The Concert (15 page)

No! Gjergj told himself. It couldn't have been like that. Such an unsound plan could only have been set up by someone certain that whatever happened inside the plane — even if Lin Biao did get temporary control — the end of the story would be the same. For the simple reason that both parties would be burned to ashes.

The plane would be shot down. Someone was sure of that.

Gjergj leaned his forehead against the window, bet the vibrating of the glass only made him more agitated than ever.

There were two groups on that plane, and each group thought it knew the truth. Lin Biao's party thought he was being flown to Peking, His potential murderers knew they were going to murder him in Mongolia. But over and above all this there was someone else, not on the plane, far away even, who really knew what was what: who knew that the plane was doomed to be burned to ashes.

H'mm, thought Gjergj. So they planned to shoot the plane down. Easy to say, but not so easy to do. If the marshal had been summoned to Peking he would have travelled either on his own plane, or on a government aircraft, or on one belonging to the general staff, Whichever it was, all such aircraft were guarded day and night: it was unlikely anybody could plant a bomb aboard them or interfere with their landing gear. Even if that were possible, it would still be difficult for the killers to get themselves aboard. Lin Biao's escort would challenge any unknown faces and order them to be thrown off the plane without more ado.

H'mm…Not really very plausible, Even if such a plan had gone smoothly to begin with, how could the bomb be timed to go off at a precise moment, after the plane had crossed the frontier? The marshal was the second most important man in China, and in charge of his own comings and goings. He could have delayed his flight by an hour, by two hours even, if he felt like it. No, it must have happened differently. Or perhaps all the theories rejected the facts in some way, only in a different order and in pursuit of a completely different purpose.

But what does it matter anyway? thought Gjergj to himself in a last effort to get the business off his mind. There was no point in cudgelling his brains over something that was bound to remain a mystery no matter how much one tried to puzzle it out. He was already depressed enough after spending all that time surrounded by mask-like faces inhabiting a seemingly lifeless world, He'd felt his own vitality draining away as the days went by. And now he was leaving it all behind he meant to forget those empty countenances and all the stress he'd endured. To hell with them and their mysteries! Aeyway, this might be his last trip there.

He tried to imagine himself back at home among his nearest and dearest, but some obstacle seemed to stand in the way. The entrance hall of the flat, the doors into the rooms looked different. There was something strange about the familiar sound of Suva's footsteps going from their bedroom to the bathroom. There was even a mist over Suva's and Brikena's faces. What was going on? he thought worriedly. The spell of Asia seemed to envelop him still.

He beckoned to the stewardess who was patrolling the narrow passageway between the seats, and ordered a cup of coffee.

“Where are we?” he asked her when she brought it.

She gave the usual automatic smile and told him. But he didn't hear: his mind had substituted the words, “Over Mongolia.”

“Where are we going?” Lin Biao had asked on the fatal plane, as it speeded towards an unknown destination. “Oh, hell!” cried Gjergj, realizing he couldn't tear his thoughts away from that other aircraft. He'd heard so much about it during those dreary evenings in Peking —it was going to take time to get it out of his system.

So for the moment he gave up trying. He just tried as best he could to clarify his ideas on the subject, as if drawing up a report on a press conference. He hoped this might calm him down.

Clearly there had been no attempt at fleeing the country. Nor had the plane been piloted by Lin Biao's son. Admittedly the marshal's wife and son had been with him (perhaps all three had been invited to Peking together), but everything had been arranged so as to make the theory of escape seem plausible. And indeed everyone would have believed it had it not been for the shots. Who had fired them, and at whom? Had the son shot his father? Had they both fired at one another? Was it conceivable that the betrayal attributed to Lin Biao's daughter had really been committed by his son?…Not very likely.

There must have been others on that plane. But who? They must have been hostile to Lin Biao, since, whoever fired first, shots
were
indeed fired. So that made two opposing groups aboard, though at least one of the two parties - the one charged with killing Lin Biao - knew the other wouldn't emerge from the journey alive. The plane took off. One hour, two hours went by. Peking, whither Lin Biao was supposed to have been summoned urgently, was still not in sight. It was then that he asked: “Where are we going?”

Up till then everything was more or less clear, but after the fateful question all became obscure. Including the shots.

But you've just said it was practically impossible for the presumed murderers to get on board the plane, whether it was a private or a government aircraft! Gjergj reminded himself. This is torture! Then suddenly he realized who it was that might actually ask him these questions. He even knew where the interrogation would take place: in the Riviera Café, where Gjergj often went and sat with Skënder Bermema. That's it! thought Gjergj - it's because of him I keep turning these thoughts over and over in my head. He knew that as soon as he got back Bermema would bombard him with questions. In particular about the murder of the marshal The two of them had talked about it several times before, Bermema probably meant to write about it.

It was not a soothing thought, and Gjergj relapsed once more into a morass of conjecture. If ever there was a gleam of light, it vanished before he could examine it… Had there been a miscalculation? Had the plan been thrown off course by the marshal's question about where they were going? He must have looked anxiously at his watch. Recent anxieties and suspicions must have played their part. His nerves were bound to have been on edge. He must have asked himself a dozen times why he'd been summoned so urgently. And so, when there was no sign of Peking…

Or maybe none of all that happened at all: he neither looked at his watch nor asked any questions. They could have just shot him as he drowsed in his seat. “If anything unforeseen happens, kill him on the plane…” But, to be on the safe side, the killers didn't wait for any hitch. So it was all over sooner than expected, and inside the plane all was deathly silent. The murderers were now escorting the cooling corpse of their master, little knowing that they, as well as it, would soon be burned to ashes.

But you just said…What would have happened if…All right, all right, I know what you're going to say. It's a very curious scenario. So many complications. The most sensible approach was put forward by a senior official who suggested simply shooting the plane down with rockets. That would have dealt with the matter nicely. But according to official spokesmen the suggestion was made by one of the marshal's own accomplices, in order to “destroy the evidence”! Evidence of what, if you please?…Oh, that's enough! Gjergj imagined himself saying to Skënder Bermema as they sat in the Café Riviera.

Gjergj struggled to stay there. He saw in his mind's eye the low seats by the misty plate-glass windows, the rain on the pavement outside, the slim figure of the waitress, who'd seemed even frailer to him after he heard she was living with a wrestler. Ever since he'd met Skënder Bermema they'd gone to the Riviera every so often to have a coffee together, usually sitting in the corner overlooking the airline offices. An anonymous letter had brought about the beginning of their relationship, several years ago. Gjergj had received the letter just after he and Silva got engaged. It was the usual sort of thing: Silva was a capricious young woman, pleasant enough as a mistress, no doubt, but most unsuitable as a wife. Both the Krasniqi sisters, the unknown writer went on, were very free in their ways (it was clear that, on second thoughts, the writer had used the word “free” instead of “loose” throughout). There were all sorts of rumours — some of them might be unfounded — about them: they were supposed to swap lovers, or else be fiendishly jealous of one another, and so on, though all this was probably exaggerated. But what was true and common knowledge was that one of the sisters was having an affair with the famous writer S,B…. It was no secret that his novel,
Forgetting a Woman
,was dedicated to her.

There the letter ended. What perturbed Gjergj was that its author didn't say anything precise. He'd turned the letter over in a rage to see what was written on the back, as if he expected to find some accusation about Silva there — for example that she'd had an affair with an archaeologist on the site at Pasha Liman. She'd told him about that herself. But the writer of the letter didn't mention it, and Gjergj was more upset by what he hadn't said than by what he'd set down in black and white. The swine, he felt like yelling why doesn't he mention what everybody knows? The answer was clear. The writer of the letter had foreseen that if he referred to that well-known liaison, Gjergj would have read the allusion with a sigh of relief. As it was, the “well-wisher” gave the impression of scorning gossip, turning a deaf ear to some of it, thus making the contents of his own letter more plausible. Similarly, having made the allegation about lover-swapping, and spoken of the affair between Ana and Skënder Bermema, he could leave Gjergj to think: if Ana and Skënder Bermema, why not Silva and Skënder Bermema?

Gjergj had let some time go by before mentioning any of this to his fiancée. But one day he did ask her if she knew Skënder Bermema, He'd prepared himself for a painful moment in order to see her reaction. But her reply, instead of reassuring him, left him more troubled than before. “Yes, I know him,” she said. “We both do, Ana and I.” “Both of you?” There hadn't been the slightest indication, either of guilt or of innocence, in her expression. Just something vague that was neither one nor the other. Then he showed her the anonymous letter. Silva read it calmly. Her cheeks did flush a little when she came to the part about exchanging lovers, but she didn't flinch. She thought for a moment, then looked up at him and said: “What do you expect me to say? That it's all just slander and tittle-tattle?” Gjergj was lost for words. “Of course it's meant to be malicious,” she said. “Still, there is a grain of truth in it.”

Gjergj's mouth went dry.

“But even if the letter's right about Ana,” she continued, “do you think what it refers to is so shameful and immoral that it reiects on me…?”

“What are you saying, Silva?” he broke in. “I didn't mean that at all! I just showed you a letter. A horrible anonymous letter.”

She told him she herself had questioned Ana about Skënder Bermema, but the answer had been so evasive she hadn't raised the subject again. That was the only time Ana hadn't confided in her. But it hadn't changed Suva's opinion about her sister in the least, she insisted. And Gjergj had replied that it wouldn't change his either.

One evening later on - at the theatre, during the interval — Silva had introduced him to Skënder Bermema…She was with Ana …After that the two men had come across one another on several occasions. But it wasn't until after Ana's funeral that they had their first coffee together …It was strange, Silva had said. Her sister, with her great beauty, seemed to have been sent on earth to stir men up one against the other. But strangely enough she had had the opposite effect. As if in accordance with some mysterious pact, those who'd desired her had always avoided anything that might embitter their relations.

Gjergj tried to linger on these reminiscences, but it wasn't long before they were swept away and replaced by the sinister affair of Lin Biao. Gjergj groaned, clutched his brow, and longed for the journey to end.

As soon as he'd landed in Tirana he would meet Skënder Bermema and unload this agitation on to him. Transferring it to someone else was the only way to get rid of it.

But for the moment he had to cope with it alone.

His nervous tension seemed to have given him a temperature, which was made worse by the sound of the engines…One of the marshal's accomplices had suggested shooting the plane down with missiles…God, it's started up again! he whispered. But there was no resisting it. So…One of the marshal's accomplices, as yet unidentified, had suggested shooting the plane down. To do away with the evidence, the Chinese spokesmen had said. But that didn't make sense! What evidence did the accomplice mean, the one who had remained on the ground? Whether the marshal managed to escape or got shot down, his plot would be exposed. And in either case the conspirators would be unmasked. The marshal's supporters would be arrested one after the other, and those interrogating them would only have to tug on one thread for the whole skein to unravel. No one could save anyone else. So the idea of shooting the plane down, and for the reason alleged, was nonsensical if attributed to one of the marshal's accomplices.

But it would all — including the phrase “destroy the evidence” — make perfect sense if it had been suggested by others, and for a completely different purpose. While the fateful plane was still in the sky, the secret telephone network used by those following the escape must have echoed and re-echoed with the words: “We must shoot it down - otherwise how are we going to destroy the evidence?” Getting rid of the evidence - a perfectly natural preoccupation after such a murder. In this case, “evidence” meant details of the trap: the summoning of the marshal to Peking, the sabotaging of the plane, not to mention the disposing of the witnesses. During those feverish hours the phrase “destroy the evidence” must have been used over and over again: and something had to be done to explain such a compromising expression. So they attributed it to a conspirator who had been unmasked. Then it was all right. All those who had heard it occurring again and again during the incident could stop worrying: it had indeed been uttered, but by a traitor.