Elegy for Kosovo

by Ismail Kadare

  Also by Ismail Kadare:

  THE CONCERT

  THE FILE ON H.

  THE PALACE OF DREAMS

  THE PYRAMID

  THE THREE-ARCHED BRIDGE

  Copyright © 1998, 2011 by Librairie Artheme Fayard

  English translation copyright © 2000, 2011 by Peter Constantine

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Arcade Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

  Arcade Publishing books may be purchased in bulk at special discounts for sales promotion, corporate gifts, fund-raising, or educational purposes. Special editions can also be created to specifications. For details, contact the Special Sales Department, Arcade Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018 or arcade@skyhorsepublishing.com.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  First published in France under the title Trois chants funebres pour Ie Kosovo in 1998 by Librairie Artheme Fayard

  Original title in Albanian: Tri Kenge zie per Kosoven

  Arcade Publishing® is a registered trademark of Skyhorse Publishing, Inc.®, a Delaware corporation.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  ISBN: 978-1-61145-552-6

  Contents

  I. The Ancient Battle

  II. The Great Lady

  III. The Royal Prayer

  The Ancient Battle

  I

  Never before had rumors of impending war been followed by rumors of peace. Quite the opposite — after hopes for peace, suddenly war would be declared, which was practically routine in the large peninsula.

  There were times when the peninsula seemed truly large, with enough space for everyone: for different languages and faiths, for a dozen peoples, states, kingdoms, and principalities — even for three empires, two of which, the Serbian and the Bulgarian, were now in ruins, with the result that the third, the Byzantine Empire, was to its disgrace and that of all Christianity declared a Turkish vassal.

  But times changed, and with them the ideas of the local people changed, and the peninsula began to seem quite constricting. This feeling of constriction was spawned more by the ancient memories of the people than by their lands and languages rubbing against each other. In their solitude the people hatched nightmares until one day they felt they could no longer bear it.

  This usually happened in the spring, when, along with the whispers of war or peace, there was a feeling of inexplicable tension in the air. In fact, both the good and the bad prophecies never ebbed in the low-lying regions, particularly in the towns. But they tended to become a flood when they mingled with the anxiety of the mountain people. And this happened in the spring, right after the first signs of the snow melting. The explanation was simple enough: the predictions of the city people were based on information and rumors spread by itinerant merchants, consuls’ coachmen, spies, epileptics, and harbor prostitutes, and on the rate of exchange of Venetian ducats in the Durrës banks. Nonetheless, however reliable these sources of information might be, another dimension was necessary to authenticate such rumors, a dimension that was mysterious and intangible — in other words, irrational. This dimension was provided by the mountain people.

  For the mountain people, everything from the Cursed Peaks of Albania and Montenegro to ancient Mount Olympus and the Carpathians was linked with snow. Just as the city people imagined a world that was basically flat, the people of the mountain pastures made the opposite mistake; they believed in the supremacy of the mountains. So even if somebody swore a solemn oath that he had seen with his own eyes an army ready for war, the mountain people would look up toward the snows and shake their heads. As long as the cherished snow still lay up there, no army was on the move, no war was about to begin.

  In the spring this conviction was shattered, and with the melting snow thoughts changed.

  This is what happened in that spring of 1389 when, right after the news that there would be a very special peace, there came other news that there would be war, and that this war would be very special indeed.

  II

  That spring the world was rife with rumors. No caravan transporting cheeses, no consul passing through could fill the emptiness — it filled itself spontaneously. People had also realized in recent years that where the roads were blocked by snow or plague, the whispers, instead of dying away, became even stronger. The reason seems to have been that the lack of fresh news made people turn to the past. The news of what had gone before, like old clothing, was easier to slip into.

  In remote taverns they spoke of the Turks moving their capital from Bursa to Adrianople, as if the event had occurred the day before and not some twenty years earlier. And that the Turkish monarch was moving the capital, some said, in order to shift his empire to Europe. Others either refused to believe this or shook their heads in horror. Can one move an empire as if it were a house? Not to mention: Where would poor Europe find enough space for such a huge empire? The Turk doesn’t give a damn if it fits or not. “Move over!” he says. “Make room for me, or I’ll kick you out!”

  Others, who did not want to believe that this calamity could come about, said that if the sultan was moving the capital nearer, it was perhaps so that it would be easier for him to keep an eye on the quarrels of the peninsula’s princes. “To keep an eye on our wrangling?” others objected incredulously. “Our wrangling is so deafening that there is no need to come closer — in fact you can hear it better from afar!”

  The discussion about the quarrels of the native princes turned spontaneously to their secret alliances, particularly their bondage to the Turk. Of all the rumors, these were the most unsubstantiated. No sooner did word go around that King Tvrtko of the Bosnians had bowed down to the sultan, than other news came that it wasn’t King Tvrtko, nor Mirçea of Rumania, but Sisman, czar of the Bulgarians, who had knelt before the sultan. “I am not surprised about the Bulgarian czar,” an unknown man said, “but my soul aches when I call to mind Emperor John V!”

  “Ah, Byzantium!” others sighed. “Byzantium, my friend! You have sinned and now you must pay the price.”

  The news that people were wrangling not only here in this godforsaken part of the world but everywhere, even among the Turks themselves, was a consolation. Everyone was talking about the affair of the two princes, the Turk Cuntuz, son of Sultan Murad, and Andronicus, the heir of John V. While the fathers had formed an alliance and were busy waging war in Asia, the sons were conspiring to overthrow them. The fathers clapped them in irons, and Sultan Murad, in order to reaffirm his friendship with his Christian ally, had his treacherous son punished with the official Byzantine torture — blinding. And, needless to say, the Christian monarch reciprocated with his son.

  Talking about the savagery of these two fathers reminded people of their evils and caprices. Many of these monarchs’ actions, which seemed to defy reason, were beyond understanding not because they were inscrutable but because of their inherent madness. The idea of moving the capital, for instance, might well have had a sound motive but was more likely the outcome of one of the sultan’s whims. With an empire of such boundless proportions, such whims were to be expected. Too often the great are permitted what lesser men are not. The Montenegrins might have liked to move their capital, Cetinje, but where would they have put it? Two miles over, and the wretched city would have landed in the talons of the Albanian eagle. The same goes for Skopje, and as for Sofia, God knows where i
t would have ended up! In Russia, probably, or in the Black Sea!

  Twilight fell, and before the taverns closed and everyone wished each other a good night, the conversation turned to the latest piece of news — the Turkish monarch’s change of title. Until recently, he had been called “Emir,” but now he was going to be called “Sultan,” This was definitely a bad sign. The last time there had been a change was on the threshold of a war. Besides which, the title “Emir” sounded tender to all ears — in the languages of the southern Slavs the word mir means peace, while in the language of the Albanians it sounds like i mirë, good man, or e mirë, good woman.

  “And yet, did he not slash us all to pieces under that title at the battle of Maricë?” someone asked as he put on a skullcap. “Slashed us to pieces, by God!” said another, scratching his head. “And not only the Serbs and the Hungarians, but also we Albanians who had rushed off to help them, and even the French king, Louis d’Anjou. It is where my lord Count Muzaka fell, may he rest in peace!”

  “Sultan.” The people muttered the new title to themselves as if they were trying to fathom its secret.

  It was clear as the light of day that the Turkish monarch wished to adopt a new title, just as he had invented new weapons in the last couple of years, just as he had modernized the shape of the yataghan sabers and their curved blades.

  In other words, new war, new name, the people said, and put a curse on him then and there: “May he not live to enjoy it!” and “May the title swallow him up!”

  III

  Ever since the Venetians began using mute couriers, political rumors, particularly those emanating from roadside inns, had fallen off considerably. But as is often the case when greed incites an individual or a state to foolish deeds, the Venetians were not satisfied with simple secrecy but strove to go even further. And since the only courier more secretive than one whose tongue has been cut out is a dead courier, the Venetians’ quest moved in an unexpected direction. Their new couriers were not deaf-mutes and not blind mutes, as one would have expected, but normal couriers with eyes, ears, and tongues — in fact, tongues that wagged far more than usual. In short, the often gloomy and taciturn couriers of the past were replaced by talkative couriers who were eager to sit down for a good chat with any traveler they came across at wayside inns.

  It wasn’t all that difficult to guess that they had two types of information: true information, which they guarded carefully, and falsehoods, which they dropped in fragments over the course of an evening by the fireside, as if by a slip of the tongue or from too much drink.

  That spring the false news was often enough injurious to the opposition, as was to be expected, but it often also came back to haunt those who had spread it. The road from the Turkish capital to Venice was long, and to carry both truths and lies at the same time was not easy. At times the truth and at times the lies would color each other, adding to the surrounding fog, which was heavy in the month of March.

  It was common knowledge that letters were exchanged that had been written in six languages and four different alphabets. But what was written in these letters, the Lord alone knew. “Islam will come face to face with the Christian cross,” the sultan had been said to proclaim in his message. “One or the other will succumb.” But another source maintained the opposite: “There is no need to raise your weapons, my children! On earth as in Heaven, there is room enough for all — for your cross and our crescent.”

  Other rumors hinted at newly sealed alliances among the princes of the peninsula, and then, as was to be expected, newer rumors immediately announced their rupture. Envoys of the pope arrived in Durrës from Rome every week. Messengers set out from Belgrade to Walachia. “I am bringing with me my two sons, Yakub çelebi and Bayezid,” the sultan was said to have written in his letter. “Bring your sons as well. Either you will extinguish my line completely, or I shall extinguish yours.” “What about your third son, the one you blinded, Cuntuz? Why will you not bring him too?” “I would love to bring him, upon my Faith! But what am I to do?—Allah has called him to His side.”

  It was said that the Albanian princes had allied themselves with Lazar of the Serbs and Tvrtko of the Bosnians. Emperor John V was wavering, and there was still no word from Prince Constantine. Nor from Mirçea of Rumania. As for the other Serb, Marko Kraljevic, all the omens showed that he was preparing for a new betrayal.

  “My greetings to you! I hope that we shall come to an agreement!”

  “So come, and may you never leave again!”

  “I shall come, I shall find you, and I shall cover you with earth!”

  “It would be better for all concerned if we could reach an agreement about where we are to meet. Why tire ourselves out by hunting each other down in vain? On the Plains of Nish, or on the Field of the Blackbirds, Kosovo, as you call it.”

  “Go to the devil, Sultan Murad!”

  IV

  The Turkish capital was bustling with preparations. The army’s vanguard had already set out, and the sultan’s younger son, Bayezid, begged his father to take elephants along, but the monarch refused. His other son, Yakub, was expected to arrive any day now with vassals gathered from far and wide. More than forty honey merchants were beaten with sticks in the market square for having tried to cheat during the weighing of the honey destined for the army. “Shame! Shame!” the crowd shouted. To swindle with the honey that will give soldiers strength as they go to battle, and that might very well turn out to be their last meal in this world, was truly an infamy. The royal chief historian was dismissed for having begun his war chronicle with the very same words that he had used some years earlier for the military campaign against the emir of the Karamans: “Our illustrious Grand Sovereign Light of the World, was in his garden harking to the song of the birds when the message came unto him that the infidels were preparing an insurrection.” His rival, who had waited twenty years to supplant him, spent a sleepless week contriving his introduction, which differed only slightly from his predecessor’s: “Our superbly illustrious Grand Sovereign the Light of our Universe, was in his garden harking to the murmuring of the fountains when the message came unto him that the infidels were preparing an insurrection.” He, too, was dismissed, and even beaten with a stick, as were all the other candidates, while everyone waited for a Jewish historian from Erzurum, of whom it was said that he had lost his mind one day but that it had come back and was even more brilliant than before. In the meantime, in his gigantic chamber, Sultan Murad stood before a map of Europe, listening to the explanations of his pasha of the seas: “Europe is like a bad-tempered mule, Grand Sovereign, and these three peninsulas dangling down there are like three little bells. Once we have silenced the first, the Balkan lands, we shall attack the second, Italy, land of the cross and the infidel. And then we shall strike the third bell, the land of the Spaniards, where Islam once reigned but was driven out.“

  The peninsula was preparing itself to confront the onslaught with just as much commotion. Weapon forges and taverns stayed open late into the night. Dignitaries tied and untied allegiances. Bellies were eager to be impregnated. The last weddings were held, and, as the war could start at any moment, the procession of the groom’s family coming for the bride would march with banners so that the men would be ready at a moment’s notice to change course if there should be a call to arms.

  The minstrels had already begun to compose their songs, each in his own language. They resembled the ancient songs; even the words were not that different. The Serbian elders chanted: “Oh, the Albanians are preparing to attack!” and the Albanian lahuta1 minstrels sang: “Men, to arms! The pernicious Serb is upon us!“

  “Are you out of your minds or are you making fools of us?” the people asked. “The Turks are marching on us, and you are singing the same old songs — The Serbs are attacking, the Albanians are attacking!’” “We know, we know!” the minstrels answered. “But this is where we’ve always turned to find parts for our songs, and this is where we will always turn. These par
ts are not like those of weapons that change every ten years. Our models need at least a century to adapt!”

  In the meantime, the Ottoman army had already set out, and truths and untruths were spawned. But there was something that unsettled the people of the peninsula even more than the approaching army: the word Balkan. Before the Turks even set foot on the peninsula, they baptized it and its people with this name, and this name stuck to them like new scales on the body of an aged reptile. The people were at their wits’ end. They twisted in their sleep as if they were trying to shake off this name, but the result was the opposite — the name clung to them all the more forcefully, as if it wanted to become one with their skin. They now realized that, divided as they had always been, they had never given their peninsula a name. Some had called it “Illyricum,” some “New Byzantium”; others had opted for “Alpania” because of the peninsula’s alps, or “Great Slavonia” because of the Slavs, and so on. Now it was too late to do anything, and so, without a common name but with a name bestowed upon them by the enemy, they marched to battle and defeat.

  Footnote

  1 A bowed, single-string northern Albanian instrument with an egg-shaped body and long neck.

  V

  The imperial Turkish army did not surface in Nish, as had been expected, but headed for the Plains of Kosovo. The Balkan princes rushed there like wild torrents that change their course after a storm. When they arrived, the Turks were already waiting. The Balkan army positioned itself across from them on the side of the plain that the Turks had deliberately left open for them. Tvrtko of the Bosnians was the only king among them, but Prince Lazar of the Serbs was elected commander in chief, as he had the greatest number of troops. To his left were the battalions of Mirçea of Rumania, and to his right the Albanian counts Gjergj Balsha and Demetër Jonima with their soldiers. There were also other battalions, which had arrived over the past few days. Some thought they might be Croat, others Hungarian, but like so much else in this war, no one was certain what they were.