The Concert

by Ismail Kadare

  If at least the two of them had been cowering at the back of the café, she wouldn’t have seen them, she thought bitterly. But no, regardless of what anyone might think they’d sat right by the window, as if to exhibit themselves to the whole of Tirana. The anger she’d been feeling against herself now turned on him. He might at least have refrained from trying to pull the wool over her eyes with his sham affection, his sugary telegrams and what followed. He ought to have had the guts to show his indifference openly, to go off the deep end, throw scenes, make all the neighbours come running — it would have been more honest than that deceitful calm.

  It wasn’t as if she hadn’t had the opportunity to deceive him! Her jealousy suddenly mingled with a thirst for revenge. Against her will she imagined herself hurrying to a secret rendezvous. Some day as full of treachery as today, she would take off her clothes for a man, swiftly, impetuously, without shame, to make her vengeance more complete. Scenes followed one on another in her mind, but they gave her no satisfaction…She knew she could never behave like that. But what else could she do?

  She was no longer heading for home. She’d changed direction, as if working out another, more cruel way of punishing him. And she did have an idea now. It only remained to put it into action. She soon found herself near a bus-stop. She was still in a state of shock, and didn’t ask herself why she was waiting there. It wasn’t until the bus came and she got on it that she realized where she meant to go. To the cemetery. To Ana’s grave.

  Her tear-filled eyes distorted everything that passed before them. She felt as if she was about to burst out sobbing, not so much because of what had just happened as at finding herself in one of those periods in her life when Ana’s absence seemed particularly terrible. How irreplaceably wonderful Ana would have been in such circumstances! Silva imagined herself having a cup of tea with her sister in some shop, and telling Ana her troubles. She would have been ready to endure much worse sufferings if only she could have told Ana about them.

  The bus was full and drove along slowly. Silva was impatient. She thought she glimpsed a familiar face amongst the crowd, and turned her face to the window to avoid being spoken to. For many of those she knew, she was still one of the inseparable Krasniqi sisters, and their names were always linked together in people’s conversation. Today Silva didn’t want to talk to anyone.

  The bus arrived at the terminus. The cemetery was only a few minutes’ walk away. Once through the iron gate, Silva almost ran along the path leading to Ana’s grave, as if her sister were waiting for her. The cemetery was almost empty, but Silva slowed down so as not to attract attention. At last she came to the grave: its pale marble tombstone seemed to contain the last gleams of day. A bunch of fresh pink roses had been placed beside the faded ones from last week. Who could have brought them? Silva bit her lip with vexation: her mind was in such a whirl she’d forgotten to bring any flowers. She sighed. Some scattered white rose-petals, languishing on the grave, seemed to have melted into the marble. Everything was quiet. A few paces away to the right there was an old woman whom Silva had noticed there several times before: as usual, she had brought her dear departed a cup of coffee. She’d put the cup on the top of the grave, and was either weeping or just bowing and lifting’ her head, Silva knelt down, and for something to do used the handkerchief crumpled up in her hand to polish the porcelain medallion on the headstone, it acted as frame to a photograph. Ana smiled out at her, her hair blown slightly by a wind off the sea; you could see the waves in the background. Besnik had taken that snapshot the first summer they spent together at the beach, at Durrës. Yet again Silva felt her eyes brim over, and tears as well as petals now patterned the marble slab. She couldn’t take her eyes off the petals: for some reason or other they conjured up more strongly than anything else could have done the idyllic affair between Ana and Besnik, Ana had often told her about that perfect felicity, during thrilling hours they’d spent together in the tea-shop on the third floor of the palace of Culture, when Ana came to collect Silva from the reading room of the library. Later on, after Ana’s death, seeing Besnik facing life’s ups and downs with such calm indifference, Silva had wondered whether this was because he had already had his full quota of happiness.

  Whenever she visited her sister’s grave Silva recalled parts of the story of Ana’s second marriage. It wasn’t because of the grave, with its pale marble vaguely suggesting a bride’s veil, the wreath of flowers, and the traditional handfuls of rice. These things belonged to Ana’s first marriage rather than her second, for which she had dressed very soberly. No, it was because of something else, something that in a curious way erased the memory of the interminable days of Ana’s illness, the months in hospital, the anxious waiting, the operation. Ana’s first marriage, to Frédéric, had somehow been swallowed up in those sad memories — had been stripped of its veil, its lights, of everything that was joyful, and had made way for Ana’s second marriage as one house may give up its contents in order to furnish another.

  “Silva, I’m going to divorce Frédéric…” She well remembered hearing Ana say that. It was on a cold grey day like today, without mercy for anyone who stepped out of line. Ana’s face had been paler than usual as she spoke. Before Silva had time to get over her astonishment, her sister had continued, even more amazingly: “I’m going to marry someone else.” “Marry someone else?” gasped Silva. Then she tried to speak more moderately. “Have you gone out of your mind? Haven’t you said yourself that for you men are only interesting at a distance, and as soon as they get near you they lose most of their attraction?” “Not this time,” said Ana, “I’ve been with him — or rather I’ve been his, as they say — for a week.” “I can’t believe it!” Silva had cried. She seemed to say nothing else all those icy weeks. “Fred thinks I’ve betrayed him lots of times,” said Ana, “but I never did, as you know. Never, Except perhaps once, in circumstances where I…where we both…”

  Silva had sat staring at her sister. She was probably referring to her relations with Skënder Bermema which had been the talk of the town but which no one — including Silva.— really knew anything about, Silva was tempted to say, “What’s all the mystery about Skënder Bermema? You might at least tell me! You’re always making enigmatic references to it …Unless you only met him in a dream, or vice-versa, or unless the gossips themselves dreamed it all up …” But that day Ana had been talking about somebody else, a third man, and that wasn’t the moment to try to find out about Skënder Bermema. Nor did a suitable occasion present itself later. Ana never told Silva her secret; she was to take it with her to the grave.

  Anyhow, that day, the subject of conversation was somebody else. “Who is it you want to marry?” Silva had asked, finally. And thee, for the first time, Ana had uttered the name of Besnik Straga.

  “The man who was in Moscow and has jest broken off his engagement?” Silva asked.

  Ana nodded.

  “Yes. Perhaps yoe remember me going to dinner with Victor Hila a few weeks ago? Well, it was there I met him.“

  “And what are you going to do now?”

  “I’ve told you. I’m going to marry him.”

  Silva, perched now on a corner of the rose-strewn marble slab, huddled up to keep out the cold, felt a great emptiness inside her. Scraps of memories whirled around her indistinguishably; none emerged more distinct than the others. Then vaguely, distantly, they formed into a kind of television film with the sound turned off: first came the scandal caused by the announcement of Ana’s divorce; thee the legal proceedings, with Frédéric coming into court carrying an armful of books by Skënder Bermema in which he’d marked all the passages he alleged referred to the author’s affair with Ana; the gossip; Ana’s dignified behaviour throughout. The storm, which Ana, with her talent for making everything around her light and airy, transformed into a spring shower, was followed by a fiat calm: her marriage to Besnik Strega; the little dinner party with just a few close friends. When, after the first few weeks, they assessed the damag
e this earthquake of theirs had caused among their circle, they realized there hadn’t been any great upheavals, apart from one loss that affected them deeply: they couldn’t see the Bermemas any more.

  Silva remembered a bright rainy afternoon when she and Ana were walking past the puppet theatre, and her sister nudged her and whispered, “Look, Silva - that’s the girl who was engaged to Besnik …” The girl was hurrying along under a transparent umbrella which cast pale mauve reflections on to her face. In that lavender light her expression struck Silva, who had never seen her before, as full of mystery. There was no trace of resentment in Ana’s eyes or voice. She just said, “She’s pretty, isn’t she?”, when the girl had gone past, Silva didn’t know what to say. She agreed. When she saw the girl again later, after she’d got married to an engineer, she still seemed just as mysterious as on that first day, through that mauve mist. But perhaps this was because Silva had heard people say that although she was so attractive to men, she was also proud and self-willed; it was even whispered that she was very cold towards her husband. But Silva was rather sceptical about that. Perhaps because of all the tittle-tattle about Ana, she tended to discount rumours about women’s infidelity. There was much more to be said about the infidelity of men.

  Silva sighed. In the end, what did it all matter? She’d come here for something else. She stared at the wet marble; her eyes were so tired they hurt. What would she have said to her sister if she’d still been alive? “Ana, I’m going to divorce Gjergj”? She shuddered. Oh no, she thought. Never! She’d heard someone else use such words, and now she wanted to give them back, like something she’d borrowed that didn’t suit her. Like most younger sisters, she’d often imitated Ana, but the time for that had gone by. They had been as one, like sisters in the ancient ballads, and they still were one. But now they were like twin water-lilies, the invisible roots of one of which were dead. Even though people still spoke of them together, the old symmetry was no more. The words Silva had been on the point of saying were quite alien to her.

  She glanced around. No one. When she looked at her watch she couldn’t believe her eyes: it was after two o’clock. At home they’d have been wondering where she was. She felt her lips curve in a bitter smile. Perhaps she’d smile like this when she first spoke to Gjergj. It was late, but she hadn’t yet bothered to think what she’d say to him. She stood up, smoothed her skirt down, and started to make her way out of the cemetery. The worst would be if he tried to hide the truth, and degraded himself in her eyes with petty lies. How horrible! thought Silva, as if a new misfortune had suddenly been revealed to her. I only hope it won’t be like that, she thought as she got on to the almost empty bus. Then she wondered what it would be like if he simply admitted he was having an affair; at this idea she wasn’t quite so shattered. She sighed again. Whichever way she looked at it, she couldn’t see any solution. What horrible chance made me go by that cursed café, she wondered. It would have been better for me not to know. I'd a hundred times rather not have seen anything.

  The bus picked up passengers at every stop. It was almost three o’clock by the time she got off. She still hadn’t thought what she would say to Gjergj, She ought at least to have an answer ready when he asked where she’d been. But she felt too worn out to think about anything. She was almost surprised to see a couple of young men unloading crates of mineral water from a lorry outside a bar in the street where she lived. They whistled as they staggered across the pavement to the shop, the bottles clinking. Was life really still going on as if nothing had happened?

  She paused for a moment outside the apartment as if to muster her strength. Then she took her key out of her bag, and trying, heaven knows why, to make as little noise as possible, opened the door. In the hall she took her coat off and waited for Gjergj to come and ask where she’d got to. But a suspicious quiet reigned. What if he hadn’t come back? It vaguely occurred to her that he might still be there in the café with the girl, or lunching tête-à-tête with her in some restaurant. Why hadn’t she thought of that before? She snatched the scarf from round her neck almost violently — it seemed to cling on - and propelled by fury at the possibility she’d just been considering, she burst into the kitchen. And there was Gjergj, standing by the French window that opened on to the balcony. She was so astonished she almost cried out, “You’re here!” He was smoking. The face he turned towards her, though it showed no surprise, wore a frown. What was he looking like that for? Perhaps he knew…Perhaps he’d seen her though the window of the café… And now…Attack was the best form of defence! All this flashed through Suva’s mind in less than a second. Then something made her look at Brikena, who was busy at the dresser: she wore the same sullen expression. The explanation must be worse than that, she thought, stunned. But what could it be? That he had indeed seen her and had no intention of defending himself, even by attacking her, but would calmly, cruelly, lethally tell her he loved someone else, and… and…that he’d told his daughter about it …so that she could choose between her father and mother…So there was something worse, much much worse (“Fondest fondest love”‘)…Perhaps…perhaps…(the word “separation” came into her mind with the harsh tearing sound of someone ripping a length of cloth). And all that had taken no more than another second…

  “What on earth has happened?” she managed to stammer. Exactly what she had expected them to say to her.

  Gjergj looked back at her fixedly. He too looked rather surprised, but his main expression was one of consternation. He seemed to be saying, “Never mind about us - what about you?” He glanced towards the sofa, and it was then that Silva realized there was someone else in the room. Sonia, her sister-in-law, was sitting on the sofa, white as a sheet and with tears streaming down her cheeks and even into her shoulder-length hair.

  “Sonia!” said Silva, starting towards her. “What’s happened?”

  Sonia’s brimming eyes seemed to have aged suddenly.

  “Arian…” she murmured.

  Silva nodded encouragingly.

  Yes, but what, she wondered, half wanting to know and half too worn out to care. Had her brother had an accident? Committed suicide? For a moment she thought this might be the answer, but no - if so, Sonia would have stayed at home…

  “What?” she repeated,

  “Arrested,” sobbed Sonia.

  “What!”

  Silva turned first to Gjergj and then to Brikena, as if to ask them if she was in her right mind. Of all the possible misfortunes, this one had never occurred to her. What a day!

  “When?” she asked, trying to keep calm,

  “This morning at ten o’clock."

  Just when she was laughing at Skënder Bermema’s comments at the exhibition, and while Gjergj…

  He went on smoking, standing by the French window leading out on to the balcony, Brikena was now setting the table. The mere idea of eating struck Silva as barbarous. Bet as if she found some temporary respite in catching up with duties she’d thought she’d skipped, she started coming and going with unnatural assiduity between the table and the stove, where the meal had got cold and been heated up again several times.

  “I don’t suppose you’ve had any lunch, Sonia?”

  “I haven’t even thought about it!”

  “Anyhow, sit down and eat something…”

  “It was frightful!” Sonia groaned. “Fortunately Mother and the children weren’t in!”

  “I was just going to ask you what had become of them,” said Silva.

  “They don’t know anything about it. Aunt Urania had called for Mother to go and see some friend of theirs. The children were out.”

  “They mustn’t know!” said Gjergj. “Tell them he’s been sent on a mission.”

  “This is the last straw!” Silva exclaimed, “Come and have something to eat now, and well talk about it all later.”

  She was about to start serving when she remembered the salad hadn’t been prepared. She asked Brikena to see to it, while she herself went to the refrigerat
or for the cheese, and something else out of a tin which she then replaced. She performed all these actions feverishly, her mind in a whirl. These plates wouldn’t do for taking food to a prisoner —- you’re only allowed to use tinfoil containers…Snap out of it, she told herself, grabbing a handful of forks from the dresser.

  Sonia was still weeping silently on the sofa.

  “When they expelled him from the Party,” she said, “I thought that would be the end of it. Who would ever have thought things would go so far?”

  “Don’t cry, Sonia,” said a voice Silva recognized as Gjergj’s.

  She felt she hadn’t heard it for a long time…ever since…ever since the disaster. But this wasn’t the moment to think about that; it would be indecent.

  “I’m not just saying it to console you,” Gjergj went on, “but I'm sure it’s only a misunderstanding. Besides, Sonia, being arrested when you’re in the army is not the same as if you’re a civilian. It’s not nearly so serious — not a catastrophe at all. Any soldier can be put under arrest for disobedience or some such offence, and afterwards go on just as before. It’s in the regulations — you must have heard about it… You’ve seen it happen in films, don’t you remember? Some triling misconduct, five days in clink, fall out!”

  “Gjergj is right,” said Silva. “To be put under arrest in the army is nothing! When our colleagues at the ministry come back from reserve training they’re always full of stories about it. Arian has merely committed some minor offence for which army regulations prescribe arrest!”