Ismail Kadare: The Concert

He’d discussed it with Zhou Enlai. He himself had made a few suggestions, and Zhou had met one of their ministers, a general, and was preparing to get in touch with various important elements in the Albanian economy. Zhou had come round to his own way of thinking: you couldn’t do anything in Albania without the Party, In fact, you had to start with it. And if you managed to mould it, to manipulate it a bit, everything else would follow. Things would take a new course, the ramparts of the citadel, as they liked to call their country, would be no more than camouflage, and their pride would turn into its opposite, their disobedience into docility. And from then on out they would never again dream of writing a letter to oppose an invitation to an American president.

For a few seconds Mao lost the thread of his thoughts, but then he managed to find it again. All right, keep your Party thee, he said aloud, but on one condition: make a few alterations, I’m not asking anything very difficult — just a bit of a change, a little mutation, as the scientists say. You refuse? In that case the factories will stop going up, the blast furnaces will go out, the dams will crumble, everything will shrivel up into a skeleton. Usually, when a country is reduced to rubble, it’s because of a war, but in your case it will be the débris of peace, than which nothing is more horrible: bodies unburied, souls on the scrap-heap, epidemics, death itself…And Tartar hordes, wolves and jackals with scraps of fur and women’s finery in their jaws…

Mao Zedong let himself burst out laughing at last, and went on stroking the wall of the cave as if he was trying to wheedle it. The time was now ripe for blackmail Our people on the spot could exploit the situation. According to reliable sources, China had open or covert supporters inside the Albanian government, on the Central Committee even. The “sleepers” could finally emerge from their slumbers. The real game was about to begin. Now you’re going to pay all your outstanding debts. I’m going to tighten the screw — slowly, week after week, month after month, season after season. Sometimes I’ll pretend to slacken off for a bit, so that it’ll hurt all the more when I tighten up again. And so it will go on until you’re at your last gasp, and you yourselves offer me more than I’ve ever asked of you. Ha ha!

Unhurriedly, as if savouring a good wine which one keeps in one’s mouth as long as possible to enjoy the bouquet, Mao imagined the future Sinization of Albania. First the abolition of the intelligentsia and the downgrading of education, then the erosion’ of history, the consigning of heroes to oblivion, and the emergence of the first new men, the Albanian Lei Fens (what were the first new tractors in comparison?) Rumour had it that they’d already introduced some Chinese elements into the choreography of their ballets. Such portents were still as rare as the first spring flowers, but they would gradually multiply. After the deeds would come the words, and after the words the thoughts. Their reservations about being European would slowly dry up, like water in a citadel under siege. Then one last onslaught and Albania would surrender …It was inevitable…Asia first set its heart on Albania some seven centuries ago. And having acquired it, kept it for five hundred years. Early in the twentieth century, though, Albania, the cunning lynx, managed to escape. But that was the last time it did so, and now there was nowhere for it to go. Little by little, quietly, without any clash of swords, it would come back to Asia, this time for ever. It would be a magnificent moment in the age-old history of China. The first country in Europe to be “Sinified”. And like a patch of leprosy, “Sinification” would gradually spread northward, first to central Europe and then still further. It would be the first victory of Asia over Europe — a victory fraught with consequence. An epoch. making revenge. Therein lay the real significance of Mao’s owe achievement. Unfortunately very few eyes were capable of perceiving it. But great achievements are never seen from close to: only from a distance of years or even centuries can they be appraised justly. So moan away, you benighted fools, and write your anonymous letters: your sight is still as dim as that of a month-old baby. Whereas I am about to enter my eightieth year!

Once again Mao lost the thread; once again, after some time, he found it again. He pondered about how long the process of “Sinification” would take. Perhaps the first results wouldn’t be apparent until he was ninety years old, or a hundred and forty; but that didn’t matter. Even if the change wasn’t complete until he was a hundred and eighty or three hundred and twenty years old, it still didn’t matter. He’d started seeing life and death as indistinguishable long ago. In his opinion there was only a trifling difference between the two: until a certain year he would go on breathing and moving about. Afterwards…But this was of no more importance to him than moving to a new house or a new job was in the life of an ordinary individual. He saw his life, or perhaps rather his life-and-death, as one and indivisible. Perhaps that was the main reason why every so often he buried himself underground.

Again his mind wandered, and when he collected his thoughts it was the letter from Albania that came to mind. His anger seemed to be concentrated in his extremities, especially his hands. The one still leaning against the wall plucked at the stone as if to pull it down. Every time he did this he thought how earthquakes were caused. How silly of the Greeks’ god Zeus to think he could bring them about from a distance, from up in the clouds. The globe had to be shaken from below, from down among its foundations.

Mao’s hand was still on the rock, as if he had no doubt that the earth had begun to tremble and that a cataclysm was about to take place up above.

That’s the whole difference between you and me, said he, looking in the direction where he supposed Europe, the ancient Greeks, and the whole of white humanity to be.

THOUGH SILVA WALKED as fast as she could, she still arrived at the ministry slightly late for work.

Greeting, as she rushed past, a porter almost invisible behind his window, she hurried on up the stairs, and in the first-floor corridor almost collided with Victor Hila, an old acquaintance she hadn’t seen for a long time,

“How are you?” she asked him, still out of breath. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

He looked at her rather vacantly, and only then did Silva notice how tired and depressed he looked, and how ill-shaven.

“I’m here on business,” he muttered with a vague wave of the hand. “Can you tell me where the chief vice-minister’s office is?”

“I’ll take you there. Come along.”

She led the way, glad to be of help. Though she didn’t see him very often now Ana was dead, she tried to be nice to him, as to all the friends whom the two sisters had once had in common and who now represented a subtle link with the past.

“Here we are, Victor,” she said kindly.

He mumbled his thanks and knocked at the door without even offering to shake hands.

He must be out of sorts or upset about something, she thought as she made her way to her own office. Such behaviour would have offended her, coming from anyone else; but not from him…

“Good morning,” she said as she opened the door.

“Good morning, Silva,” answered her boss.

His addressing her by her first name suggested he hadn’t noticed she wasn’t on time, but as she hung up her raincoat she apologized anyway.

“I’m afraid I’m a bit late…”

Linda, looking over from her desk, treated her to a mischievous wink. She’d done her hair differently, and looked even younger than before. She’s only twenty-three, thought Silva as she opened a drawer and took out the files she needed. Why must she try to make herself seem younger still?