Ismail Kadare: The Concert

Mesabelli was about to speak when Ekrem came back into the room. Everyone would have liked to say something, so as not to look as if they’d been talking about him but they were all lost for words. Perhaps they were paralyzed by the way he himself looked from one to the other, as if to say, “Well, you’ve been discussing me. What do you say? Have! gone completely bonkers?”

In the silence, Mark’s fiancée whispered something in her young man’s ear. He’d been staring down at the pattern in the threadbare carpet.

Il fait froid , she said again, even more softly. Her pale blue eyes had darkened. And without waiting for the conversation to start up again, they both got up and went into the other room. Hava Fortuzi watched them enviously.

“Turn your collar up,” Silva told Brikeea, who could hardly keep her eyes open.

It was very damp as they walked back through the city centre just before midnight. A small group of roadsweepers walked along in front of them, talking.

“They’re talking about the Chinese,” said Silva.

“What can roadsweepers have to say about the Chinese?” asked Brikena sleepily.

On the opposite pavement a man dressed like a foreigner had stopped to listen,

“No, no,” laughed one of the roadmen. “As sure as my name is Rem, you won’t catch me again! You can say what you like about Mao Zedong, I shan’t open my lips. I’d rather bite my tongue out than utter his name. I’ve already copped it once that way — I did fifteen years in jug because of Krushchev. And when, I ask you? When everyone was insulting him! Oh no, never again! Everyone else calling him all the names they could lay their tongues to, and me rotting behind bars! just because! started cursing him a couple of hours before everyone else!”

The other roadsweepers laughed.

“You didn’t go to jail for insulting Krushchev,” said one of them. “They put you away for relieving yourself against the tree he planted in the garden opposite the Hôtel Dajti, in honour of Albano-Soviet friendship,”

“So what?” said Rem. “What’s the difference between a tree and the person who planted it? Don’t talk to me about it — it makes me fit to be tied!”

“You mustn’t lose your temper today, Rem — the last day before you retire! Thirty years sweeping the streets for the new man to walk along — isn’t that what the union boss said? I tell you, it brought tears to my eyes.”

“Yes, it quite upset me as well,” said Rem,

“How amusing!” said Brikena. “I’ve never heard roadsweepers talking before. Don’t walk so fast, Mother —! want to listen.”

But by now they’d left the roadmen behind, and could hear only snatches of what they were saying.

“Come on, Rem! Wield your broom for the last time! You’ve swept some things away in your lifetime! Sweep the street clean for the last time! Sweep the whole surface of the earth clean!”

“What are they saying, Father?” asked Brikena, “I thought I heard one of them call out, ‘Sweep the surface of the earth clean of everything to do with the Chinese!’“

“I shouldn’t be surprised!” said Gjergj, slowing down. He looked over at the roadmen, who at present were standing still. The man on the other side of the street, now quite clearly a foreigner, had also stopped to listen. But the roadmen had fallen silent.

“The one who’s retiring really is sweeping the street for the last time,” said Silva.

And in the distance they could see one of the men swishing his broom back and forth along the crown of the road, raising a cloud of dust and shrouding himself in mystery.

It was long past midnight, and messages from Europe were becoming few and far between. The observer at the Pole looked at his log-book: his notes were thinning out too. His superiors had pointed it out to him, but there was nothing he could do about it.

People said it was a kind of professional illness that afflicted everyone who did this job. After the first few months they gradually became indifferent. This aloofness brought about great changes in the way they perceived the universe: space, distance, time and events all assumed different dimensions. Many things that before had seemed important and established now seemed like ephemeral trifles; others arose out of nothingness and night to blaze like new planets. When people talked about the world’s reserves of oil or coal or rock salt, he marvelled that no one ever thought about the world’s reserves of malice, goodness and crime. History was written quite wrongly: a few battles and treaties, but all the most important things left out. Where for example would you find a single word about the twelve thousand girls in Europe who fell in love between five o’clock and a quarter to six on the afternoon of 20 September 1976? — in what annals, what diplomatic documents, historical or geo-strategic maps? And what about the sorrow of eleven generations of bald men between the end of the Middle Ages and the beginning of modern times? It was that kind of thing that was the real stuff of history, not that other squeaking of rats reeling home from some grotesque evening out, the tedious pastime of Lilliputians!

He realized that if he went on like that he’d end up neglecting his work and probably get sacked; but he’d given up bothering about that a long time ago. He’d find some other, less demanding job, or perhaps write his memoirs — The Solitude of the World Listener . His reminiscences would probably turn out as peculiar as the chattering radio messages, but perhaps they too would be punctuated by quieter passages, about the state of the ice, the temperature of the water, the barometric pressure.

He certainly wouldn’t be writing about the everyday trivia of politics. The international monetary crisis was going to get worse, people said. And the next Pope would be a Pole — dear me, what a scoop! He looked at the time: he would be waking up his colleague in a few minutes. He’d jot down a few more notes, old chronicler of the planet that he was, like some medieval monk working by flickering candlelight; then he’d go to bed. A huge yawn blocked his ears for a moment and prevented him from hearing half of a sentence about China, Heavens, all the things he’d scribbled down on that subject lately!

But wait a minute! What they were saying just now was a bit out of the ordinary, more in the style of his own reflections. He leaned forward, hunching up his shoulders to bring the earpieces closer to his ears… In Albania they think China should he swept off the face of the earth … Good grief, thought the observer, who could have said such a thing? It was all very well for him to think it himself, sitting there on top of the world, but down there in that ridiculous mess, what far-sighted spirit was responsible for such a point of view? He concentrated, trying to hear more: People walking the streets of Tirana at night express the opinion that Mao Zedong’s China ought to be swept off the surface of the earth … This is the first time anyone had formulated in so radical and absurd a manner an idea so . Well, my lad, thought the observer, inwardly addressing the unknown broadcaster, you may see it like that, but I agree with that sentiment entirely! And he suddenly longed to be having a quiet whisky somewhere with that anonymous passer-by from Tirana, peacefully discussing what countries seemed to them superfluous, what centuries they could do without, and how to rid the planet of such things, unfasten them and let them fall into the void. Just like that, he mused, aware he was about to lose the thread of his thoughts…The sadness of eleven generations of bald men hovered sadly, like a great condor, over the globe …I may be going round the bend, he told himself, but that doesn’t matter either…