The Concert (64 page)

“Is Arian Krasniqi here?” asked the chairman.

Someone said he was.

“Stand up, kid, and throw a scare into them!” his neighbour hissed in his ear.

Arian was in a daze. Afterwards, looking back, he couldn't remember how he got from his seat to the rostrum. He sometimes thought he must have floated there in a trance.

“Well, Kraseiqi,” said the chairman, “tell us something about this affair of the tanks. You were there when the order arrived, weren't you?”

Arian nodded, and suddenly, more clearly than ever before, the famous afternoon came back to him - the afternoon when his whole life almost snapped in two: the tanks lined up on the plain, their turrets glistening in the rain, the muzzles of the guns like blind eyes. It all came back so vividly he wouldn't have been surprised to feel the rain falling on his shoulders. He started to speak, not focusing his eyes on anything inparticular as if he was afraid any distraction might make him lose that inner vision on which the truth, and his honour, depended.

Four days after Suva's return, the rest of the team from the ministry came back to Tirana.

In Suva's office, she and Linda swapped news for more than half an hour with the boss and Arian, who had come in that day with his sister. The weather was dull, so they'd switched the lights on, and this, together with their lively conversation, created a cheerful atmosphere.

The recent arrivals had had new stories to tell about the Chinese. Silva asked what was happening about the blast furnace, and was told that in two or three days' time it was going to be unblocked by means of an explosion — that was the only solution.

“I believe the person in charge is a friend of yours, isn't he?” said the boss, turning to Silva.

Silva thought she saw Linda avert her eyes on hearing this veiled reference to Besnik Strega's younger brother, as she had when Silva first told her about the projected explosion, (She had even blushed a little,) After a week's absence, Silva had noticed a change. Desks, filing cabinets, curtains, telephone - all were just as before. But even though it wasn't visible, the difference was unmistakably there. For a moment it seemed to Silva that she caught a glimpse of it in Lindaus eyes, which were more beautiful now, even though they wouldn't meet her own.

“And what about here?' asked the boss. “Anything new here? We heard there was something, but it was all very vague…”

The other two relayed what people were saying about expulsions from the Party and the sacking of ministers. Every time a name was mentioned, the boss tut-tutted and said, “Dear me! Jolly good!” Then, as if to himself: “Well I never, all these plenums! What a turn-up for the book, eh?”

Scarcely twelve hours after the end of the plenum of the Central Committee, the names of those who had been expelled were announced. For the first time the words “putsch” and “putschist” were used as well as “sabotage” and “saboteur”. The people concerned were said to have been put under house arrest. Some rumours had it that three or four had even been arrested as they came out of the last session, and that when they collected their overcoats from the cloakroom their epaulettes and stripes had already been ripped off.

Everyone now linked these events with the deterioration of relations with China. Some went so far as to hint that although he had been literally reduced to ashes a long time ago, Zhou Enlai had given the conspirators their instructions by means of a tape recording. Most people, however, thought the plot was a domestic matter and that Zhou Enlai's exhortations were merely ideological That seemed more probable: the Chinese certainly wanted a change in the Albanian Party line, as someone had said at an important high-level meeting, bet it wasn't in their interests to overthrow the Albanian régime altogether.

One morning at the office, Silva looked out of the window and saw another crowd of Chinese in Government Square. Just as she'd done a few months before, she called to the others to come and see.

Next day, as if the crowd of Chinese in the square had been a sign, all the newspapers published the Peking government's announcement that China was cutting off all aid to Albania and recalling all its experts.

Brief group meetings were called for nine o'clock, where everyone was informed of the gist of the Chinese declaration and of Albania's reply. In the middle of the morning, everyone went down to the cafeteria as usual It was hard to believe they'd heard about the Chinese note only this morning. It seemed quite stale already, as if it had been sent months ago, even as if it had existed for ever.

Silva could scarcely help laughing when she thought of what Skender Bermema had said. She'd met him by chance near the National Theatre, and they'd walked together as far as the Street of the Barricades, He'd told her that the Chinese note had been accompanied by all kinds of weird documents, including an X-ray of a foot, which might have been the one Silva had mentioned to him some time ago.

“Of course/. he said, “it may be apocryphal — that sort of thing always flourishes in situations like the one we're in now. But if they ever publish a white paper on Sino-Albanian relations in the past few years, they couldn't find a more appropriate symbol to put on the cover than that Chink's foot!”

Silva started to smile as she thought once again about Skënder's suggestion, but her laughter died away on her lips. She'd just caught sight of Linda and Besnik Struga on the other side of the street. She stared incredulously. Bet yes, it really was them — it was even pretty obvious that they hadn't met by chance. He had his hands in his pockets, and she was skipping along lightly by his side. She was smiling, too, but that was no ordinary smile: it radiated out over the world in general, and was clearly rooted in her whole being…Ah, thought Silva, now I see why she didn't want to meet my eye.

The other two didn't see her, and she felt a moment's resentment as they disappeared along the street. But she soon realized that the feeling wasn't directed against either of them. In fact, after a little, their being together seemed quite natural. They'd probably been seeing each other while she was away, and it was quite understandable that Linda hadn't said anything about it. It would be mean not to see their point of view, especially as both of them would probably confide in her eventually, if they really…No, her sadness was because of Ana: because Ana wasn't here any more, couldn't walk lightly along the street as she used to do, and yet something of her…But was that possible? Could Linda, who had never met Ana, be acting like her in some way, as if under some influence from another world?… Perhaps, after all, that was why Besnik…

Silva quickened her pace to try to control her emotion.

“Mother,” Brikeea whispered as she went in, “Aunt Hasiyé's here.” As she took off her coat, Silva saw signs of panic in her daughter's face, but pretended not to notice. She'd told Brikena so often not to lose her head if a visitor turned up while she was alone in the apartment. As she'd told her the last time: it wasn't as difficult as all that to give whoever it was a cup of coffee and make conversation for a while. But Brikena must have got Mustered again,

“What are you looking at me like that for?” said Silva. “It's nothing out of the way for Aunt Hasiyé to drop in!”

“But, Mother, she started talking like…like the last time…”

“Oh, Brikena, you know she's a bit strange ie the head now,” said Silva with a touch of annoyance. “People of her age can't always remember…”

“But she keeps rambling on, saying ail sorts of odd things,” Brikena answered. “She's asked me three times who I am — I was getting quite frightened.”

“AM right, all right/. said Silva shortly, making for the living room and putting on a welcoming expression. “How are you, Aunt Hasiyé? How's everyone at home? Brikena, would you make Aunt Hasiyé a cup of coffee, please? And one for me too, if you will.”

As soon as the old woman started to speak, Silva realized that her state had got worse. She mixed up the living and the dead, and confused time, place and everything else. Brikena, making the coffee, turned round and looked at Silva as if to say, What did I tell you?

“How's Ana?, said Aunt Hasiyé. “I haven't seen her for a long time.”

Silva bit her lip.

“But Ana's passed on, Aeet Hasiyé,” she said gently. But the old lady either didn't understand what she said, or else forgot it immediately.

“You hardly ever see your relations nowadays,' she went on. “It used to be different in the old days. They used to come and see you of their own accord. But that's all over now. Fortunately I still see them in my dreams…”

Silva smiled sadly.

“Everybody has such a lot to do now,” the old lady continued, “They're all involved with politics, too. In my young days, people took an interest in politics, but not as much as now, I remember the time when the Chinese were here — but you're too young to remember that! They had a very wicked sultan - a very, very wicked man with a name like a cat. Miao Zedong, he was called. But all the same he ended up breaking his neck!”

Brikena stifled a laugh.

“You two didn't know the Chinese - you can afford to laugh! They had eyes like this…like slits. But Î can only just remember them myself. It's a long time since they went away — a hundred years perhaps, maybe more, Î remember the day they went …A neighbour of ours, Lucas his name was, hanged himself with a luggage strap. Then the Germans came — I remember them very clearly. But they didn't like the Russians…I remember the Italians as well - they wore perfume, like women …”

Silva and Brikena both burst out laughing. Brikena handed round the coffee.

“I listen to the radio,” said Aunt Hasiyé, “but I can't understand a word the modern politicians say. Who was it, now, that they were insulting on the radio yesterday? The Turks?”

“No, Aunt Hasiyé - the Chinese.”

“No, no — not the Chinese, That was in my day. They took themselves off more than a century ago. No one can remember them. Now we're at daggers drawn with the Turks. You don't know what the Chinese are like — you've only dreamed about them!”

Aunt Hasiyé meandered on for some time, but Silva gradually stopped laughing. The way. the old woman mixed up times and tenses might seem very funny, but if you thought about it, other people's attitude to time was no less absurd. There was something artistic about Aunt Hasiyé's way of talking: not only in her mixing up of time, but also in her abolition of the frontiers between reality, dream and imagination. She asked again about Ana, insisting that she'd met her last month in the street, carrying a string bag full of oranges. Silva decided there was no point in trying to explain. Hadn't she herself remembered her sister today? And was there really ail that difference between the old lady's account of her meeting with Ana in the street and the description she herself might give of her impressions when she saw Besnik Struga and Linda an hour or so ago, and thought the dead woman had some how lent her colleague her light step?

Meanwhile the phone had rung and Brikena had run to answer it. It was Sonia, wanting to speak to Silva. She asked all three of them to go round that evening if they were free. Silva said it depended on Gjergj, but she'd talk to him when he got home, and call back.

Gjergj came in just as Aunt Hasiyé was getting ready to leave. To the delight of Brikeea, who was watching out for their visitor to produce more eccentricities. Aunt Hasiyé scarcely recognized the newcomer.

By the time all three of them set out for Arian's place an hour later, it was dark. Two fire-engines were rushing down Pine Street, sirens shrieking.

“The human brain is a very strange thing,” said Gjergj. “We laughed at what Aunt Hasiyé was saying, but do you know, in her ramblings she mentioned something that actually happened today?”

Silva felt like exclaiming, “Telepathy!”

“She mentioned someone called Lucas hanging himself a hundred years ago. Well, he really did hang himself today. They were talking about it in the cafeteria at the ministry when ! went in for a coffee.”

“Who was he?”

Gjergj shrugged.

“I couldn't quite make out, to tell you the truth. One of the old guard, ! think.”

Hava Fortuzi reminded her husband for the third time that it was unlucky to go straight home after a funeral

“What are we supposed to do, then? You know ! don't feel like going anywhere.”

“I know, darling, but we must go and see someone. It'll be better for you too. I know — the Kryekurts! What do you think?”

“All right,” he grumbled. “I might have known we'd end up there. As usual”

“Better the devil you know…”

“Not necessarily…Oh, this suicide! I feel at the end of my tether!”

“Stop thinking about it.”

“I can't, I can't!” he moaned, “it's not just Lucas himself — you know Î didn't really know him very well But there's something about his death that does seem close…familiar somehow…”

“You must just try to put it all behind you.”

“It gave me a shock as soon as I heard how he'd died. I asked how he'd done it, and when they said he'd used a luggage strap I nearly yelled out, That was just how I thought I'd do it myself!'“

“Ekrem! You go too far!”

“The parallel is quite natural We were both connected to…

Yesterday, when I read the Chinese note, my heart missed a beat. I expect his did too. It's all over now. There's nothing left. It's the end.”

“Ekrem! Stop it!”

“it's the end. The last hope… the last gleam of hope…”

“You must be crazy! People will hear you!”

“The one little dream…”

The gate into the Kryekurts' courtyard was now in sight. Hava Fortuzi hurried towards it as to a haven. Î only hope they're not talking about that wretch's death, she thought. But in the Kryekurts' living room that's just what they were doing. Apart from Mark and his fiancée, both of whom remained silent, the company included Musabelli, two more of the Kryekurts' acquaintance whom the Fortuzis hadn't seen for some time, and the doctor who had cut the unfortunate Lucas Alarupi down. They were all just back from the funeral, and Hava Fortuzi was surprised to see they'd all wiped their shoes so carefully they bore no trace of mud from the cemetery. She suddenly had a feeling that they, and for that matter the whole human race, spent ail their lives going to funerals. So long as the doctor doesn't regale us with all the details! she thought, looking first at the fellow's short-cropped hair — a style he'd got the habit of in prison — then at her husband's tense expression. But of course the doctor - he'd always brought her bad leek - launched straight into a blow-by-blow account of the suicide. Hava Fortuzi listened absently to, his account of the rue-down area where Lucas Alarupi did the deed: a piece of waste ground near the disused railway station, covered with dust, clinker, like most such places. There were also lots of sheets of paper, which the poor wretch had looked at one last time before taking his own life. Everything was there: production diagrams, photographs of star workers, graphs showing the progress of the plan, telegrams congratulating the trade unions for beating deadlines. Hava Fortuzi watched her husband as the doctor spoke. He was listening with bated breath, and she was sure he was imagining his own feet dangling over bits of his translations of economic reports and other official documents, not to mention the poems of Mao Zedong.