The Concert (3 page)

“When there's a war on, that's enough to put you in front of a firing squad. But as it's peacetime I shall just be thrown out of the army. And out of the Party too, of course. That's all. I don't think there'll be any other consequences.”

Silva sighed. But of course …what other consequence could there be? Wasn't it bad enough already?

Arian made another attempt to pick something up from his plate, but his fork seemed incapable of dealing with it. Silva felt terribly sorry for him.

“Is anybody else being punished?”

“Four out of the six officers in our unit. All those who refused to obey.”

He made another stab at his plate, but gave up and refilled his glass.

“So why did you do it?” asked Silva.

“Do what?”

“That order — why did you refuse to obey it?”

He turned his head away abruptly. His eyes were blazing with anger.

“Don't ask me about it. I shan't tell you.”

“All right, all right,” said Silva. “What's done is done. Don't torture yourself.”

He picked up his glass and drank.

“Just one last thing,” Silva went on. “Do you feel guilty about it?”

“Absolutely not!”

Silva glanced absently round the table. She couldn't make up her mind whether his not feeling guilty was a good thing or not.

“Forget it now,” he said, raising his glass. “Here's to alt of you, and to Brikena's very good health!”

“And the same to you!” Silva replied.

He waved his hand dismissively, as if to say “For me it's all over — you'd do better to concentrate on other people!”

Silva set down her glass and looked round at her guests. The dinner party was going on just as it had before her attention was distracted from it. Perhaps her brother's problems weren't as bad as all that, she thought, and made an effort to dismiss it from her mind. Everyone was in the best of humours; the red wine sparkled in the glasses; the peaceful buzz of conversation and laughter was punctuated only by the sound of bottles of mineral water being opened. It was hard to believe evil could go on claiming its victims after such a gathering.

Silva woke up with a start. At first she thought the brightness flooding in through the window was the dawn, but then she realized it was the cold glow of moonlight. Brr, she was freezing! But of course that was what had made her wake up! She stretched out a hand and switched on the bedside lamp. A quarter past four. She lay there for a moment, staring at the bare ceiling. Then she felt cold again. All the glass in the room was covered with frost. It must be freezing hard outside. She thought of Brikena and Veriana, asleep in the next room.

She got out of bed, pulled a woollen cardigan round her shoulders and went quietly out into the corridor. The door of the other bedroom was ajar. She pushed it open cautiously and went in. By the bluish light filtering in from outside she could see the two girls' hair mingling on the same pillow. No doubt because of the cold, Veriana must have left the divan and snuggled into bed beside her cousin. Smiling to herself, she went over and looked down at the two serene faces. Then she remembered her mother's injunction: never look at anyone while they are asleep. She pulled the covers up over the girls' shoulders, fetched another blanket from the divan and spread it gently over them, then tiptoed out into the passage.

But there, instead of going back to her own room, she felt somehow impelled to take another look at the scene of the dinner party. When she switched on the light she was dazzled at first, but her eyes soon adjusted. The table was just as it had been left at the end of the meal. Plates, glasses and dishes stood empty and half-empty where the guests had abandoned them to go and have coffee in the living room. Silva looked at it all, trying to remember where everyone had been sitting. It all seemed very far away. She noticed Arian's almost untouched plate, and sighed. She didn't feel in the least sleepy now, but couldn't concentrate properly, either. Reviewing the plates and glasses, she recalled scraps of the conversation that had ebbed to and fro over them, interspersed with jesting and laughter. But during part of the discussion — the debate over Albania's relations with China — laughter had been only an outward mask disguising inner anxiety. One of the guests believed that these relations had worsened lately, as they had during the Cultural Revolution some years back, but that the deterioration was only temporary and the dark clouds would soon disappear. Someone else had answered that things looked more serious this time, and the crisis wouldn't be overcome so easily. There was no way we Albanians could approve of the rapprochement between America and China, so a certain amount of tension was only to be expected. Silva scanned the table as if imagining the trajectory of these exchanges. The opinions they expressed had been over-simplified and not very interesting, and two or three times Silva had caught Arian smiling rather condescendingly. It was the smile of someone who is in the know, and prefers not to join in the conversation of those who are not.

The crisis was only to be expected, repeated the husband of one of her sisters-in-law. Bet someone else reminded him that relations with China, unlike those with the Soviet Union, which were over for good and all, were subject to ups and downs: this last hitch was merely one of a series. Don't you remember? — we went through it all before, when the National Theatre proposed to put on Chekhov's
The Seagull
in the middle of the Cultural Revolution!

Silva remembered it very well It was a winter afternoon: it looked as if it was going to snow. All Tirana was in a high state of excitement; no one could talk about anything except the play. People were feverishly getting ready to go to the theatre; telephones kept ringing. Was the opening really going to take place this evening? - there was talk of cancellation… Then the theatre itself, and more discussions with friends in the cloakrooms. It was rumoured that the Chinese had tried to have the production suspended (Chekhov, like Shakespeare, was banned in China), and some officials at the Ministry of Education and Culture were on their side. Nevertheless, to the satisfaction of everyone there, the performance did take place…

But ever since thee, Sonia herself had pointed out last eight, it had been evident that our ideas were diverging from those of the Chinese, If I had my way, Gjergj's youngest sister had put in, we'd break with them altogether — I can't stand the sight of them! It's not as simple as that, answered one of the men; and what they look like has got nothing to do with it…I agree, said another: I think it's shocking the way so many people have started looking down on them. There's no denying they're a great people with a marvellous culture…Yes, indeed! was the reply, but, say what you like, China will always be an enigma. Zhou Enlai once said that if you want to understand Chinese politics you should go and see the Peking Theatre…But that's full of incomprehensible symbols, monkeys and snakes and dragons …!

Silva started to clear the table, as if she were trying to get rid of the remains of the argument too. She soon disposed of part of the débris, but when she came to Arian's plate she felt another qualm at the sight of his helping of roast meat, with scarcely a mouthful missing. “Oh, I do hope he manages to get out of this scrape all right!” she thought.

The familiar sound of water running into the kitchen sink cheered her up a bit. She had started automatically on the washing up. Then it struck her this was an idiotic thing to do at half-past four in the morning, and she left it.

By now she was feeling cold again. She buttoned up her cardigan. The kitchen windows too were covered with frost. It must be well below zero, she thought. Thee she suddenly remembered the lemon tree that had been delivered the previous afternoon, and what the man from the nursery had said: If there's a frost you must cover it up, otherwise it can shrivel up in a single night, It seemed crazy to think of going out on the balcony in this temperature, yet as she switched the hall light off and made to enter her bedroom, she paused. After all, why not? It wouldn't take long to go and cover up a little plant. She went on into the bedroom, opened the cupboard over the wardrobe, and felt around for a big cellophane bag she'd stowed away there at the end of the summer. Here we are, she exclaimed, tugging at it. Then she remembered that it was full of clothes, the kind of thing you probably won't ever wear again but can't bring yourself to throw away. With some annoyance she started to pull the things out of the bag. There were frocks and blouses that Brikena had grown out of; a loose jersey dress that Silva herself had worn when she was pregnant; bits of lace; skeins of embroidery thread; different-coloured balls of wool; scraps of knitted sweaters started and left unfinished; and various half-forgotten frills and flounces made of materials pleasant to the touch and triggering off vague memories.

Silva tipped them all out on to the carpet, meaning to put them away later in the day, then, throwing a coat round her shoulders, went out through the French window on to the balcony.

It really was very cold, and the pale yellow light of the moon, together with the utter silence, made it seem colder still The wan brightness seemed to have cast a numbing spell on the leaves of the lemon tree, as on everything else. Looking up, Silva saw a terrifyingly smooth sky which seemed to belong to another universe. At the thought that at this very moment Gjergj might be winging his way across that treacherously featureless expanse, a shiver ran down her spine.

The lemon tree would certainly have died in the night if I hadn't remembered to cover it up, she thought. She arranged the cellophane bag carefully over the little bunch of leaves, glad to find that it came down not only over the tree itself but also over part of the tub. Through the film of plastic the lemon tree looked nebulous, like something seen in a dream.

As Silva was about to go inside, something held her back: the waxen mask of the moon. She almost had to tear herself away from the pull of it.

Back in her bed, which still retained some warmth from her body, she found she was still trembling, not so much from the cold as because of that terrible emptiness. She couldn't get back to sleep. Snatches of the evening's conversation, the arguments about Albania's relations with China, and thoughts about her brother's situation kept whirling about in her mind in ever-increasing confusion. If you want to understand anything about China, go and see the Peking Opera…But it's full of fearful symbols, monkeys and snakes and dragons…Silva tossed and turned. Monkeys and snakes, she murmured, trying to remember something. Oh yes — it was something she'd been told years ago by Besnik Struga. He'd said how, just as snakes appear to people in dreams as a sign of misfortune, so he had seen some in the Butrin marshes just before the break with the Soviet Union. “As you know,” he'd said to her, “I'm not and never have been superstitious, but afterwards, when things went wrong between us and the Soviet Union, I couldn't get those snakes out of my mind. And oh, I almost forgot - do you know what happened to me a few months after the break?”

Then Besnik had told Suva how he'd been out in the street on the night of the first reception held after the rupture.

“Everyone was waiting to see a firework display, with rockets that had just arrived from China: they'd been the main topic of conversation for days. The whole sky suddenly erupted, and people looked up in delight and astonishment. For these were no ordinary fireworks — they were foreign, and as they fell they let out an eerie whistle that seemed to say, What crazy sort of a world is that down there? And as if that wasn't enough, another kind of rocket followed, producing shapes like mythical Chinese serpents: first they all hung in a kind of curtain or fringe, then they disappeared one by one, leaving the sky black as pitch. People started shouting, 'Snakes! Snakes!' and my own heart began to thump. 'What, more serpents?' I thought. 'Another evil omen?' Because, don't forget, Silva, this was the first public celebration after the crisis…”

Silva, huddled under the blankets, remembered all these incidents, and for the umpteenth time asked herself why Gjergj's journey had had to take place just now. In her mind's eye she saw again the black briefcase containing the secret documents he had to deliver — documents that were keeping the two of them poles apart tonight. What was that briefcase Gjergj was carrying across the sky without even knowing what was inside? And this journey…She remembered the sudden notification, the summons to see the minister, the rapid issuing of the necessary visa. The mere thought that her husband had been sent on a special mission was unnerving. He shouldn't have gone, she told herself. And as she felt herself dropping off, her mind was filled again by visions more vivid than ever of Besnik Struga's rockets, her brother's imminent expulsion from the Party, and Gjergj's mysterious briefcase. She woke up again several more times, and always those images seemed linked together by threads invisible in the darkness of the room. But soon the first gleams of an autumn dawn began to creep in through the window.

THE SKY WAS UNIMAGINABLY EMPTY
that late October eight, A few hundred planes landing at or taking off from airports, some millions of birds, three forlorn meteorites falling unnoticed into the immensity of the ocean, a few spy satellites orbiting at a respectful distance from one another — all these put together were as nothing compared with the infinite space of the sky. It was void and desolate. No doubt if ail the birds had been rolled into one they'd have weighed more than the planes and taken up more room, but even if every plane, meteorite and satellite were added to those birds, the result still wouldn't have filled even a tiny corner of the firmament. It was to all intents and purposes empty. No comet's tail, seen by men as an omen of misfortune, blazed across it this autumn night. And even if it had, the history of the sky, rich as it was not -only with the lives of birds, planes, satellites and comets but also with the thunder and lightning of all the ages, would still have been a poor one compared with the history of the earth.