clearly. It's about an Albanian soldier who has been wounded in Africa. 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 beyond the bridge of Mecca.'' '
'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 accompany ing 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 took part in the feasting"; 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 comment.
'And this one,' the general asked at last, 'what is this about?'
'The last war,' the priest said. 'The war generally?'
'As far as I can make out it's about a communist soldier who was finally killed after being surrounded by our troops. And the song is dedicated to him.'
'It wouldn't by any chance be that boy who hurled him self onto a tank, the one whose bust we've seen in various places?'
'I don't think so. The song would mention it.'
'Do you remember him? The one who apparently leaped onto this tank like a tiger and tried to force a way into the tower?'
'No,' the priest said, 'we've seen so many busts of that kind.' 'I remember him well,' the general said. 'According to the story I was told, it was just as he was trying to open the tower of the first tank that he was shot dead by someone in
the tank behind.'
93
'Ah yes, I do vaguely remember something of the kind.' In the other tent the singing had begun again.
'There is something heartrending in the way they draw those phrases out and out till you think they'll never end,'
the general said.
'Yes, really heartrending. It is the primitive voice of their
ancestors still.'
'I feel shudders up my spine listening to them. They
frighten me.'
'All their epic folk traditions are the same,' the priest said. 'The devil alone could tell us what these people are expressing in their songs,' the general said. 'It's easy enough to dig holes in their land, but as for getting into their hearts, no, never.'
The priest did not reply and a long silence filled the tent. Outside, the song continued to unfurl slowly like the previous ones and the general had the feeling that the sounds were surrounding him, creeping up on him.
'Will they go on much longer?' he asked. 'How can I say? Till the morning perhaps.'
'Listen carefully,' the general told him, 'and if they ever allude to us in their songs, make a note of it.'
'Of course,' the priest said. Then he glanced down at his watch. 'It's late,' he added.
'I don't feel like sleep. Let's have a drink. Then perhaps we'll feel like singing too.'
'I can't drink,' the priest said.
The general shook his head sorrowfully.
'You'll never get a better opportunity to learn. Winter, a tent on a mountain, alone in the wilds .. .'
Outside the song rose and fell, rose and fell. The general produced a flask from his grip. 'Well, I'm sorry,' he said, 'I shall have to drink alone,' and as he filled his glass his giant's shadow moved across the inside of the tent.
The priest had got into bed.
The general drank two glasses of brandy one after the other, then lit the paraffin burner and put a coffee pot to heat. He had long been accustomed to making his own coffee when alone. The coffee he made seemed to him to have a bitter taste.
He stood for a few moments with his hands clasped be hind his back, his mind elsewhere, then walked out of the tent and stationed himself just outside the entrance. A fine rain was still falling, and the night was so silent and so black that he had the feeling that he was nowhere. There had been no singing from the nearby tent for several minutes now.
Perhaps they're just having a rest, he thought. They're sure to start up again.
And a second later, like an arrow, the singing did sail up once more into the night. The old roadmender's voice, leaving those of his companions behind, rose higher and higher, stopped at last, remained hanging for an instant, then broke off suddenly to fall back and mingle once more with the others, like a spark falling back into a bed of glowing embers. Somewhere in the distance lightning flashed, momentarily lighting up the slope below, the workmen's white tent, and the lorry parked beside it, apparently on the verge of hurt ling down into the valley. Then everything was cloaked in darkness again.
The general listened to the song and tried to sense what its meaning was. Like all the others it was a sad and solemn song.
Perhaps he is singing about his dead comrades, the general thought. One of the visitors who had come to see him before his departure had told him that the Albanians often made up songs about comrades killed in battle. Who knows what goes on in that old workman's head, he said to himself. He goes all over his country finding graves and digging memories of the war up out of them. He must certainly hate me. I can see he does in his eyes. We are mortal enemies : yet I feel nothing but contempt for him. When all is said and done he is only a roadmender. A fellow who digs up graves six days a week and sings on the seventh. And if I were to begin sing ing, if I were to sing my song about the dead I collect, who knows what horrors would come pouring out then?
The workmen went on singing for a long while. The songs followed one another like the links of a chain, and the general stood there listening. He did not go back into the tent until he felt the cold penetrating to the marrow.