Ismail Kadare - The Concert

Linda left Victor an hour later. It was dark by now, and she looked into the shop windows, which for some reason were not lit, to see if her hair was dishevelled. In fact, as she well knew, her hair was as tidy as ever. If there was any disorder, it lay elsewhere. Looking back on what had just happened, beginning with the sudden embrace which struck her as more insane with every minute that passed, quite apart from the fact that it had probably surprised her companion as much as herself, she wondered what sort of girl he must have taken her for.

“Goodnight,” she said suddenly when they came to an intersection, “I’m almost home.”

He made as if to say something, but then just murmured goodnight, almost as if to himself.

I never ought to have read any Russian literature, Linda thought as she covered the short distance to her own place, hurrying as if for dear life. It was all because of her owe damned soft-heartedness, she thought, patting her hair again as if the misunderstanding — she was now convinced that this was all it was — lay there, like a burr she was trying in vain to disentangle.

Victor was woken up by the telephone. It sounded unnaturally long and loud (ever since he’d been suspended from his job, Victor had felt that even the ringing of the phone sounded scornful and cold). He was wanted at the factory. What? Why? he asked. Would it be good news or bad? Come and find out, said the head of personnel.

As he dressed he wondered, almost aloud, “Why am I so calm?” Then, as if a load had fallen from him, he remembered the afternoon with Linda, their walk, and then, in his fiat, the amazing way she’d instantly put her arms around him. He’d thought about it over and over again, lying on his bed till midnight lighting one cigarette after another, as if trying to shroud in smoke something which was anyhow nebulous, inexplicable and vague as a dream. Curiously enough, what he remembered most clearly, better than all that had followed, was that first impulsive gesture of Linda’s. Sometimes he saw it as sisterly, sometimes as something quite different. He remembered learning at school than in the old Albanian ballads men called their sweethearts “sister”, and wondered whether it wasn’t his unhappiness that had made him so sentimental I’d never have had such tender feelings about an incident like this in the past, he thought. But then, in the past, it would never have happened. That soft hair on his cheek, the gentle touch of her lips, and above all those arms round his neck — it was all as fragile and fleeting as a rainbow: one vulgar word or gesture might destroy it. And even though that which people call vulgar had happened, the original rainbow remained intact…

He felt the only way he could keep the memory safe was to disappear. That was what he must do. He wouldn’t phone Linda; he would set their moment apart from reality, let it be sublimated by oblivion. Even if he happened to meet her by chance in the street, he’d pretend not to remember anything, perhaps not even to know her.

As he walked to the bus stop he thought now of the events of the previous afternoon, now about the reason for his being summoned to the factory. The man at the gate gave him a cheerful wink.

“Back again, are you, lad? Good!”

“I don’t know about that, Jani It depends what they tell me in personnel.”

“Go ahead,” said the old man. “There aren’t any Chinks in the corridors. They’re all on the factory floor.”

Victor smiled sadly. How had things got to the point where he had to enter his workplace almost surreptitiously? In his last days at the factory, before he was suspended, his friends had kidded him about what had happened, suggesting he should come to the factory in a theatrical wig and a false moustache so that the Chinese wouldn’t recognize him.

When he came out of the personnel office, Victor couldn’t decide whether he ought to lament or rejoice. They’d told him he was to Seave straight away for a new job at the steelworks in Elbasae. “In other words, I’ve got to leave Tirana just to please that swine?” he’d exclaimed, surprising even himself by his sudden rage. “Watch what you say, comrade,” the head of personnel had answered sternly. “Hundreds of comrades and Party members consider it an honour to work at Elbasan, And don’t forget you’re in the wrong. The Party told us not to react to any provocation on their part, and you had to go and…”

“What a fool I am,” Victor thought then. “I ought just to be glad the matter’s being wound up without more ado…You’re right, comrade,” he told the head of personnel, who was still scowling at him disapprovingly.

But, once out in the corridor, he felt suddenly empty. He was going to have to leave here for good. No matter how much he told himself it mightn’t really be for ever, that the Chinese might eventually go themselves and he be able to come back — you never knew — it didn’t make him feel any better. He walked across the yard not bothering to avoid attracting the Chinamen’s attention. His case was settled now; he had no reason to skulk. He’d even have liked to meet them and say right to their faces: “Well, I’m going. Satisfied?”

He stopped at the refreshment stall for a coffee. Everyone said, “Oh, so you’re back at last, are you?” But he just shook his head.

Before he left he made one last round of the huge factory where ‘he’d spent part of his life. Everywhere voices called out, “Back again, engineer?” But he either shook his head or merely smiled. Pain at having to leave this place was like a growing weight inside him. The wall newspapers, to which until now he’d paid little attention, the graphs recording socialist endeavour, the photographs of outstanding workers., even the mere announcements dotted about the noticeboards — “Union meeting tomorrow at 4 o’clock,” “Choir practice today” — all seemed different now.

As he prowled around he could feel people looking at him. “There are all sorts of stories being told about you,” said an electrical engineer who kept him company for a while. “You’re a real legend! More than a legend! There’s talk of demonstrations against you in Tienanmen Square, protests at the U.N., and I don’t know what! Are people letting their imagination rue away with them, or can it all be true?”

Victor smiled as he listened. As a matter of fact, the business of the X-ray wasn’t all that different from such fabrications. As he passed through the workshops the female workers on either side gazed at him admiringly. Every so often he would remember Linda’s embrace, and he would feel as if he were weightless, borne along on some invisible wave. Then ordinary consciousness returned, and he could feel the ground under his feet again.

At last he came to the place where he had stood on the Chinaman’s foot. He shook-his head as if to drive away the idea of those cloth shoes, more like slippers, so symbolic of the Chinaman’s stealthy approach. The softness of those shoes contrasted with the cynicism which had made their wearer call for a stoppage ie two of the workshops and almost bring the whole factory to a standstill. For a moment Victor had felt as if all the hypocrisy in the world were concentrated in that pair of cloth slippers. Moved not only by anger but also by the desire to tear away the mask of deceit, he’d gone up to the man and trodden on his foot as if by accident.

“Yes, a real legend — you’re the hero of the hour,” the other engineer went on. “Do you know what Aunt Nasta says? She says it’s a shame to lose a good man just because of one of those short-assed Chinks!”

He guffawed as he spoke, but Victor found it hard to join in.

An hour later he left the factory and walked towards the bus stop, gazing blankly in front of him and still deep in thought. He looked back one last time at the chimneys, belching black smoke. He’d recently dreamed, of seeing others like them, only they were all upside down. Perhaps, with his transfer, his life would get back on the right lines. As the proverb said, every cloud has a silver lining. He went on musing as he looked back at the chimneys, thinking of the engineer’s jokes but still not finding them funny. The way the smoke rose into the sky struck him as somehow alien to and supremely scornful of the human race. Not for nothing did interpreters of dreams regard smoke as a bad omen.