A Girl in Exile

by Ismail Kadare

  I’m not asking you why you came to me. I’m asking something else. How did she find out? Why did you tell her?

  ‘I didn’t want to,’ the girl replied. ‘It happened unexpectedly, at the ball.’

  Don’t! he wailed to himself. Again, it had turned out he was to blame.

  ‘Why did I tell her? I don’t know. It seemed to me that she knew. But wait, that wasn’t the reason. Calm down. I swear to you by everything I hold dear, it wasn’t what you think. Jealousy wasn’t the problem. Not at all. It was something else, entirely different, there at the ball . . .’

  12

  THE MORE INDISTINCT her speech became, as if she were under an anaesthetic, the more clearly he imagined the farewell ball.

  It was twenty years since Rudian had experienced one of those evenings, but he remembered exactly what they were like – merciless.

  Breathless snatches of tango merged into one another under the languid gaze of the dancers. Dances for couples were interspersed with folk dances, in which the students held hands and spread a wide circle to include hesitant wallflowers, then their teachers and the school director. The principal guest – the district’s Party secretary – looked on.

  Slow music started again, with dewy-eyed boys getting drunk for the first time, sighing girls, ambiguous remarks on both sides, and pangs, endless pangs over words left unsaid.

  The school’s guests watched the hubbub in the room from among the beer bottles at the top table. As their fears of possible lapses of behaviour receded, their tender feelings towards the pupils, their own children among them, warmed the atmosphere. The young people deserved a party after finishing school, and their volunteer work projects too, and despite the malicious gossip their moral fibre was strong. Look, even tonight, the most unbuttoned evening of all, they had remembered to include folk dances, partisan songs, and especially the newly minted song ‘Leader, Our Leader, Long Life to You’.

  The clamour sometimes yielded to the strains of the tango, sometimes it stubbornly persisted. Besides couples of boys and girls, there were occasional pairings of girls, and more rarely boys. As usual, there were plenty of boys dancing with the literature teacher, and pairs of teachers together. There was the director and his wife, waiting for the success of the evening to be crowned when the principal guest stood up to join the dancing. But this usually happened just before the end. Midnight was still far away and for the moment the atmosphere was of general nostalgia, whispered tête-à-têtes, entrances and exits for no reason, and endless trips to the toilet.

  From the top table, Migena’s father looked for his daughter among the throng. In spite of her pleading, he was wearing all his decorations, having assured her that it would be for the last time. It was not boasting, he had said that afternoon. For years on end he had worked silently for the state, and he had promised her that he would wear all these medals only twice in her presence: at her graduation ball and, fate permitting, at her wedding. Now he was following her with his eyes, as if to say: I don’t think I’ll make it to your wedding, so forgive me for this evening.

  In the midst of the crowd, Migena and Linda were dancing together again. They were in great demand from the boys, but this was the second time they had managed to shake them off.

  ‘You’re going away. You’ll leave me alone,’ Linda said.

  Migena trembled. Don’t, she wanted to say. Just don’t talk like that.

  She felt she understood why Linda’s latest hairstyle had not just impressed but also frightened her. A vague unease suggested to her that this style was perfectly suited to Linda’s words. Migena was going to leave her alone. The gleaming grip in Linda’s hair seemed to hold in its clasp all the things they were attempting to hide.

  Migena missed her chance. She didn’t know what to say. It was the last opportunity for words left unsaid, perhaps their moment of farewell. Would they manage a third dance together?

  She caught the gaze of the gym teacher. His look seemed to offer her a kind of rescue, a postponement of the fatal conversation. Why was he staring at Linda like that? ‘You’ve stuck in his memory, no doubt,’ Migena said. ‘Perhaps,’ Linda replied indifferently. She was about to say something, but she hesitated. ‘Perhaps it’s not his fault. I think, when I had hopes of going to Tirana, I may have given him a sign. You can imagine why.’ ‘I understand,’ Migena said.

  The teacher looked at Linda, his bewildered eyes asking why she was pretending not to know him.

  To Migena, a tango had never seemed so long. She smelled Linda’s fragrance – an unfamiliar, light perfume, perhaps from the days of the monarchy. Most of the time they did not speak, until Linda uttered those words that Migena feared most of all: ‘How can you leave me?’

  ‘I didn’t know what to say. All words were meaningless. I couldn’t say that I was not going to leave her, or anything like that. I knew more than anyone that there could be no consolation. It was obvious how she would end up, a primary school teacher on some remote collective farm, if not worse – milking cows in the co-operative, working in the cattle sheds or in the scrubby pastures beside the fields, where she would have to give herself to the brigade-leader, or he would make her life hell.

  ‘You were my last hope, she said to me. I wanted to clap my hand over her mouth and tell her to stop but I couldn’t even do that. Bring me news from the outside world . . . from him . . .

  ‘The more she talked, the more at fault I felt. How could I leave her, with my conscience still burdened by this guilt? That evening was the last chance. I had mentally rehearsed the difficult explanation, involving you, so many times. I thought of the pain I would cause. That was the worst of all. I would have preferred her anger – if she had said, Cheat! You took from me my only joy! then I could have said, Don’t talk to me like that. It’s your own fault.

  ‘I thought I had a certain justification. As I said, I was convinced that Linda had pushed me towards you. Her eyes shone whenever your name was in the newspaper and especially when you appeared on television. She repeated things you said. Sometimes she would ask me, Do you fancy him? Tell me, don’t you fancy him a little? And she would immediately cap this by saying that any girl who goes with him is lucky.’

  And so the evening wore on. Migena was no longer sure if she wanted it to finish, or to continue endlessly until the moment . . . Her hesitation had tortured her for so long, but as much as she wanted to shed its burden, she could not bear to hurt Linda. It might be the final straw.

  Midnight was approaching, the hour that somehow seemed the most dangerous of all. They were now dancing apart, with boys, but they caught each other’s eyes above the dancers’ shoulders as they whirled ever faster. They could hardly wait to be together again, and suddenly once more they were.

  The band played louder. The Party secretary had left with some of the important guests and as usual the saxophonist, restrained until then, seized the chance to let rip.

  The musician, pleased at the attention he was getting, shook his loose locks and smiled at Linda.

  She returned his smile absent-mindedly, as if from the moon. She put her lips to Migena’s ear and whispered, ‘At least, if you had got close to him.’ Migena could not tell if she had really heard these words or only imagined them, as if in a dream, because perhaps she had been expecting them. Linda moved her face away to look her in the eye, and added, ‘Did you hear what I said? At least, if you had gone with him.’

  Migena trembled. They were the same words, but with a difference: instead of saying ‘got close to him’ she had now used a different, more ruthless and almost vulgar phrase, ‘if you had gone with him.’

  A protracted shriek came from the saxophone. Migena froze. Perhaps it was her only form of self-defence: to remain immobile, not giving or taking anything. Linda’s words were indistinct. Migena could avoid them, but not her look. The realisation that Linda had understood what had happened struck her like a body blow. She couldn’t tell what expression her face revealed. She still wasn’t sure if
she had really heard those words or not.

  Disconnected words tumbled from Linda’s lips, or did it simply suit Migena to interpret them that way? Were they frightening words under the mask of ordinariness, or the other way round? It’s not a question of guilt . . . don’t people say, Give him a kiss from me . . . forgiveness, in church . . . for no reason . . . betrayal . . . you were the only one, darling, do I have to tell you a hundred times? . . . if you really got it together . . . faithful friend.

  Although her words were vague, her look was clear, questioning, urgent. Migena didn’t say anything, but embraced her fiercely, and that was enough. There was no need for tears or words. Linda understood.

  Migena waited for what would happen next. Linda’s face turned even whiter. But her eyes retained something of their earlier look. That was the only hope.

  Suddenly, Linda responded to her embrace, and Migena was flooded with a heavenly peace. Years ago, in a dream, she had once experienced something similar, in a sort of garden with creatures like deer. But it had been very brief. Just let it last a bit longer, she prayed. Just a little. Oh God.

  As if her prayer had been heard, the peace continued. Linda’s voice was not only reassuring, but was uttering familiar-sounding words. They were the same words from before, which Migena had thought were garbled. Now she was surprised to understand their meaning. ‘There’s no reason for you to feel guilty, it’s something that happens. It isn’t betrayal, you’ve been my most faithful friend for so many years. You’ve done so much for me, and even this time it was something like friendship that led you on, I’m sure. Don’t people say, Give him a hug, or a kiss from me? We’re not in church here, asking forgiveness. Can you hear me, darling?’

  Migena wanted to close her eyes as she listened to the murmuring voice. The sounds of the tango were more appropriate than ever. Some people nearby were watching them curiously. Migena felt a twinge of anxiety, but forgot them.

  ‘And please don’t ask me again to forgive you. I’m being honest. I’m not saying I’m happy about it, but believe me, I almost knew it would happen. Because – let me confess to something I thought I’d take with me to the grave. Let me admit it. Secretly, I wanted it to happen, I won’t hide it. I felt jealous when I imagined it. But it’s hard for me to fully explain. Secretly, I wanted it. It was the only chance for something, a part of me, to make the leap . . .’

  ‘I wanted to tell her that I had vaguely felt the same. And not just that. I wanted to tell her that you too, Rudian, felt something unusual. You were a person sensitive to ghosts. I wanted to tell her about the scenes when you were angry, and shouting, Why the hell are you crying? and when you were hitting me, and even suspecting I was a spy . . . I did not tell her any of these things, except the last bit, when you shouted: Only if you are a spy.’

  Linda tried to smile, and raised the palm of her hand to her mouth as if to say: No, stop, there will be time for you to tell me everything.

  Her sudden animation frightened Migena. What did she mean by those words? Time to talk was precisely what they would no longer have, but Migena did not remind her of this. If Linda were even remotely upset by her confession, she was ready to give up Rudian. After all, Migena was only an accessory, an interlude. A kind of understudy. He is yours. Your prince. Nothing in the world can separate you.

  An unsteady gleam flickered in Linda’s eyes, which became now dull, now crystal clear. ‘Listen,’ she said. Migena should get rid of the idea that she felt defeated. On the contrary, she felt easier. A part of her dream had come true. Thanks to Migena, she no longer felt so confined. As she had said before, a part of her had made the leap and would never come back. Moreover, Migena would bring news from him, messages . . .

  Linda was indeed smiling, but with the smile of someone who is in two minds whether to speak again. ‘Listen,’ she said again at last. ‘Don’t think that I’m perfect myself. Do you remember when you told me about Mr Right-Off?’ – their private nickname for the gym teacher – ‘You were in an emotional state, like all girls after they lose their virginity, and then you felt remorse, that perhaps he hadn’t been the right person, and I told you not to worry, that’s how most girls start off, with write-offs. So, you were honest with me, but I wasn’t honest with you. No need to stare at me like that.’

  She told Migena how at the time of what they had come to call the famous breast scan, one afternoon in the gym changing room before a volleyball match, she had given a clear sign to Mr Right-Off.

  At any other time Migena would naturally have asked: And then? But on that evening she realised that she didn’t want to hear. They had both been dishonest with each other. That was some consolation. But now the symmetry was broken, and only Migena would be left with her dishonesty, as before.

  But Linda did not continue the story. Either there was no sequel, and her sign had remained just a sign, or she had sensed that Migena did not want to know.

  They both smiled, futile fugitive smiles, until Linda’s eyes again hardened into crystal. She said something about fate, which Migena, abstracted, didn’t catch. It was something about the hand of fate drawing them both to the same men, whether on the lower plane of Mr Right-Off or the higher plane of the playwright.

  ‘Strange, isn’t it? Linda said. Then she reached out and shook me as if to make sure I had really grasped how extraordinary it was that we were both steered by a higher power.

  ‘Another protracted wail came from the saxophone. Soon the ball would start winding down. The school director and the secretary of the youth organisation were looking very worried at the direction the evening had taken.

  ‘We danced for a while in silence. I wondered if I might have misinterpreted the understanding she had shown for me. Was her outward calm in fact false? In my attempts at consolation, was I behaving like a drowning woman clutching at her own hair?’

  When Linda finally opened her mouth to speak, her expression had totally changed. Migena trembled as she began talking quietly about something that she had never mentioned: her internment. Three months ago, one week before Migena had brought her Rudian Stefa’s book, her family had received their ‘directive’. Linda explained that this was what they called the order that came every five years, on the precise day on which they had completed five years’ internment. It was always brief and unequivocal, and there were two possibilities: your internment was either terminated or extended for another five-year term.

  A five-year term, Migena repeated to herself, trying to get used to the idea. It sounded like the five-year plan, but something grim and tight-lipped, like a death mask, whereas the five-year plan meant festivities and jubilation.

  Linda had returned from school that day to find an unaccustomed silence at home. Her parents were sitting by the window. There were traces of tears in her mother’s eyes. She understood immediately. They had been waiting for days. But still she asked, ‘Did it come?’ Her mother nodded. She didn’t need to ask anything else.

  She embraced her parents without a word. Her little brother had still not returned from his ball game. Five years before, when she was thirteen, it had been more or less the same. But it had hurt less, or so it seemed to her. Linda’s brother, only five years old, had understood nothing. This was the first time that they would have to tell him. Then five more endless years would pass. They would gather together every Christmas and New Year’s Eve, exchange wishes for a ‘Happy New Year’ and add, ‘and good luck with the directive.’ Oh God!

  Migena wanted to ask her, please, to stop, but she couldn’t. Two or three times Linda’s little brother had asked, ‘What’s a directive?’ They told him it was news that came in an envelope and nobody knew if it would be good or bad. Only when you opened the envelope. And when he insisted on asking where it came from, they said from Tirana, reminding him not to tell anyone, because the directive was secret and talking about it might spoil its magic power.

  The dancing continued. Migena had never imagined that the sounds of music could do so much
to amplify sorrow as well as joy. All around them was loud laughter, banter, an excited heaving throng. Quietly, Linda described what had gone through her mind on that bitter day. She was eighteen, and the next directive would arrive when she was twenty-three. Then twenty-eight. Two more directives and then thirty-eight, and then finally forty-three. She had no desire to live beyond that. Thank you, dictatorship of the proletariat, I know that you are a good thing, just and infallible, as we learned at school, but I’m tired . . . I’ve had enough of this life.

  The laughter continued around them. The mingling of boys’ and girls’ voices was particularly hard to bear.

  ‘Do you understand? I’ve never lived a single day in freedom,’ Linda said. ‘Can you imagine what that’s like? Not one day. With no hopes of anybody . . . because I never knew where to look for hope. So cancer was my last chance. I asked for its help, but it didn’t help me either.’

  Migena could hardly contain a sob. She wanted to offer to take her place, at least for one five-year term, but she was unable to utter a word.

  The sound of the saxophone ripped through everything like a knife.

  Migena, instead of offering to take her place in internment, began, without knowing why – perhaps out of sympathy – to tell Linda something she had sworn never to reveal. She had made this promise to her father, and in fact it was his secret, a terrible thing he had read in a confidential bulletin that was distributed only to trusted Party officials, but which for some reason he had told his daughter. The bulletin printed what enemies of the state had said. Among other things, they claimed that there was no freedom, not only in prisons and in internment, but even outside. In other words there was no freedom anywhere, not even in Tirana. That is what our enemies are saying, of course.