The Concert

by Ismail Kadare

  “What are you doing?” called a girl traveller gaily. The fireworks were reflected in her fair hair, streaming in the wind.

  “We’re destroying the Chinese fireworks,” answered one of the younger workmen, forgetting they’d been told not to tell anyone what they were doing,

  “What?”

  He repeated his reply, but the train had moved on and the girl couldn’t hear. Someone else waved at them from another coach. From the last coach but one a voice shouted:

  “Have you heard? They’ve struck oil!”

  The workmen stood discussing the good news for a while after the train had gone,

  “I thought they might tell us something about the blast furnace,” said one of them, “I’ve got a brother working there.”

  Then they returned to their labours, reflecting that the news of the oil strike ought to be celebrated with something less sinister than Chinese fireworks.

  Meanwhile the train reached Tirana, at the same time as the news of the joyful column of flame,

  The early part of the day was very tense. Rumours had reached the capital about the unblocking of the blast furnace and the finding of a new oil-field — perhaps the same train had brought both stories — bet these mingled with the latest rumours about a plot said to have been discovered by Enver Hoxha in person. He was supposed to have surprised the putschists conspiring in a villa, or in the cellar of a villa, and they’d all flung themselves down on their knees and begged for mercy.

  Far-fetched as all this was, one fact was corroborated by more or less reliable sources: the plot really had been discovered by Enver Hoxha. It was even said that at a meeting of the Politbureau he’d asked the Minister of the Interior why conspiracies were always uncovered by the Party and never by the state security services. The minister had turned pale,

  By the beginning of the afternoon, everyone was talking about the plot, although the situation still wasn’t clear. In the bar at the Dajti Hotel the foreign diplomats, who’d got wind of something, exchanged the latest news, vague and incoherent though it was. Even vaguer and more incoherent was the form in which the various embassies transmitted it by radio. Then, faster even than in the days when the ancient gods had their own messengers, the news spread far and wide through celestial space via spy satellites, some of which indeed bore the names of Greek gods.

  What’s happening? It seems very odd. Intelligence experts everywhere kept taking off their headsets and putting them back on again, just as perplexed as their superiors by seeing a national hullabaloo being made about such relatively trivial incidents as the discovery of a new oil-field and the unblocking of a blast furnace. Bet if you looked at it more closely - wasn’t it really perhaps another plot? No, no, there was no possibility of confusion of that kind. It was really a question of property. What? What kind of property? Private property was consigned to the dustbin a long time ago…But I’m talking about public property, collective property…Oh, you still believe in that, do you? And so it went on, the satellites exchanging their strange cheepings and twitterings, like the cries of some prehistoric bird that had got stranded in time and was struggling to get back into the world.

  The boss had been summoned to see the vice-minister. Silva and Linda had been looking forward to having a private chat. Yet they sat at their desks and said nothing. The more Silva tried to find a way to start a conversation, the more foolish she felt, which made her annoyed first with herself and then with her colleague… I can’t talk to her as I used to since I saw the two of them together like that, she thought. But what’s the matter with her? She might at least jest behave as usual… Anything would be better than this…

  But she found she couldn’t be angry with Linda. Out of the corner of her eye she could see her profile - expectant, touching. And touching in a rare way: not because it was sad, but because it was happy, Silva decided she herself must take the responsibility for the present awkwardness. She had guessed Linda’s secret, and must have given out waves which the other girl, anxious as she was, had interpreted as negative. In any case, the fact that Linda found she couldn’t go on as if nothing had happened proved that she didn’t want to be deceitful Poor kid, it’s not her fault, thought Silva. It’s quite understandable that she shouldn’t have told me about her affair, if that’s what it really is. Any woman in her position would have felt embarrassed about it.

  If only she knew I don’t mind at all! On the contrary, it would be the ideal solution for Besnik It had occurred to Silva more than once that perhaps she ought to broach the subject herself, quite plainly and straightforwardly. But she hadn’t liked to.

  In similar circumstances, before, she would have got out of such difficulties by some sort of polite evasion^ like pretending she hadn’t seen them that afternoon. She was just considering this, glancing occasionally at the door in the hope that someone would come in and help break the ice, when the silence was interrupted by the telephone. It sounded so loud she almost cried out. When she picked up the receiver and heard Besnik Strega’s voice, she nearly exclaimed, “What a coincidence !” She would indeed have done so, if Linda hadn’t been there …But there was something odd about his voice…

  “Listen,’ he said. “The Bermemas are in trouble. One of the family, a young engineer called Max - perhaps you’ve met him -was killed this morning at the steel complex.“

  “What?” gasped Silva. “How… ?

  “And that’s not all Victor Hila… “What, him too?”

  “He’s still alive, but he’s been blinded.”

  “Oh, how dreadful!” Silva cried.

  The words were so flat, so inexorable, like the woes that prompted them. Death, blindness - things that stretched back to ancient tragedy,

  “Silva,’ Besnik went on, “it’s rather awkward for me to go and see the Bermemas, as you know, but I must. Max was Ben’s closest friend…”

  “Yes, Î met them together at the complex, just as they were preparing to … How is Ben?”

  “Just superficial burns. Several other people were injured too. Listen, this is why I’m calling you: are you going to go over? I know it’s difficult for you too, because of Skender Bermema, bet…”

  “Yes, but of course US go! If…”

  “Victor’s still there, in the local hospital I’ll tell you more about how he is later on.’

  “All right…”

  “Ill call you at home, then, at about four o’clock^ so that we can go together. I think they’re bringing the body back around midday, and the funeral’s due to take place late this afternoon.”

  Silva replaced the phone. She was shattered.

  “Has something happened?” asked Linda, looking frightened. Silva nodded,

  “Someone we know… died this morning at the steel complex.”

  “How awful,’ Linda murmured.

  “And that isn’t all” Silva paused, as Besnik had. “Victor Hila -you remember him, I’m sure - has been blinded.”

  Linda turned terribly pale.

  “How dreadful!” she whispered, almost inaudibly.

  “All those jokes about the Chinaman and his foot,” said Silva, as if to herself. “Who’d have thought it would all end like this!”

  “Oh yes, I remember!” said Linda. “He said it was all very well to laugh, but…It’s as if he had a presentiment.”

  “Yes, it was that stupid story that started it all,” said Silva, “if he hadn’t had to leave his factory, he’d still be alive now.”

  It didn’t shock Linda to hear Silva unconsciously equate blindness with death.

  She sighed. Almost moaned.

  “It was Beseik Struga I was talking to,” said Silva. She didn’t look at Linda as she spoke, thinking to spare her blushes. “His brother’s one of the injured.”

  She thought of the stricken Bermema family. In the present circumstances, no awkwardness about past relationships ought to stop her going to see them. Besides, now that Ana was dead, the tension that once existed between the Bermemas, the Strugas
and the Krasniqis had necessarily faded. And perhaps it would disappear altogether if …Silva turned towards Linda, and found Linda gazing back at her,

  “Silva,” she said faintly. “I’ve got something to tell you.”

  Silva could imagine how hard it was for her to speak: she sounded as if she might break down at any moment.

  “I know, Linda,” she said. Linda stared back out of beautiful, wide grey eyes, “I saw you out in the street together.”

  Linda flushed.

  “I kept meaning to …but you see …I was so embarrassed …”

  “I understand. But these things happen, and there’s absolutely no need for you to feel uncomfortable as far as I’m concerned. It’s perfectly natural, and as long as there are men and women …”

  The words sounded so platitudinous, Silva changed the subject back to the accident, and what had happened to Max and Victor, It occurred to her that Linda, like everyone with a fixed idea, might still have preferred to go on talking about Besnik. But in fact she was listening intently to everything Silva said about the Bermemas. So much so that Silva, by intuition rather than logic, found herself asking if Linda would like to go with her to see them,

  Linda shrugged.

  “Yes, I'd like that very much, if you really think …”

  “If you want to come, come,” said Silva, “It’s not like an ordinary death. When there’s a disaster of this kind, everyone comes to offer condolences, not only immediate family.”

  Then it struck Silva that Linda oughtn’t to go if she regarded her relationship with Besnik as just a passing affair. Her decision as to what to do this afternoon might almost be regarded as a test…

  “I wonder what Besnik …” stammered Linda,

  “I think he’d want you to go,” said Silva. “After all, his younger brother was injured…”

  “Yes, so you said…”

  And at this point their conversation ended, because the boss had just walked in.

  To Linda’s distress they didn’t get another chance to talk all the rest of the morning, and so didn’t finish their discussion about the afternoon. Even when she and Silva left the office, they weren’t alone: a group of colleagues- insisted in walking along with them. One called out, “I say, has anyone seen anything of Simon Dersha? I haven’t set eyes on him for days,” “Nor have I,” someone answered. Yes, thought Silva, he does seem to have vanished without our noticing. But she didn’t have time to pursue the subject, for Linda came up and whispered shyly: “So what are we doing about this afternoon, then?”

  “I think it’ll be all right for you to come,” Silva reassured her. Then, after they’d walked on a few paces:

  “It won’t seem out of the way. Well all be there.“

  Linda nodded a rueful goodbye to her colleagues and turned towards home. “Well all be there…” What did that mean? Who were “we”? Why hadn’t Silva suggested their meeting and going together?

  Linda felt hurt. The others still regarded her as an intruder. They were jealously protecting their own little circle. “Well all be there …” But she’d have to make her way there alone. Even Besnik hadn’t said anything to her: he’d talked to Sika on the phone as if she, Linda, had never set foot in the office. Yes, for all of them she was still an outsider…

  But as she walked slowly along, her bitterness gradually waned. I’m just being childish, she thought How was Besnik to know she’d want to go to the funeral? From his point of view it was something she’d be glad to be spared… Linda sighed. How were any of them to know that if she wanted to go it wasn’t to please anybody, still less out of morbid curiosity (ugh I she could hardly bear to think of it!), but simply because she was fascinated by them and their world. She longed to be close to everything that concerned them, whether joy or sorrow. No, they could never understand that! let Silva’s feminine intuition must have given her an inkling, otherwise she wouldn’t have suggested…

  As Linda was helping her mother lay the table for lunch, the phone rang. It was Silva.

  “Hallo,” she said hurriedly. “Look, we didn’t get a chance to arrange things properly. I didn’t have time to tell you Besnik is going to ring me at four: you could come with us if you like…”

  “Oh no,” said Linda inadvertently. “Not with him!”

  “Why not? But just as you like. You may be right. In any case, I’m sure it will be all right for you to come on your own. There’ll be so many people no one will notice you… Do yoe know the address?”

  “No,” said Linda faintly.

  Silva gave it to her. And she sat pensively down to lunch.

  As Linda made her way to the Bermema’s apartment, she told herself she could always have a look round when she got there, and then decide whether to go in or not.

  She could see the crowd from some way off. It was larger than she’d expected: the pavement outside the apartment block was packed, and so was the pavement opposite. There was an ambulance among the cars parked all along the street. The nearer she got, the more slowly Linda went. When she got to the door she realized she could go upstairs without being noticed: two continuous streams of visitors were passing up and down. She started up without looking at anyone, reflecting that if she so decided she could turn round and come down again without setting foot inside the apartment itself.

  Both the doors on the second-floor landing were open, and without knowing which was the Bermema’s apartment, Linda went in through one of them. Fortunately the hall was crowded. She tried to make out which room had, ie accordance with custom, been set aside for the men to deliver their condolences, and which for the women. Then she realized there was eo such arrangement here.

  She looked for some quiet corner from which she could look on without attracting notice. Her courage was ebbing away. In the end she decided she might as well stay in the hall; there were so many comings and goings, and one seemed to be standing on ceremony. As Silva had suggested, in the case of a calamity like this, the usual forms were abandoned.

  So far Linda hadn’t seen anyone she knew. At one point she thought she glimpsed Suva’s husband, but she couldn’t be sure. And where was the coffin? she wondered.

  About a quarter of an hour went by, and she might have stayed there indefinitely, but suddenly she saw Silva come into the hall

  “Oh, there you are!” Silva whispered.

  “Have you jest arrived?” asked Linda.

  “No, we’ve been here some time. Have you presented your condolences to the family?”

  Silva looked rather distraught, too.

  “No,” said Linda.

  “Neither have I. Come on, let’s go together — it’s not easy for me, either…”

  Lînda gave her a grateful look, and clung to her arm as they made for the door, She longed to ask where Besnik was, but only said, “I’m so glad I found you!”

  The room Silva led her into was spacious and heavily furnished,with chairs placed round all the walls. They chose a couple of seats in the row on one side, and sat down, Linda still clutching Suva’s arm. The silence was broken only by murmurs too faint to be heard all the way across the room.

  “Is that him?” Linda whispered, nodding towards a large photograph on the opposite wall.

  Silva nodded.

  Linda gazed absently at a big bronze clock with a statue of Skanderbeg on top. Inscribed on its base were the words: “Albania’s hour has come.” She remembered learning it at school — the six-hendred-year-old maxim that could be applied as easily to national victory as to national disaster.

  A new wave of visitors arrived, and a few of those already there, Silva and Linda included, stood up to make room for them and thee went back into the hall. Some continued across into the other apartment, bet:

  “Let’s stay here,’’ said Silva.

  Linda wanted to ask about Besnik, but didn’t like to. It was as if Silva had forgotten their conversation that morning.

  People kept passing in and out of the hall. One man with a very sad express
ion came up and greeted Silva. Linda thought she recognized him.

  “A friend of mine,” said Silva, nodding towards her. “This is Skënder Bermema — Ï think you know him.”

  “Oh, it’s you!” said Linda, holding out her hand.

  His response was friendly, but his sad expression didn’t change. For a moment he looked at Silva without saying anything, as if he had been angry with her, bet now was angry no longer.

  “I was so shocked,” said Silva. “I met him only a few days ago, at the complex, just as he was working to prepare the explosion. Just before …”

  You could see him gritting his teeth.

  “Who’d have credited it?” he murmured. “We thought that scourge would go away of its own accord. Who could have imagined it would take Max with it?”

  “A scourge indeed.” echoed Silva.

  “We split our sides laughing at their deceit, but it turned out to be more deadly than we thought.”

  Their laughter…Silva thought of Victor Hila. She couldn’t imagine him blind. Laughter starts in the eyes…And that was where it had ended.

  “Oh, here’s Ben,” said Silva, moving towards a tall young man whose face was partially covered with dressings held in place with sticking plaster.

  He must be Besnik’s brother thought Linda. She’d have liked to go over, joie in the conversation, perhaps even kiss him, but she was too shy. She was here, wasn’t she? She mustn’t ask for more. There were traces of tears on the young man’s bandages, and again she felt like kissing him tenderly. My brother-in-law…God, was it possible?

  “That was Besnik’s brother,” Silva said, coining back to her.

  “Yes, so I guessed.”

  She suddenly felt she had to see Besnik himself. This was no mere wish arising from a fleeting passion, but something stronger, derived from the real affection that can only come into being gradually, maturing slowly like wine,

  A stir of activity suggested that the journey to the cemetery was imminent.

  “That’s the dead boy’s mother,” said Silva, showing Linda a woman in deep mourning who’d just come into the hall “Her husband was a minister just after the Liberation,”