Elegy for Kosovo by Ismaíl Kadaré Read Free Book Online Page B

their lord always invited French and German minstrels to his banquets, and that he had heard about them and was interested in listening to their songs.
    Gjorg was deep in thought; Vladan was on the verge of tears because he no longer had his gusla. As for Manolo — his face turned yellow and he wanted to run away, but the others managed with great difficulty to persuade him not to disgrace them.
    Somehow Vladan succeeded in making a gusla by the day of the banquet. “Don’t worry!” the others said to him. “If worse comes to worst, you can use Gjorg’s lahuta.”
    They placed all their hopes on this banquet. Now respect for them was bound to grow. People would see that they were good for more than just making war and cheese and “diseased” milk, that they could also sing of great deeds, just as their ancient clansmen had. Their situation would perhaps improve, suspicions would be dispelled, and perhaps they would even be granted permission to settle down in this place.
    The Balkan fugitives escorted the minstrels part of the way and bade them good luck. Bathed and combed, their faces tense with agitation, the three of them, together with a Croat who could mimic the calls of birds and wolves, disappeared through the castle’s heavy portal.
    The Balkan fugitives crossed themselves three times; some of them fell to their knees; others prayed with burning fervor: “Do not abandon us, Holy Mary, Mother of God!”

VI
    Adozen minstrels waited in a row for their turn. The French sang of Roland, their hero who had blown his horn before dying, and the Germans sang of the ring of their lord whose name was Siegfried. Another minstrel, who seemed to be neither German nor French, sang of a Vilhelm who had shot an arrow at an apple he had placed on his son’s head.
    When their turn came, the lord of the castle announced to his company that they were going to hear the Balkan minstrels who had come straight from the Battle of Kosovo, where the Turks had dealt Christendom a bitter blow. “Let us all hope and pray that this blow will be the last!”
    One after the other, in the heavy silence, they sang their songs, ancient and cold as stone, each in his own language: “A great fog is covering the Field of the Blackbirds! Rise, O Serbs, the Albanians are taking Kosovo.” “A black fog has descended—Albanians, to arms, Kosovo is falling to the damned Serb.”
    The guests, who had been listening with sorrowful faces, asked the Balkan minstrels to explain what their songs were about. At first the nobles sat speechless, not believing what they were told. Then they became angry — the Balkan lands have fallen, and these minstrels continue singing songs that keep the old enmities alive?
    â€œIt is true that there is dissension everywhere, but dissension like yours is really unique in the world!” one of the guests said contemptuously.
    â€œWhat wretches you are!” the lord of the castle shouted.
    They stood with bowed heads as the guests denounced them. They would have tried to explain, as they had that evening long ago, but they realized that their words would fall on deaf ears. “It would have been better for us to have died on the battlefield than end up at this cursed banquet,” Gjorg thought.
    Among the hosts sat an old woman, who peered at them intently. From her attire and her position at the table, it was obvious that she was a great lady. Her eyes were fiery, but her face was white and cold, as if it were from another world.
    â€œYou must sing of other things,” she said in a kindly voice.
    The minstrels held their peace.
    â€œWhat songs do you expect from them?” one of the guests at the end of the table asked. “Hate is all they know!”
    â€œThey corrupt everything, the way they corrupt the milk,” a guest shouted through the mocking laughter.
    â€œDo not insult them,” the old woman said, her eyes fixed on