FICTION: IRONY DANCES through these vibrant, visual pages originally written in Communist Albania in 1968, irony and barbed intent as deliberate as an archer's arrow, writes Eileen Battersby.
Dissident poet and fiction writer Ismail Kadare, who was born in 1936, brings a heroic daring to this brilliant exposé of the folly of war and the clash of civilisations.
Here is a study of an empire attempting to suppress and absorb a nation. Although set in the early 15th century, it is not an historical novel and its tone is unusually conversational. No - this is a timeless political allegory of genius.
Kadare, author of many works such as The General of Dead Armies (1963), The Palace of Dreams (1981 Albania; 1990 Paris; 1993 English trans.), The Pyramid (1992 Paris; English trans. 1996) and The File on H (1981, French trans.1989; English trans. 1997) - a wonderful satire about oral poetry and secrecy in a closed state - learnt early in his career that history was never going to be as useful to him as mythology, fable and folklore.
These are the sources rich in metaphor and allusion that Kadare, one of Europe's great visionaries, has drawn on in his works, many of which were smuggled out of Albania to Paris where they were initially published in French. A mighty army arrives with all its equipment and a team of experts, ranging from a weapons master to an astrologer, with the always useful chronicler, Celebi, the witness and probable Kadare figure, engaged to record the official version.
Kadare sets the scene from the viewpoint of an Albanian chorus of sorts; this collective voice steps in at intervals throughout the larger, detached narrative.
This chorus initially gives a sense of what it is like to watch passively while the enemy arrives and prepares for battle. The sultan's envoys have already tried debating with the Albanians, attempting to woo them with promises of having a part in ruling the empire. "Then they accused us of being renegades in the pay of the Frankish knight, that is to say, slaves of Europe. Finally, as was to be expected, they made threats."
The Albanians wait. "On June 18th, at daybreak, we heard the tolling of the bell. The sentinel on the East Tower announced that a yellowish cloud could be seen in the far distance. It was the dust kicked up by their horses."
This cinematic image introduces the coming of the enemy. It is as if Kadare has summoned the reader as well as the Albanians to watch. The dust gives way to men. Gradually the first troops settle in and pitch camp near the walls of the castle the army intends to take. Settling in is a slow process.
"By evening the entire army had still not arrived. New units kept on coming in." The text is rich in picture images: "A thick layer of dust lay on men, shields, flags and drums, horses and wagons, and on the camels laden with bronze and heavy equipment." Late in the novel, a powerful sequence follows the desperate attempt of a lone white horse to source water for the army.
The first character, the Pasha, the commander-in-chief, enters as if on a stage. He is standing alone outside his pink pavilion, watching the sun set. In the Pasha, Kadare has created a larger than life character in a narrative that does not expend much energy on characterisation. It is not necessary; Kadare is here aspiring beyond story.
Although the Pasha is the central character, there is another, far more dominant presence which if abstract is as real. It is the emotion, the energy, the fear and the greed that creates and sustains war.
The Pasha's staff had insisted that his pavilion be pitched "at least a thousand paces from the castle walls" but he wants to be closer and settles at six hundred paces. When he had been younger and less important, he had often slept less than 50 paces from the ramparts of a besieged citadel: Within a few sentences , a full portrait of an experienced and increasingly vulnerable soldier emerges.
"The Pasha sighed. He often did that when he took up quarters before a fortress that had to be taken. It was a reflex prompted by the first impression, always the deepest . . . ."
It is obvious that the Pasha is not really engaged: "He was content just to be a spectator of the ensuing butchery" - he has his own demons and fears.
He has clearly moved beyond war: "The moon had not yet risen. It struck him as rather odd that the Christians, having seen Islam take possession of the moon, had not promptly made their own emblem the sun, but had taken instead a mere instrument of torture, the cross. Apparently they weren't as clever as people claimed. But they had been even less bright in times when they believed in several gods."
Life in the camp gathers its own momentum. There are many exchanges between the officers and the experts. The tone is almost relaxed and in fairness to David Bellos, best known as the translator and biographer of the great Georges Perec, the idiom is at times almost too contemporary and some of the phrasing surprisingly slangy.
Still, Kadare is known for his lightness of touch and he never intended The Siege to read as an historical novel. As the narrative progresses so too does the frustration of the Turks who try as they do, can never manage to penetrate the castle. Various changes of tactics are introduced. It is a savage, often barbaric tale yet Kadare's sly humour invariably surfaces.
It is interesting to read it as an early excursion for Kadare into territory he was to so majestically explore in The Palace of Dreams which was banned in Albania on publication in 1981. It is a darker book than The Siege because it is looking at the enemy within.
In it the subconscious of every citizen, from the largest city to the smallest village is invaded; each dream sifted and classified. Again it draws on the historical reality of the sultan's empire. The Siege is about brutal colonialisation, The Palace of Dreams explores oppression at its most invasive. In fairness, it is the finer novel if only because it is a remarkable performance. The Siege unfolds at speed, the Turks plot and regroup, tear at each other, cut off the water supply and then degenerate to such an extent that infected animals are used to introduce disease.
History confirms that the Turks did succeed in forcing Albania into the Ottoman Empire, but not in this book. The siege at the centre of Kadare's novel turns into a horrible comic nightmare of hunger, thirst and disease for everyone. For the Pasha, death is the only honourable alternative to disgrace. A Shakespearean grasp of the evil men do, as well as Kadare's understanding of the essential absurdity inherent in conquest and dominion, elevates his art into a cohesive statement.
Defying formal convention and making inspired use of the Albanian chorus, The Siege, even when filtered through two languages, is a candidly prophetic novel of our age, every age, while Ismail Kadare is a witness of singular imagination.
Eileen Battersby is Literary Correspondent of The Irish Times
The Siege By Ismail Kadare, translated from Jusuf Vrioni's French version (of the Albanian original) by David Bellos Canongate, 328pp, £16.99
