The Concert

by Ismail Kadare

  “They’re sending teams out to all the places where the Chinese have been or still are working,’ the boss went on. “The minister himself is leaving at any moment,’’ Then, turning to Silva: “I know you haven’t had much time with your husband since he got back, but I’m afraid there’s nothing to be done - you and I both have to go to the steel complex.”

  Silva shrugged, as if to agree that there was nothing they could do about it.

  “When?” she said faintly.

  “Tomorrow. We might be able to put it off till the day after tomorrow at the latest, Linda — you’ll have to hold the fort while we’re away,”

  The two women exchanged a wan smile. Silva was thinking already about what she’d have to do this afternoon so that Gjergj and Brikena weren’t too much put out by her absence. She must go and collect a suit of Gjergj’s from the cleaner’s. She must call in to collect a coat for herself and a dress for Brikena from the dressmaker. Oh, but that meant getting four hundred new leks out of the savings bank to pay the dressmaker what she still owed her for work done over the last few months. Perhaps she was spending too much money on clothes? This worry was soon replaced by another: what should she cook for Gjergj and Brikena that would last them for a couple of days? The best solution would be for them to eat out while she was away. It was more expensive, but as Gjergj was no good in the kitchen and Brikena had her homework to do …Sika still had no end of other things to do, but by now she realized that thinking about them was almost as tiring as doing then, so she tried to dismiss them from her mind…Oh yes, and she mustn’t forget to remind Gjergj about the texts Skënder Bermema had left for him. There couldn’t be a more appropriate moment than now for him to read them.

  Her second cup of coffee in the workers’ canteen did nothing to relieve the hollow she felt inside her. It had something to do with the dell day, and the way the smoke from the blast furnace seemed to pervade the whole complex. The same tension spread from one person to another by a kind of osmosis. Apparently the furnace had become partially blocked with slag almost as soon as it first came on stream. There were even more ominous rumours, though no one knew who had started them, or why. Some people said there was a danger that the furnace might go out altogether, and all the molten metal solidify. If that happened, the whole plant, built with such effort and expense, would be virtually useless, The only thing to do then would be to blow it up. Trying to melt its contents down again would be like trying to resuscitate a corpse. The fire of the furnace is its soul, said one of the workers. If it goes out, all you can do is go into mourning,

  “The Chinese,” said the boss to Silva, nodding towards the window in some awe, “Apparently they’re getting ready to go.”

  She followed his glance. A group of Chinamen were picking their way across the clinker-strewn yard. They looked different from usual Distant as ever, but with the peculiar self-satisfaction of those who, if they are leaving, are taking a valuable secret with them.

  As a matter of fact it was widely said that they knew very well how the furnace could be unblocked, but they refused to reveal the method. But, to her own surprise, Silva felt eo resentment against them, Perhaps because she couldn’t help feeling grateful to them for going. They’d seemed fated to stay for ever. So long as they really do go, she thought, everything will sort itself out…

  Coming out of the canteen she ran into Victor Hila.

  “Victor!” she cried. “I’ve inquired after you several times. How are you?”

  “Quite well,” he said.

  But his eyes were red with fatigue.

  “I saw your famous Chinaman one day at the airport. He was catching a plane.”

  “Really?” he answered indifferently. Silva realized that he didn’t feel like laughing any more about the business of the squashed foot. Nor did she, for that matter, even though it was she who’d broached the subject.

  “What are you working on?” she asked.

  “I’m in a mixed team trying to unblock the furnace.”

  “Is it true it might go out?”

  Victor smiled,

  “That’s what everyone asks. They all talk about the accumulation of slag and the furnace going out as if one had to follow from the other. But never mind that. The fact is that the furnace really is in a bad way.”

  Silva noted his sunken eyes.

  “Anyhow,” he said, “we’re going to do all we can to get it unblocked. Even if…”

  Even if what? she wanted to ask. But he was already holding out his hand.

  “I must go, Silva. See you soon.”

  “So long, Victor.”

  Hurrying to catch up with her colleagues, Silva noticed that the hollow feeling which had haunted her for the last few days was suddenly worse now she’d met Victor Hila. She soon realized why. Neither of them had laughed when the subject of the Chinaman with the squashed foot had come up. And this was connected with what was going on, and going wrong, in the world at large.

  The hollow feeling was still there when Silva got back to her hotel room late that afternoon. She sat for some time with her hands clasped in her lap. Her thoughts moved slowly. Then it struck her that Gjergj’s hotel bedroom in China must have been much like this one. Ugh! In her present mood, anything to do with China depressed her. What was she doing here? What were the Chinese to her, or she to them?…And suddenly, as if she’d been on the other side of the world instead of just a short journey away, a wave of homesickness swept over her, for her apartment, for the street she walked along every day, and even for her office at the ministry.

  The first morning Linda entered the office after Silva and the boss went away, she shivered. She went over and felt the radiator, but it was quite warm. And she herself felt even colder as the morning wore on, as well as distinctly agitated inside. As soon as the phone started to ring her heart missed a beat, and she realized she was all worked up, Her state of mind was reflected in her voice: “Hallo …No, the boss isn’t here …Yes, away on a mission. He’ll be back in a few days’ time.”

  She couldn’t wait to get rid of the caller, and when she’d put the receiver down she checked that she’d done so properly. That was what she always did, she reflected, when she was expecting a call Stop it! she told herself. She was behaving like a little girl, expecting “him” to telephone. Even if he did, what difference would it make?

  Linda hadn’t seen Besnik Struga again since Silva had introduced her to him. She hadn’t even spoken to him, except once or twice, briefly, when he’d rung up and asked to speak to Silva. But she couldn’t hide it from herself that she liked him; she liked him very much. So she hadn’t been surprised to find herself thinking about him; her thoughts were only light and fleeting, easily conjured up and easily dismissed. She’d told herself everything would remain as airy as a watercolour, tranquilly pleasing as a fantasy of happiness. They lived in the same city — they were bound to meet again some time… And that was as far as her thoughts went, drifting back and forth without casting anchor. Still free.

  But now, one fine morning, when she opened the door on an empty office, things had changed.

  She’d had a premonition the day before, when she realized she was going to be alone in the office while her colleagues were away. That evening she’d imagined herself pulling the legs of people who rang up to speak to the boss: “Comrade Defrin? Yes, I’m comrade De-freeze… What can I do for you?” and so on. Yes, the phone would ring — but what if were “him”, asking for Silva? So what? she’d thought, trying to kid herself. But in vain.

  And now, this morning, she thought she actually heard the phone ring. And even though she soon had to conclude that it was a trick of her imagination, the shock was enough to turn dream into potential reality. Her feminine intuition told her he liked her. If he rang to talk to Silva and was told she was away, mightn’t he go on talking to Linda herself ? Mightn’t he even ask, in passing, what she did with herself in the afternoon?

  She shivered again. Now she realized it was be
cause “he” hadn’t rang up.

  She went over to the window, and looked out at Government Square, humming sadly and tunelessly to herself.

  It was still too soon to talk of suffering in connection with this new mood of hers. The feeling wasn’t yet fully formed. It was still malleable, like the bones of an infant. But before long it would find its permanent shape.

  There was a knock at the door. Linda didn’t need to look round: she knew it was Simon Dersha.

  “Telephone still not working?” she said, with her back still to him.

  He looked at her for a while without answering. He was still wearing his navy-blue suit, and normally Linda would have teased him about it. Perhaps because she hadn’t done so, Simon, as she now saw, went on gazing at her. She suddenly realized how worried he looked. Why hadn’t she noticed before?

  “What’s wrong, Simon?” she asked guiltily.

  He shook his head wearily, as if he’d been waiting for her to ask that.

  “I’m not at all well,” he mumbled.

  Linda moved away from the window and came towards him,

  “What is it? What’s the matter?” She was about to add, “Do tell me if there’s anything I can do for you,” but as if trying to anticipate and avoid her question, he shook his head twice and went out, closing the door behind him.

  How odd, Linda thought. She felt ashamed of using the word suffering, even in thought, about her own frame of mind, which she was now inclined to put down to caprice. She walked briskly back to her desk, her lethargy gone, and got down to work at once, so as not to relapse. At the same moment Simon Dersha was sitting down at his desk in the next room, muttering, “Oh, what a mess I'm in, what an awful mess!” Then he bent over a mass of pages covered with his slanting scrawl

  For the last week he’d been writing his own autocritique. No one had asked him to, and he hadn’t even asked himself where and to whom he was going to read it. Was he going to deliver it in court, or send it through the post? He hadn’t bothered with any of that. The main thing for him was to write it. Whether he would read it to the minister, the union, in court, at a fair, or anywhere else, was neither here nor there.

  That was why the style in which it was written kept changing. One part was very academic, with digressions on general, ideological and sociological problems; another took the form of a psychological analysis; yet another section was in dialogue form, with questions and answers as in a police interrogation. He had also peppered his text with quotations, especially in a kind of profession of faith where he described his origins and social status: here he quoted twice on one page from Engels’s Origins of the Family, Private Property and the State. Further on, in a passage describing how he came to meet the vice-minister responsible for ail his woes (every time he re-read this section he wondered what woes he meant — but he didn’t know the answer), the autocritique became a kind of detailed narrative, relating all their conversations and telephone calls, and dwelling particularly on the invitation to the fateful dinner. But even this section strayed into digressions on general principles: in one he considered the significance of banquets and dinners, relating them to tradition and popular philosophy…And so on.

  The evening at Minister D—’s was described in exhaustive detail, starting with his meeting with the vice-minister who was to take him there, and who turned up five minutes late, going on to their walk to the minister’s residence, and thence to the dinner itself. The guests were described, together with their conversation, which was much less weighty and interesting than he had expected. Then, in the middle of the evening, came the phone call from the leader of the Party, and the perturbation, he thought he saw on the minister’s face after he had hung up.

  "And what about the rest of you? And you yourself — weren’t you at all affected?"

  "Well Yes, to start with. He was, certainly. He had Enver Hoxha at the other end of the line. That was no joke! We all ought to have been thrilled."

  "Ought to have been? Weren’t you all really thrilled?"

  That’s what I was just going to explain. As I said, the minister himself, despite all his efforts to disguise it, was terribly downcast. It was only natural that his anxiety should communicate itself to us. Everything suddenly wilted away, and everybody, beginning with our host himself, wanted the dinner to come to an end as soon as possible.

  Oh, so you wanted the dinner to end as soon as possible, just after a phone call that would have added life and zest to any other gathering? But you lot…! Delve into your conscience, Simon Dersha, and dig out the real reason for your anxiety. Well? Or is your mind full of foreign propaganda, and the calumnies our enemies perpetrate against our leader? While all of you were banqueting, he was going without sleep to work for the people. And instead of being happy to hear his voice, you were all terrified. I suppose you all told yourselves: “He’s going to put me in jail, liquidate me.” Isn’t that the truth?

  I don’t know what to say. Yes, I'm a miserable wretch.

  Did you discuss it amongst yourselves?

  No.

  Not even when you first started hearing rumours about minister D—?

  No, not then either. I tried to get in touch with the vice-minister, but I couldn’t reach him on the telephone…

  In spite of its exhaustiveness, this part of the autocritique was shorter than that devoted to Simon’s second visit to the minister or rather his abortive attempt to go and see him about his brother’s posting. Like the previous section, this one digressed: there were remarks on the principles of postings in general, based on quotations from the decisions handed down by two plenums; this led to consideration of a popular misconception on the matter — a misconception apparently shared by his brother and sister-in-law, and by himself. Before giving a detailed account of his route to the minister’s villa (not forgetting the coldness of the weather and the emptiness of the streets), he spent a few lines expatiating on his own petty-bourgeois psychology, his bourgeois-revisionist views on personal happiness, and other old-fashioned survivals due to his lack of contact with social reality.

  When I got to the entrance to the minister’s house my conscience started to reproach me, and I felt a sort of compunction about what I was intending to do.

  Compunction? Or fear?

  Well, both, I suppose. Yes, it must have been both.

  But which predominated?

  Fear, I suppose.

  Perhaps fear was really the only thing you felt?

  Yes, I expect you’re right.

  “I don’t feel well, I don’t feel well at all,” Simon Dersha kept muttering as he re-read his autocritique. He felt caught between the pages, as if he were in the jaws of a trap. It didn’t cross his mind that it was a trap of his own making, and that, to break free, all he had to do was screw the whole thing up into a ball and burn it, or throw it in the wastepaper basket. But even if it had occurred to him, he wouldn’t really have been able to do it. For days these pages had been the reflection of his entire existence — his image, his identity card, his medical record, everything that made up the truth about him.

  What sort of thing did you hear people say about Minister D—?

  Delicate things. Very…tricky.

  Are you sure you heard them? Couldn’t they have been figments of your guilty conscience?

  I don’t know …It could have been both.

  Both, eh? Of course it was you and your brother, your whole typically petty-bourgeois family, who made them all up. All very well for them, but you — an official in a government office - how could you indulge in such vile slander? But let’s get down to the rumours themselves. You say they were about delicate matters. What sort of delicate matters?

  Well…Some complicated affair about tanks. They were supposed to encircle some kind of committee…

  A Party committee?

  That’s right!

  Was there anything about the Chinese?

  In connection with the minister? No, never.

  Delve into your
memory. Dig deeper.

  What?

  Despite her self-reproaches after Simon Dersha’s departure, Linda soon found herself staring round at the empty room and the silent telephone, and beginning to fall back into her former state. She would have relapsed completely but for the fact that it was nearly the end of the working day, and there wasn’t time for her to sink into what she now didn’t scruple to think of as pain,

  At half-past two, partly with relief, partly with regret at the end of another of the few bitter-sweet days when she would be alone with the telephone, she locked up the office and made her way slowly down the broad staircase.

  All that afternoon and evening she kept herself busy with trivial things, so that she almost forget the agitations of the morning. If she did think of them, she put them down to a passing weakness induced by spending so much time all alone in the office. But as soon as she got in to work the next day, she was overcome by exactly the same feelings as before. Could one really be affected like this, all of a sudden, without even being able to see the object of one’s obsession? Was this love? If so, what kind of love? Her second, or the first real one in her life? In any case, how could it come out of nowhere?

  But the more she thought of it the more she realized that it had been coming on for a long time, slowly, invisibly, like a stream flowing secretly under snow. Everything remotely to do with him had become engraved on her mind - not only all Silva had told her, but all aspects of public events, past and present, that he was connected with. Anything relating to the Soviets or the Chinese had become associated for her with something about his looks or words or gestures. Even before she met him she had longed to know the mystery man whose life had included both Moscow and Ana Krasniqi. And after she’d met him, she longed more and more to meet him again. Whenever the television news showed an international conference, or she read something in a book or paper about the Moscow Congress, she thought of him: he became a kind of myth. The person she had actually met was merely one facet, a superficial^ everyday aspect of an infinitely complex and inaccessible personality. He’d become so closely identified with the age he lived in that she’d failed to notice that she herself belonged to another era. Only now did she realize that there was something rather cold and artificial in her feeling for him so far.