The last week before his departure, the number of visitors had increased even further. When he came back from his headquarters at mid-day the general would find his drawing-room crammed with people. The room had the air of a hospital corridor filled with patients waiting to be examined; but the silence here was even more complete. The visitors remained utterly silent for hours on end, sitting with their eyes fixed on the patterns in the carpet. Some, country people who had come a long way, appeared with bundles in their arms, which they then set down at their feet. And the general always knew they were waiting for him, even before he got out of his car, because of the bicycles leaning against the railings, and sometimes a strange car parked outside. He would go directly into the drawing-room, where the bitter odour of damp wool from the peasants’ thick clothes, mingling with some elegant woman’s scent, would make him catch his breath. At his entry they all respectfully rose to their feet, but without saying a word, knowing that this was not yet the moment to speak to him.
[The General of the Dead Army, Kadare, I.]
No comments:
Post a Comment