The Concert

by Ismail Kadare

  The observer’s job was to record only messages relating to the communist world; all the rest were of no interest. But he was supposed to monitor everything. And apart from the fact that the communist world had poked its nose into all the problems of the human race, it sometimes happened that an apparently harmless conversation - about religious violence in Ireland, for instance - had some sort of relevance to Soviet missile bases in the Arctic. No message was negligible - that was the essence of the monitor’s instructions. “Don’t go telling yourself that a message missed by you will be picked up by one of your colleagues. Act as if you were the one and only monitor in the world…” And another thing. Uncoded messages were often as interesting as those sent in cipher. Some countries, especially the smaller ones, afraid their codes might be deciphered by their larger neighbours, sent highly important messages in clear in the hope that they might thus escape notice.

  In the Middle East…Soviet interests, of course, but. So apparently Albania was never a satellite of China…A rapproche. meet with Moscow couldn’t be excluded…N.A.T.O. in Greece…Now that the bases in Greenland…Have you seen who’s on the Chinese committee for the funeral? Naturally, old boy - the make-up of those committees is always frightfully significant…And what do you think’s going to happen in the Persian Gulf ?…And the Dead Sea?

  Tell yourself you’re the only person listening in the whole world …He shook his head to try to keep himself awake. One of these days I’ll go out of my mind! he thought. Hearing your neighbour’s blatherings through the bathroom wall was enough to drive you barmy — if you had to listen to those of the whole world! The “world’s murmuring”…He vaguely remembered reading somewhere, or perhaps he’d heard it in a conversation that some authors had tried to write the total book, which would contain all the truth in the world in a condensed form. Sometimes people cited examples, in which the author had almost succeeded, as in a novel called Finnegans Wake,which the radio officer hadn’t read.

  He started to giggle. How could anyone write the Book of the World in a two-roomed fiat? He was the only one who could write it, or even write a single chapter of it, up in the solitude of this icy waste where there was still hardly any difference between night and day, as in the time of Chaos, And its title ought to be the Ravings of the World, the “World’s Delirium”!

  The signals went endlessly on, sometimes interspersed with bits of popular radio programmes…Germany will fulfil its responsibilities towards Europe …If the Russian tanks…The Balkans, troubled as ever…Non, je ne regrette rien … Talking of the Dead Sea…

  They can’t get away from the Dead Sea this evening, can they, he thought, lifting his hand to take off his headset… But just as he did so…

  “That’s what your Mao Zedong says,” said the Albanian communist. And this took the European leftist leader aback. “Does that mean he’s not your Mao any more?,…”

  That’ll do for now, growled the monitor, writing all this down on his notepad. Still on about the cooling-off in relations between Albania and China…He took off his earphones, and imagined what his head must look like without his headset. Small and insignificant…

  From outside came the howling of the wind over the snow. It sounded like a primitive cry. He sat for a moment gazing at his headset almost in surprise, then slowly donned his magic ears again and went on listening.

  9

  SIMON DERSHA KNOCKED, then put his head round the door, Linda and Silva exchanged glances.

  “May ! use your phone?” he asked, “Ours is out of order.”

  He was wearing his navy-blue suit, as he had been a few days ago, when he came to phone before and couldn’t get any answer. As he dialled, Silva thought back to that day. How time flew!

  “But you’ve only dialled three digits!” said Linda, who’d been watching him.

  When he hung up and turned to look at them the two women were astonished at how haggard he looked.

  “Just like me!” he said almost guiltily. “I can’t think why I'm so absent-minded!”

  “You can always try again," suggested Linda.

  “What? Oh yes, of course,… But…” And he waved his hand as if to say there was no point.

  Linda looked at Silva again. Simon made as if to go out, then changed his mind and came back to the phone. He reached out for it cautiously, as if it were red hot, and was just about to dial when the door opened and in came the boss, Simon immediately put down the phone.

  “Go on, go on,” said the boss jovially, sitting down,

  “No, thank you,” stammered the other, “I was only bothering you because our phone’s out of order,”

  “Please! Make yourself at home!” the boss insisted. “You can come here and phone as often as you like. We don’t hesitate to trouble our friends if our phone’s on the blink!”

  “Of course! Thanks very much,” said Simon, still edging towards the door.

  “But you haven’t made your call! And all because of me! Am I such an ogre?”

  “No, on the contrary! It’s my fault… Bet it isn’t important…Î can phone later…It’s not urgent.”

  “As you like,’ said the boss.

  Simon Dersha quietly let himself out. Linda and Silva smiled.

  “A bit touched,’ said Linda, putting a forefinger to her temple.

  “Do you think so?” said the boss. “I thought it was me that put him off.”

  “No, He’d been hovering around the phone for ages, not daring to call properly. He just dialled three digits and made up some excuse.”

  “How odd!” said the boss. “People really are funny!”

  “I’ve noticed he acts a bit barmy whenever he wears that blue seit,” said Linda,

  The boss guffawed.

  “You have some peculiar ideas too!” he said, surreptitiously checking on his own jacket, He was just going to say something else when the phone rang.

  “Hallo?” Thee his voice grew cold, as it always did when the call was for Linda or Silva. “Yes, she’s here.”

  And he held the phone out to Silva.

  It was Beseik Struga. Suva’s face lit up, as did Linda’s when she knew who was calling. Besnik’s voice was warm, but a little deeper than usual Perhaps he had a slight cold. Anyway, it was very attractive. He told her he’d got back from abroad the night before, but wouldn’t be able to see her for two or three days because he had to write a very urgent report.

  “It doesn’t matter,’ said Silva. “When you’ve finished the report and had a bit of a rest…”

  “What’s been happening about that…business? No news? H’mm …” A pause. “Well talk about it when we meet.”

  “Yes, of course,” she said.

  “Silva, I do hope you understand…I really can’t…”

  “I quite understand, Besnik,” she said.

  But he kept on as if he wasn’t sure she did, especially now he knew her brother’s situation hadn’t changed.

  “I’ve been longing to see you. I thought of you over there, and I can prove it!”

  He’s brought me another little present, thought Silva, smiling to herself. He did this every time he went abroad, Silva had noticed there was no one to beat him for bringing back souvenirs for his friends, especially his women friends.

  “Is he back from Paris?” asked Linda when Silva hung up.

  Silva nodded. After she’d sat down again at her desk her conversation with Besnik remained suspended over her for a while like a small cloud. She could remember his every word, the barest inflections of his voice, including a certain guilt when he spoke of her brother. Finally, the rest faded and this was the only impression that was left. As for what had happened since Besnik left, that could be described in one word: nothing. Skënder Bermema’s delegation had been postponed four times and he was still in Tirana: he had phoned her several times to say he hadn’t been able to get any further information.

  One day he’d come back from China too, and he’d phone her as Besnik had today, to ask if anything
had happened while he was away. And she’d say no. Nothing. She sighed.

  “What did he say?” asked Linda, “What did he tell you about his trip?”

  Silva looked at her blankly for a few seconds.

  “Nothing,” she said.

  Linda felt herself blushing. She shouldn’t have been so indiscreet. After a while, seeing her friend’s cheeks were still pink, Silva was afraid she might have offended her with her brusque “Nothing,” Yet she didn’t feel like explaining, especially as that would have meant telling Linda all about Arian’s problems.

  But not long afterwards the boss was called out of the room, and no sooner had the door closed behind him than Silva prepared to say something to show Linda she hadn’t taken any notice of her indiscreet inquiry. Linda, however, kept her eyes fixed on her desk, and Silva was still trying to think of a way of beginning when the door opened and Simon Dersha reappeared with his customary hangdog expression.

  “Look who’s here!” Silva whispered. Then: “Come on in, Simon! What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” he answered, with a grimace. “I’d just like to use the phone, if you don’t mind.”

  “Haven’t you tried again anywhere else since you were here?” said Silva, winking at Linda, whose sulks now disappeared as if by magic.

  “All the other phones are being used,” said Simon, “And then…”

  “It looks to me as if you don’t really want to make that call,” observed Linda. “You were very hesitant the last time…”

  “Oh…” he quavered.

  “What’s the matter, Simon?” Silva asked again.

  “Perhaps it’s private and you’d like us to leave you alone?” Linda suggested.

  “I didn’t say that!” Simon protested.

  “And I noticed that when you asked to use our phone the other day you were wearing the same suit as now!”

  “Oh, you’re diabolical!” growled Simon, heading for the door. “Absolutely diabolical!”

  The door closed. They laughed.

  “I think he must be a bit deranged!” Linda exclaimed.

  “Hush,” said Silva. “He might hear.”

  As a matter of fact Simon heard quite clearly what Linda said, but though in other circumstances it would have made him furious, today it didn’t bother him. This was quite simply because he’d heard the same words applied to himself several times in the past twenty-four hours. He’d used them too, not only about other people but also about himself. “You must be off your rocker!” his wife had shouted yesterday after he’d broken the news that his sister-in-law (his brother’s wife) might be leaving Tirana to go and live with her husband, who’d been posted to another town a year ago. This meant that Simon’s mother, who had been living in the brother’s house in Tirana, would have to come and live with Simon and his wife. “You must be mad even to think of it!” said his wife. “We’re already squashed together like sardines in this apartment, and now you suggest adding one more?” “Where’s she supposed to live then? ln the street?” cried Simon. “Why in the street? Why can’t she go and join your brother with the others?” “Oh, that’s what you have in mind, is it?” “I don’t see why any of them has to move,” his wife went on. “It’s quite usual for a man who’s posted to have to leave his family behind.” “But it’s a serious matter now,” Simon objected. “Haven’t you read the article in The Voice of the People?“It’s always serious! That doesn’t stop other people from leaving their families behind,” “No, no — this is different!” And heaven knows how long the argument would have gone on if Simon’s brother hadn’t suddenly turned up, accompanied by his wife. They both looked extremely downcast.

  “What’s going to become of us?” moaned the sister-in-law, bursting into tears. Her husband sank into a chair and buried his head in his hands. Simon was taken aback. Only his wife was as energetic as ever. She stuck to the idea that Simon’s brother shouldn’t take his family to live with him, and the more blankly the others listened to her the more vigorously she sought new arguments and examples. She actually quoted the Constitution, not once but twice!

  “Don’t go!” she adjured her sister-in-law, “I know it’s a question of one’s attitude to society and the socialist conscience and so on. But just admit your conscience isn’t very developed., and don’t go. It would be different if you were a member of the Party, but someone like you isn’t obliged to go. It’s not the same for Benjamin — he’s been posted and he has to obey. He’s got a duty to the State, it’s a question of administration — but taking wives too is another matter, a question of ideology, you might call it. Aren’t I right, Simon? Officials themselves may have to set an example by going and living among the grass roots, but their wives are not under any such obligation - it’s only a matter of individual conscience, And our consciences are not very developed - there’s nothing we can do about it, is there, Benjamin?”

  She carried on like that, addressing now one and now the other, until finally she made them listen to her. As might have been expected, the first person she persuaded was Simon’s sister-in-law. After that, the two women had no difficulty in convincing Simon himself that the only solution, even if not an ideal one, was to leave his brother’s family where it was. It was imperative that, in this impasse, some issue should be found. Only Benjamin didn’t come round, and just sat miserably on the sofa with his head in his hands.

  Simon’s wife made coffee, and as they drank it the previous arguments were gone over again, slightly more optimistically, Cases were quoted where families had been left behind but, what with reasonableness on the one hand and consideration on the other, instead of their lives being wrecked, things had gradually sorted themselves out.

  “Yes, but it’s precisely such cases that the article in The Voice of the People was about the day before yesterday,” objected Simon’s brother. “All the reasons alleged for not taking your family with you — illnesses that can only be treated properly in Tirana, a mother who needs help, a paralytic father — all these things have been denounced!”

  “What does that mean - ‘denounced’?” exclaimed Simon’s wife. “Are people supposed to change their attitudes just because a newspaper says so? If you ask me, it may produce the opposite effect, and people who never thought about it before may adopt the arguments the paper decries.”

  “Yes, and make things worse for themselves,” said Benjamin. “If they act like that they may provoke even more drastic measures -we’ve seen it happen quite recently.”

  “People will always do anything to get out of-being posted,” observed the sister-in-law.

  Simon’s brother shrugged dejectedly. The fact that he’d withdrawn from the conversation enabled the argument to take a turn for the better. More happy endings were quoted, in which reason had prevailed and unhelpful administrators had been foiled,

  “It’s a well-known fact that lots of people manage all right. The ones who get it in the neck are poor dopes without any friends or influence,” said Benjamin’s wife, nodding her chin at her spouse. Then, to Simon: “You’re the only one we can turn to.”

  A tense silence followed. Simon still sat motionless and pensive in a chair facing that of his sister-in-law. He was the one who had spoken least, not because he was an introvert by nature, but because as a civil servant himself he didn’t want to get mixed up in recriminations against official regulations, however much he might disagree with the latter.

  He was the most distinguished member of their comparatively modest family. It was him all the cousins came to with their problems: scholarships for their children, housing problems, jobs. He realized most of them exaggerated the importance of his post at the ministry, and he’d often been tempted to explain that he was merely a clerk and not some senior official. Had he done so, they would have been horribly disillusioned — if they’d believed him. More probably they’d have suspected him of trying to fob them off. The reason he hadn’t chosen this way out of all the trouble his family’s claims brought him was to spare th
em the truth. He preferred to be accused of indifference, caprice, uselessness and egoism rather than damage the fiction of his own importance.

  And now, in the silence that followed his sister-in-law’s “You’re the only one we can turn to,” he felt the moment they had all been waiting for had come, the moment for which all the rest had been but a prelude. He gazed thoughtfully at his wedding ring. His wife finally caught his eye.

  “Why don’t you do something, Simon?” she said. “I know it’s not easy, but after all this does concern your brother.”

  Simon raised his eyebrows: the silence was so oppressive he was surprised those appendages didn’t make a noise, like the hands of a rusty clock.

  “I suppose I'll have to have a try,” he said.

  No one actually sighed, but the relief was almost tangible. For the first time, Simon’s brother looked a little more cheerful

  “Perhaps you could speak to the minister who asked you to dinner,” Simon’s wife suggested. “A word from him would be enough …”

  “Has he had dinner with a minister?” exclaimed the sister-in-law. “He didn’t tell us!”

  “And not just any old minister!” said Simon’s wife, with a gesture that seemed to say, “If you only knew!”

  As soon as Benjamin’s wife had heard the word minister her jaw had dropped, but her husband looked depressed.

  “Don’t you want me to ask him, then?” Simon asked him.

  “Yes, yes - I do,” was the answer. “But I just don’t know…Has he got enough influence …?”

  “What?” Simon’s wife interrupted. “How can you say such a thing? A minister of his importance? I’d no idea you were so naive, Benjamin. What do you say, Simon?”

  Everyone expected him to laugh or lose his temper at his brother’s foolishness, but he didn’t do either. His face clouded over.

  “Did you want to say something?” he asked his brother, who sat with his head bowed, looking guilty.