Broken April by Ismail Kadare

Author:Ismail Kadare [Kadare, Ismail]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Tags: Fiction, Romance, General
ISBN: 9780941533577
Google: AMisFeqnWQ4C
Amazon: 1561310654
Barnesnoble: 1561310654
Publisher: New Amsterdam Books
Published: 1980-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER IV

Mark Ukacierra was going up the wooden stairway leading to the third storey of the kulla when he heard a voice calling to him in a low tone, “Hush! The guests are still asleep!”

He went on his way without any attempt to lighten his footfalls, and the voice above him on the stairs, came again: “I told you not to make noise. Didn’t you hear me? The guests are still asleep!”

Mark raised his eyes to see who had dared address him in that way, just as one of the servants put his head over the banister to see who had shattered the quiet. But recognizing the steward of the blood, the servant, horrified, clapped his hand over his mouth.

Mark Ukacierra went on ascending, and when he reached the top of the stairway, he passed right by the terror-stricken man without saying a word to him, not even turning his head.

Ukacierra was first cousin to the prince, and since on the roster of duties in the castle he was concerned with all the business connected with bloodshed, he was called the steward of the blood. The other servants, while for the most part also cousins of the prince, albeit distant ones, feared the steward just as much as the prince. They stared in amazement at their colleague who had so narrowly escaped a storm, and recalled, not without resentment, other occasions on which the slightest misstep had cost them dear. But the steward of the blood, even though he had dined sumptuously with distinguished guests last night, was distracted this morning. His face ashen, he was obviously out of sorts. Without glancing at any of them, he pushed open the door of a large room adjoining the living room and went in.

The room was cold. Through the panes of the high, narrow windows framed in unpainted oak, came a light that seemed to him the light of an evil day. He went closer to the windows and looked out at the motionless clouds. April was almost here, but the sky had not yet taken leave of March. That idea came to him and brought a particular sense of annoyance, as if it were an injustice aimed specifically at him.

His eyes fixed on the scene beyond the window, as if he wanted to torment them with the grey light that was quite as trying, he forgot the corridors filled with cautious steps, with “Sh! Quiet!” and the guests who had arrived last night, who had aroused in him without his taking account of it a vague disquiet.

Last night’s dinner had been troublesome. He had had no appetite. Something gnawed at his stomach, gave him an empty feeling that, while he forced himself to eat, seemed more empty with every mouthful.

Mark Ukacierra turned his eyes away from the windows, and looked for a moment at the heavy oak shelves of the library. Most of the books were old, religious works in Latin and in old Albanian. On another shelf set apart from

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