The Concert (65 page)

As the doctor explained how he'd suspected for some time that Lucas's delusions would bring him to a sticky end, Hava Fortuzi thought with horror of her own Ekrem's fantasies: an invitation from Mao himself for the two of them to spend a fortnight at Mount Kunlie; long imaginary conversations in classical Chinese in which he gloated over Guo Moruo: “Tee-hee, now there's someone who knows more ideograms than you!” And so on.

It looked as though this cursed quack was going to blather on for ever. After trying several times to get a word in, Hava finally just interrupted.

“It may be stale news to everyone else, but I've heard rumours about a new rapprochement with the Soviet Union,' she said.

“I don't believe it for a moment,' declared the doctor.

“Neither do I,” said Musabelli after a moment's reflection.

“What about a rapprochement with the West, then?” gabbled Hava, terrified lest the doctor go back to Lucas's death. If she hadn't been so concerned about her husband she would never have said such a thing: she and Ekrem had gone over it so often it made her ill just to think of it.

“Even less likely,” pronounced the doctor.

“I agree,” said Musabelli.

Ekrem Fortuzi sighed. Perhaps it was his sickly looks, perhaps the parallel between his own obsession and that of the departed - at any rate, his sigh seemed so momentous it made everyone else fall silent. He might not have intended to say anything, but as they seemed to be waiting for him to speak, he did so.

“Paradoxical as it may seem,” he said faintly, “if I had to choose between China and the West, I'd choose China. Not because I dislike the West — on the contrary, because I love it, and should like it to exist in as safe a form as possible.”

Looking round at his audience, he saw they hadn't understood.

“Let me explain,” he said, “A West dressed up in socialist clothes would be safer, in my opinion, than it is in its naked form, as in Europe. Do you see what I mean?” He lowered his voice, “That's the kind of West we need - one wearing masks and disguises. Otherwise we shall always be in danger …Anyhow, perhaps we don't need Europe at all any more …We're older, we've changed, Europe isn't for us any more… That's the point, you see …Our only chance… our only chance was China. That's why I wept, I admit, and I'm not ashamed to do so. It's more shameful not to weep. And so,., And so …But what was I saying? …Oh yes, I cried, I cried my eyes out yesterday when I heard them read out China's announcement on the radio…”

As the others all gazed at each other, Ekrem got up and went out of the room. ln the silence that followed, his wife went out after him. After a few moments she came back, looking relieved,.

“He's in the bathroom,' she said in a stage whisper. “I've been worried about him ever since yesterday. I think he's on the verge of a breakdown. The wretched Chinese language has driven him mad. They talk about an embargo on oil and chrome and I don't know what else, but that's nothing compared with what's happened to Ekrem. All the Chinese he learned, gone down the drain! What's chrome or oil beside that? They'll soon find another market for that sort of thing — but what about all that Chinese? Ekrem's quite right to be depressed, poor thing. Last night it quite broke my heart to look at him, I've already told you how he wept — more than anyone else outside China, I'm sure — when Mao died. Bet Î thought that was all over. And then yesterday evening I heard him start up again!. My poor Mao,' he was sobbing, ‘they've all stopped loving you, they've all deserted you before your body is cold. The only one who still thinks about you and loves you is me, an Albanian, an ex-bourgeois. But let the others forget you, or curse you — I shall go on translating you as before…' And so he went on, poring over his Chinese books. Now you're dead, the Word is dead,' he said. Oh, I'm so afraid something might happen to him, if it hasn't done so already! Alarupi's suicide was the last straw!”

Mesabelli was about to speak when Ekrem came back into the room. Everyone would have liked to say something, so as not to look as if they'd been talking about him but they were all lost for words. Perhaps they were paralyzed by the way he himself looked from one to the other, as if to say, “Well, you've been discussing me. What do you say? Have ! gone completely bonkers?”

In the silence, Mark's fiancée whispered something in her young man's ear. He'd been staring down at the pattern in the threadbare carpet.

Il fait froid
, she said again, even more softly. Her pale blue eyes had darkened. And without waiting for the conversation to start up again, they both got up and went into the other room. Hava Fortuzi watched them enviously.

“Turn your collar up,” Silva told Brikeea, who could hardly keep her eyes open.

It was very damp as they walked back through the city centre just before midnight. A small group of roadsweepers walked along in front of them, talking.

“They're talking about the Chinese,” said Silva.

“What can roadsweepers have to say about the Chinese?” asked Brikena sleepily.

On the opposite pavement a man dressed like a foreigner had stopped to listen,

“No, no,” laughed one of the roadmen. “As sure as my name is Rem, you won't catch me again! You can say what you like about Mao Zedong, I shan't open my lips. I'd rather bite my tongue out than utter his name. I've already copped it once that way — I did fifteen years in jug because of Krushchev. And when, I ask you? When everyone was insulting him! Oh no, never again! Everyone else calling him all the names they could lay their tongues to, and me rotting behind bars! just because ! started cursing him a couple of hours before everyone else!”

The other roadsweepers laughed.

“You didn't go to jail for insulting Krushchev,” said one of them. “They put you away for relieving yourself against the tree he planted in the garden opposite the Hôtel Dajti, in honour of Albano-Soviet friendship,”

“So what?” said Rem. “What's the difference between a tree and the person who planted it? Don't talk to me about it - it makes me fit to be tied!”

“You mustn't lose your temper today, Rem - the last day before you retire! Thirty years sweeping the streets for the new man to walk along — isn't that what the union boss said? I tell you, it brought tears to my eyes.”

“Yes, it quite upset me as well,” said Rem,

“How amusing!” said Brikena. “I've never heard roadsweepers talking before. Don't walk so fast, Mother — ! want to listen.”

But by now they'd left the roadmen behind, and could hear only snatches of what they were saying.

“Come on, Rem! Wield your broom for the last time! You've swept some things away in your lifetime! Sweep the street clean for the last time! Sweep the whole surface of the earth clean!”

“What are they saying, Father?” asked Brikena, “I thought I heard one of them call out, ‘Sweep the surface of the earth clean of everything to do with the Chinese!'“

“I shouldn't be surprised!” said Gjergj, slowing down. He looked over at the roadmen, who at present were standing still. The man on the other side of the street, now quite clearly a foreigner, had also stopped to listen. But the roadmen had fallen silent.

“The one who's retiring really is sweeping the street for the last time,” said Silva.

And in the distance they could see one of the men swishing his broom back and forth along the crown of the road, raising a cloud of dust and shrouding himself in mystery.

It was long past midnight, and messages from Europe were becoming few and far between. The observer at the Pole looked at his log-book: his notes were thinning out too. His superiors had pointed it out to him, but there was nothing he could do about it.

People said it was a kind of professional illness that afflicted everyone who did this job. After the first few months they gradually became indifferent. This aloofness brought about great changes in the way they perceived the universe: space, distance, time and events all assumed different dimensions. Many things that before had seemed important and established now seemed like ephemeral trifles; others arose out of nothingness and night to blaze like new planets. When people talked about the world's reserves of oil or coal or rock salt, he marvelled that no one ever thought about the world's reserves of malice, goodness and crime. History was written quite wrongly: a few battles and treaties, but all the most important things left out. Where for example would you find a single word about the twelve thousand girls in Europe who fell in love between five o'clock and a quarter to six on the afternoon of 20 September 1976? — in what annals, what diplomatic documents, historical or geo-strategic maps? And what about the sorrow of eleven generations of bald men between the end of the Middle Ages and the beginning of modern times? It was that kind of thing that was the real stuff of history, not that other squeaking of rats reeling home from some grotesque evening out, the tedious pastime of Lilliputians!

He realized that if he went on like that he'd end up neglecting his work and probably get sacked; but he'd given up bothering about that a long time ago. He'd find some other, less demanding job, or perhaps write his memoirs —
The Solitude of the World Listener
. His reminiscences would probably turn out as peculiar as the chattering radio messages, but perhaps they too would be punctuated by quieter passages, about the state of the ice, the temperature of the water, the barometric pressure.

He certainly wouldn't be writing about the everyday trivia of politics. The international monetary crisis was going to get worse, people said. And the next Pope would be a Pole — dear me, what a scoop! He looked at the time: he would be waking up his colleague in a few minutes. He'd jot down a few more notes, old chronicler of the planet that he was, like some medieval monk working by flickering candlelight; then he'd go to bed. A huge yawn blocked his ears for a moment and prevented him from hearing half of a sentence about China, Heavens, all the things he'd scribbled down on
that
subject lately!

But wait a minute! What they were saying just now was a bit out of the ordinary, more in the style of his own reflections. He leaned forward, hunching up his shoulders to bring the earpieces closer to his ears…
In Albania they think China should he swept off the face of the earth
… Good grief, thought the observer, who could have said such a thing? It was all very well for
him
to think it himself, sitting there on top of the world, but down there in that ridiculous mess, what far-sighted spirit was responsible for such a point of view? He concentrated, trying to hear more:
People walking the streets of Tirana at night express the opinion that Mao Zedong's China ought to be swept off the surface of the earth
…
This is the first time anyone had formulated in so radical and absurd a manner an idea so
. Well, my lad, thought the observer, inwardly addressing the unknown broadcaster, you may see it like that, but I agree with that sentiment entirely! And he suddenly longed to be having a quiet whisky somewhere with that anonymous passer-by from Tirana, peacefully discussing what countries seemed to them superfluous, what centuries they could do without, and how to rid the planet of such things, unfasten them and let them fall into the void. Just like that, he mused,, aware he was about to lose the thread of his thoughts…The sadness of eleven generations of bald men hovered sadly, like a great condor, over the globe …I may be going round the bend, he told himself, but that doesn't matter either…

The headset, which was now dangling from his hand, was emitting poor little twittering noises. Drivel away, he told them — I'm not going to listen any more! He'd been gazing for some time at the wall, at the day's date on the calendar. There was a blue ring round it, picking it out as marking one of the only two dawns visible from here in the whole year. In six months of polar darkness, he had never once seen the sun rise. He had come there during that polar night, and now for the first time he was going to see the day. Mustn't miss this! he thought.

He dropped his headset on the floor, put on his anorak and walked over to the door. It did occur to him that he ought to wake his colleague to replace him, but he dismissed this insignificant thought from his mind.

The sen now really was rising. It was incredibly white, stunning as a cry, but constantly shrinking at the edges so as to let you pass. The monitor made his way across the ice in a kind of trance, not looking back. Except once: and when he saw the little building, so small and sombre in the distance, like a witch's cottage, with all that idiotic chatter inside, he felt like roaring with laughter.

i'm not mad, he told himself. It's just that my head is full of the light of a thousand mornings rolled into one. Or rather, with the light of a hundred and eighty-two dawns.

He walked on towards the pure expanses of ice far away from the noisy hut. If he'd turned back he'd only hâve heard a lot of ramblings about the two Germanics, the Roman Empire and the seveeteenth century. It wasn't worth it. Such things weren't important enough to deserve a backward glance.

PROBLEMS WERE ARISING EVERYWHERE
, A Sudden drop in the temperature followed by two earthquakes in succession in central Albania seemed designed to complete the picture. The first green shoots of March and the open-air cafés opening up by the artificial lake outside Tirana - all the things suggesting holidays and the pleasures of the beach seemed shocking and incongruous, like a grin at a funeral.

The docks were cluttered up with heaps of chrome ore which the Chinese had deliberately omitted to load. As if the slump in oil production wasn't enough, the sudden fall in prices on the world market invoked the country in considerable financial loss. But chrome and oil weren't the only sectors affected. The entire structure of foreign trade was shaken. Export agents hastened abroad in search of new markets, but European companies weren't in any hurry to oblige. The sound of telex machines was rarely heard these days.