The Concert

by Ismail Kadare

  Zhou Enlai went on and on. The conversation changed from one subject to another, but always came back to the Party. It was now openly identified as the main obstacle to progress. It was no accident that Mao Zedong had permitted two lines to coexist within it. If it hadn’t been for that they would never have seen that play this evening. “But they’d never be allowed to put on a play like that in my country,” sighed the minister. “I know that,’ said Zhou, “but there are lots of other things you could do. You’ve knocked down the churches and mosques, haven’t you? In that case, why should you hesitate to tackle another kind of worship?” “Oh, not in our country - it would be practically impossible!” “One always thinks it’s impossible to start with…But once you get started …!”

  The minister suddenly got a grip on himself, This was getting a bit out of hand. How dared Zhou?…And so openly? What’s more, he was talking to him as if he were a mere vassal…The time had come to let him understand there were limits! The minister drew himself up as he sat in his chair.

  “I’m not sure I quite understand you, comrade Zhou Enlai,” he said coldly, throwing his head back so as to seem as distant as possible. But his bravado didn’t last. Zhou Enlai stared back at him unremittingly, his eyes seeming to converge and grip the minister as in a vice.

  “You used to be more frank, once,” he said quietly. “Our Yugoslav friends have told us - maybe they had it from the Soviets themselves — about a certain private conversation you had with them jest before the row between Albania and the U.S.S.R. in 1960. You were much more open then!”

  The minister felt his eyes glaze and his mouth go dry. He’d thought that story had long been forgotten. It had happened twenty years ago, and strangely enough the Soviets had said nothing about it. And now, when he least expected it, here in Peking of all places…He was completely thrown. As he had been in 1960, when the Soviets, to make him sit down and talk to them, had reminded him of a conversation he’d had once with the Yugoslavs: “We’re well aware of what you said to the Yugoslavs in 1947. ” they’d said. When he’d started to get over the shock, the first thing he’d asked himself then was why the Yugoslavs had sold him down the river? and for how much? Perhaps in exchange for Krushchev’s visit to Belgrade, when he went to apologize to Tito? Perhaps for something to do with Kosovo? Or had they simply sold him in instalments?

  And now here he was, betrayed again. But by whom, and why? Because of a conversation. Oh, if only I’d held my tongue in 1960, or even in 1947! That wretched conversation — the years went by, but like a plague bacillus it refused to die! We know what you said to the Soviets in 1960 …We know what you said to the Turks in 1911…And what you said before that, in 999, about the destruction of the socialist bloc…Not to mention what you said to Pontius Pilate that famous night in the year dot…

  His mind was in a whirl If you looked at it closely, it was only an ordinary conversation, but these people clung to it like limpets and wouldn’t let it go…Yes, just an ordinary conversation — and what were they doing now, really, but just having a chat, man to man?

  He’d never been ie such a mess. And to crown all, Zhou’s eyes were still riveted on him. Bet they were now slowly loosening their vice-like grip. The Chinaman’s expression was softening, and what he was saying came back to the beginning, like a loop of recording tape. “That’s how one always feels to start with. It seems impossible, but once you’ve taken the first step… For example, you could do something that looks quite modest but has a great symbolic value. Do you see what I mean?”

  But he couldn’t concentrate. His mind drifted back to the prologue to all this, that windy, rainy day in February 1947 when, biting his nails nervously, he’d listened to the Yugoslav, in his broken Albanian, filling him with bitterness.

  “As if you weren’t as capable as anyone else! You’re cleverer than them, really, but…”

  The Soviets had told him the same thing later, in 1960, and it had seemed to him that from now on he would always be haunted by those terrifying words. One day, returning home at mid-day, he’d frozen as he went into the drawing room: someone was saying them again. It took him some time to realize it was his son. He fell upon the boy, tore the book out of his hands, and started to yell like a madman. The boy didn’t understand, “It’s only my textbook on medieval Albanian literature. Father,’ he murmured…

  “You see what I mean?” said Zhou Enlai.

  But the minister didn’t see anything at all

  “I’m sorry — would you mind saying it again? I'm sorry…”

  “It doesn’t matter — I understand,’ said Zhou, smiling affably. “I was saying you could do something symbolic. Such things have always been important in a country’s history, and always will be. Things which look quite ordinary at first sight, but which take on a special meaning in their context — an alliance, a symbolic marriage, for example. To show you what I Mean I’ll tell you about an episode in my own life. As you know, my wife is the sister-in-law of our greatest enemy, Chiang Kai-shek. Have you ever considered the fact that, through all the changes and chances China has gone through, Î have never ended my marriage? It wouldn’t have been difficult for me to find another wife — most of our other leaders, Mao first and foremost, had remarried, And my rivals in the struggle for power might well have tried to exploit what they called a dishonour. And try they did, but someone stood in their way every time: Mao himself. Leave Zhou’s marriage alone, he’d say, and the matter was closed. But he didn’t do it out of friendship for me, still less out of friendship for my wife! No, he did it because it was in the interests of us all.”

  Here Zhou paused for breath.

  “Mao didn’t do things like that for nothing. That marriage was and still is imprinted on the consciousness of the Chinese people. For it has a meaning. Behind my wife there was Chiang Kai-shek, and behind him the United States! Every time I heard Mao say ‘Leave Zhou’s marriage alone!' I realized that marriage would turn out to be useful one day. And now, it seems, that moment has almost come…Bet that’s enough about me. I just wanted to illustrate the influence of symbolic acts, Now let’s get back to you. Don’t look at me like that! I know you’re married — “ he laughed. “You’re not going to be asked to marry a woman from the old guard! You can do something else — something apparently unimportant, bet really very significant. For example, during manoeuvres you could encircle a Party committee with your troops, or better still your tanks, I don’t say it has to be the Tirana Party committee - that would be premature - a district committee would do. As you probably know, in the course of our Cultural Revoiution hundreds of Party committees were burned down. So surround a district Party committee with your tanks. It sounds simple. It is simple. But it could act as an important symbol, and the people are always influenced by symbols! It will travel by word of mouth in the form of rumours and conjectures, it will awaken ideas and hopes. We’ve initiated many great actions in China like that!”

  As Zhoe was speaking, the minister thought of the cynicism with which the Yugoslavs, Soviets and Chinese — an infernal triangle that seemed intent in keeping him in its clutches all his life - had passed that conversation to and fro. Once or twice he thanked his lucky stars that the Chinese weren’t asking more of him. To hell with their symbolic act - he’d do it, if that would shut them up!

  That cursed conversation! He’d never have dreamed a chat could cost so dear. Why on earth hadn’t he owned up to it at the time, directly after the break with Yugoslavia, when all members of the Party were asked to report what they’d talked to the Yugoslavs about? “One day, comrades, I too, fool that I was, impelled by jealousy, that survival from the world of the bourgeoisie, told them how frustrated I felt when X was appointed instead of me to post Y…” That would have done it…

  “You seem very thoughtful,” said Zhou. “The play seems to have made a great impression on you. I see it’s not only Shakespeare who can set your head in a whirl!”

  And they’d gone on talking about surround
ing a Party committee, about the Party in general, and about how urgently necessary it was to overhaul it.

  Later on, when he was back home from his trip to China, what Zhou had said still remained on his mind — though he didn’t know whether to call it a piece of advice, a suggestion or an order. He didn’t ha^e a word for it in Albanian. In his imagination it was like a snake coiled up inside him, which stirred whenever he got a phone call from the Central Committee, especially one that summoned him to a meeting. What did they think he was, a minister or a bus driver, ringing for him every time it suited them?

  Even so, he would never have followed up his talk with Zhou, never have dared to do anything, symbolic or otherwise, if, some time later, the Chinese prime minister hadn’t sent him greetings through a member of a government delegation.

  Relations with China were not so warm as they had been. One evening, at an official dinner at the Brigades Palace, the Chinaman sitting next to him, and to whom he’d so far paid no attention started to talk to him in broken Albanian.

  “Comrade Zhou Enlai sends you his best wishes. Comrade Zhou Enlai still thinks of you. You went to the theatre, magnificent. wasn’t it?” said the Chinaman, with a high-pitched laugh that had nothing to do with what he was saying. He went on, more and more openly, his words sounding now like a message and now more like a menace.

  “The moment comrade Zhou Enlai spoke about is coming. The test, hee-hee! Everyone must do somethings. Can’t just wait for it to fall in lap, hee-hee! Difficult times ahead, hee-hee!”

  The minister’s fork was suspended in mid-air. He had lost his appetite. So nothing had been forgotten! The day of reckoning was apparently at hand, and they were explicitly letting him know what was expected of him. He looked round at the faces of the other guests, trying to guess which of them had been given a similar message. At one point he had the impression that all the tables were full of giggling Chinamen. I must act before it’s too late, he thought — do something, even if it’s only symbolic, to keep them quiet. A sort of consideration, the price of their silence about the Soviets and the Yugoslavs. Something symbolic: the Party secretary dragged across the stage, tanks surrounding a district Party committee…Afterwards, if there really was an upheaval, as Zhou Enlai had said…Bet for the moment, the symbolic act would do…They were on the eve of some manoeuvres…

  “How is comrade Enver?” asked the Chinaman. “Not too well, eh?”

  The minister’s mouth was full of dust and ashes. If only the blasted dinner would end! But his anxiety lasted several more weeks, until the cold afternoon when he finally gave the order to encircle the Party committee.

  All the rest of that afternoon he’d felt completely disorientated, pacing back and forth in his tent, peering out now and then and scanning the plain for a messenger. The messenger arrived at nightfall The order hadn’t been carried out. He didn’t let anyone see how shocked he was, stepping back into the tent to conceal his dismay. He wouldn’t listen to any explanations of this act of disobedience - he just pretended not to understand, and kept shouting, “Arrest them! Arrest them!” As he did so he told himself the best thing would be to settle the matter there and then so that no one would know about it, so that the fact that the order was given would be forgotten, today, tomorrow and until the end of time. But it was too late. All he could do now was simulate an anger he didn’t feel, because fear left no room for wrath. So whenever anyone opened his mouth to try to offer some explanation of how the officers accounted for their behaviour, he cut them short, shouting, “I don’t want to know! I don’t want to know!”

  And he didn’t want to know, either. His only desire was for the matter to be buried in oblivion as fast as possible. That blasted suggestion of Zhou’s! Why had he let him pour that poison in his ear? What he had done struck him sometimes as fatal, sometimes as merely premature. His days became full of chill terror. He realized the affair wasn’t going to die of its own accord. The officers themselves had talked to various people. If they weren’t punished they’d probably talk to some more. By some means or other they had to be silenced. One way of intimidating them was to have them expelled from the Party; and he managed that without any difficulty.’But apparently, after they were expelled, they wrote a letter to Enver Hoxha. That was what the phone call had been about, the evening of the dinner. The minister hadn’t slept a wink all that night. He was obviously going to have to explain himself to the Central Committee. But one of his staff convinced him that what the officers had said about him might easily be interpreted as subversion, as propaganda against authority. So in his report to the Committee he maintained that the officers’ behaviour infringed the laws of the Republic, A fortnight later, at the Central Committee, when someone asked what measures were going to be taken against the officers, the reply was brief: “If they’ve broken the law, let the usual measures be taken.” The minister rubbed his hands. So the Central Committee wouldn’t get drawn into details about the officers’ fate? Well, he knew very well what to do with them! He slept soundly that night, the first time for ages. Then he began to wonder: should he send the officers to prison, or leave them unpunished? To tell the truth, he would have swallowed his resentment and let the matter drop if he hadn’t been afraid they’d start talking again. No, prison was safest. His aides agreed with him. One of them suggested it would be best if they were dismissed from the army first, so that their arrest would seem purely political.

  The minister had imagined that after the tank officers were arrested his peace of mind would be restored once and for all But on the contrary. It was then that he started to notice the long silences of the telephone and the lack of visitors. Sometimes he put all this down to the current cooling off of relations with China, which was a general preoccupation then. The very name of China sent a chill down his spine. Great’ changes were in the offing, though there was nothing definite yet. Perhaps it would start with economic retaliation?

  The silences of the telephone seemed to get longer every day. What’s going on? he wondered. I’m still a minister. No one has criticized me. What have I got to worry about? He dismissed the situation as absurd, grotesque. But after a while the clouds of uncertainty gathered again. Rumour spreads by word of mouth, Zhou Enlai had said: it was as influential in a country’s affairs as the newspapers. If Zhou had encouraged the episode of the encirclement just in order to start such a rumour, it must be because he believed in it. And if he was right to do so, if rumour really was as strong as all that, the lack of phone calls and the absence of visitors was only too comprehensible. The rumour would have told how the minister had ordered the Party committee to be surrounded, how the tanks had refused to obey the order and been thrown in jail for insubordination - and would have ended by asking, Was the order justified? That was quite enough to make people shun him like the plague. No need to arrange for critical articles to appear in the papers, or to dismiss him from his post, and so on, Rumour - curse it! - was more powerful than all of these. He’d sent for the head of army intelligence and asked what he knew about the rumour. The answer took him aback. “We know nothing about anything of the kind, comrade minister.” He’d started to laugh with relief, there and thee, in front of the head of intelligence. Then his laughter changed to a grim smile at his own gullibility. No, what was causing his anxiety was not a rumour in the ordinary sense of the word, but something more subtle, nameless, and all the more pernicious because it was imperceptible. Something that seeped into everything, everywhere, like the air.

  Where had it started? Whose mouths had uttered it first? And in what office, institution or mysterious ante-chamber? The most depressing possibilities occurred to him.

  The minister had spent the last two months in this state. Meanwhile the Chinese had done nothing. Everything seemed to be paralysed, I did what I could, he explained in an imaginary conversation with Zhou Enlai. I tried to encircle a Party committee with tanks, but it turned out to be impossible. I was lucky to escape with my life. We don’t go in for that s
ort of thing here, you know. We don’t harm the Party even symbolically, as you suggested - so you can imagine how feasible it is in reality! They’d smash you to smithereens! Smithereens! Ask me to do the most horrible thing you can think of, but not that! Not that, ever!

  The television- news on Thursday had reassured him somewhat. It’ll pass, he thought. The phones will ring again, the door-bell will be heard once more. That was what he was thinking when the phone actually rang. It was the clerk. No guest was ever awaited so eagerly. The minister had tried to take an afternoon nap, but he couldn’t sleep. As soon as he got up, his wife asked him:

  “Would you like a cup of coffee?’’

  At first he thought he’d wait and have one with the visitor, then he said yes please. If the visitor came, he could always have another with him…If the visitor came? How could he doubt it? It was unthinkable that he shouldn’t turn up.

  The doubt lingered until Simon Dersha appeared. But then Simon Dersha vanished again beyond the railings.

  The minister stood at one of the drawing-room windows. The trees stood outside — massive, dark, indifferent. Once or twice he imagined himself hastily ringing for his bodyguard and his chauffeur, diving into his car as it emerged from the garage, and hurtling along the street after his quarry. The man would try to get away, but he would stop him, clutch him by the sleeve and say tearfully, “What came over you, going away like that? Why are you tormenting me too, as if all my other troubles weren’t enough?”

  That is what he imagined, staring out at the garden, with the drops of rain from this afternoon’s downpour still hanging from the branches and reflecting some invisible source of light. Thee he reached out and rang the bell, and did all the other things he’d imagined. But slowly.

  As the car was driving out through the gate and the chauffeur asked where he was to go, the minister said:

  “Just drive around."