Free Three Arched Bridge by Ismaíl Kadaré

He kept to himself, as if not wanting to interfere in anyone’s business, and he often walked quite alone by the riverbank. Mad Gjelosh — who knows why — imagined that he had a special right to threaten and insult this man whenever he saw him. The flaccid character noticed the idiot’s wild behavior with surprise, and did his best to keep out of his way.
    One day 1 happened to meet him face to face; he spoke to me first, apparently remembering me from the discussion with the count. We strolled a while together. He said that he was a collector of folktales and customs. I wanted to ask what this had to do with the bridge builders but suddenly changed my mind. Perhaps it was those watery eyes that made me think better of it.
    A few days later he came to the presbytery, and we talked for a considerable length of time about Balkan tales and legends, some of which he knew, The tranquil water of his gaze became suddenly troubled whenever 1 mentioned them, despite his attempts to control his somnolent eyes.
    â€œEver since I have got to know them, 1 can’t stop talking about them,” he continued, as if trying to apologize.
    I recollected in a flash the delegation’s interest in legends, and also how our count had mentioned them during the discussion. Now I no longer had any doubt that 1 was really talking to a collector of legends. Nevertheless, deep down inside myself, something thudded, calling for my attention, It was a summons or a vision that fought to reach my brain but could not, 1 do not know what kind of fog prevented it,
    â€œI hope I am not irritating you by saying the same things over and over again,” he continued,
    â€œOn the contrary,
”
I said. “It is a pleasure for me, Like most of the monks in these parts, I myself take an interest in these things.”
    As we walked along the sandbank, 1 explained to him that the legends and ballads of these parts mainly dealt with what had most distressed people throughout the ages, the division of mankind into the two great tribes of the living and the dead, The maps and flags of the world bear witness to dozens of states, kingdoms, languages, and peoples, but in fact there are only two peoples, who live in two kingdoms: this world, and the next, In contrast to the petty kingdoms and statelets of our world, these great kingdoms have never touched each other, and this lack of touch has pained most of all the people on this side, No testimony, no message, has so far ever come from the other side, The people on this side, unable to endure this rift, this absence of a crossing, have woven ballads against the barrier, imagining its destruction. Thus these ballads mention those in the next world, in other words the dead, crossing to this side temporarily with the permission of their kingdom, for a short time, usually for one day, to redeem a pledge they have left behind or to keep a promise they have made.
    â€œAh, I see,” he said now and then, while his eyes stared as if begging me to continue.
    I said that this is at least how we think on this side. In other words, we are sure that they make efforts to reach us, but that is only our own point of view. Perhaps they think differently, and if they heard our ballads they would split their sides laughing …
    â€œAh, you think that they probably do not want to come to us?”
    â€œNobody can know what they think,” I replied. “Besides Him above,”
    A few black birds, those that they call winter sparrows, flew above us. He asked whether all the ballads sung were old, and I explained that sometimes new ones were devised — or rather, that is what people thought, whereas in fact all they did was revive forgotten ones.
    I told him that an incident in the neighboring county ninety years ago, at the time of the first plague, had become the occasion for a new legend, A bride who had married into a distant house returned to her native land and, unable to explain her