Ismail Kadare - The Concert

“A telegram, Mother! I think it’s from Father…”

After a moment’s surprise she straightened up and ran out into the hall. Brikena had already opened the envelope and they both pored over the wire, reading it out almost in unison: “Arrive Thursday German plane. Fondest fondest love.”

“How lovely!” cried Brikena, clapping her hands.

At first they could think only of the message, reading it over and over and scrutinizing the date-stamps which said when it had been dispatched and when received. Then they rushed to consult Brikena’s atlas to find the town it had been sent from.

“He’s still miles away!” said Brikena when they’d located it.

A few moments later their apartment, which had been so quiet lately, suddenly came to life again. The lights were on in all the rooms. Silva went from refrigerator to stove and then to the cupboard in which she kept the crockery, where she promptly forgot what she’d come for. “What sort of cake shall we make?” Brikena asked. Of course, that was what Silva had gone to the cupboard for! But it was still too soon — he wouldn’t be home for another couple of days. They had plenty of time for everything. But if Brikena wanted to they could make the cake today. Silva was so happy she didn’t know what to do with herself. At one point she found herself wandering aimlessly around the apartment. Then, rather than starting on something that needed to be done and then putting it down again unfinished, she just picked up the telegram and went through it again slowly, as if to trying to read something between the lines. Her smile froze when she came to the words, “Fondest fondest love”, wondering why they made her feel vaguely anxious. What does it mean? she thought — and found herself crying out to something deep inside herself: “What’s the matter with me?” Nothing, replied the gulf within, But the uneasiness remained, distant, vague. Anyhow, that fit of sentiment wasn’t a good sign.

In the end, the gulf within delivered its answer. Silva hadn’t been able to repress the memory of a very distressing funeral. The man being buried had died in a plane crash on the way back from China, and the man’s wife had said to Silva: “I don’t know — his last letter was so emotional I was quite disturbed …”

Nonsense, Silva told herself — the post-office people often duplicate words in a telegram. She knew this wasn’t really true — they only repeated dates or figures. But why was she letting herself get upset like this?

“What’s the matter, Mother?” asked Brikena.

Silva took herself in hand.

“Nothing, dear. I was just trying to think of something special we could cook for your father."

And she started bustling around the apartment again.

On Thursday morning Silva asked her boss to let her leave the office at eleven, though the plane wasn’t due until three in the afternoon. In any case, she couldn’t concentrate on any work. Linda kept glancing at her with a curious look in her eyes.

“Have you missed him very much?” she asked, the first time the boss left the room.

“Yes, very much,” answered Silva, without looking up from her desk.

But she could tell Linda was still looking at her. It felt stiflingly hot in the office: had they turned the heating up too high, or was it just her imagination?

“What do you feel like when he comes back from abroad?” her young friend asked, hesitantly. “Are you very happy?”

“Of course,” said Silva, glancing at her.

Linda’s cheeks were slightly flushed, though she was pale around the eyes.

“Of course,” said Silva again, feeling her own cheeks going pink.

Does Linda really not understand? she thought. But that was probable enough. Marriage altered everything — especially what people felt after a separation.

There was a knock at the door. Illyrian. He’d heard Gjergj was arriving that day, Silva felt rather self-conscious. She had the feeling everyone was trying to imagine what she and her husband would be doing that afternoon and evening. As a matter of fact she kept thinking about it herself. Sometimes she thought about what underclothes she’d wear; sometimes she thought about the moment when she’d slowly take them off. He liked watching her do that.

She began to wonder if it wasn’t she herself, with these thoughts of hers, who was making the others imagine her consumed with desire. She almost believed that if she stopped thinking about it the awkwardness between her and them would disappear. But no. The others were meeting her more than halfway. When she’d asked the boss if she might leave early, he’d laughed roguishly and said, “Oh yes! — today’s the day, isn’t it?”

Illyrian didn’t take any such liberties. Dressed as elegantly as ever, but more serious than usual — almost solemn, in fact — he’d come to ask if she’d heard about the change in the plane’s time of arrival. And she, though she had in. fact been informed, thanked him without telling him she knew already.

There goes someone, at least, who knows how to behave, she thought as he shut the door.

At a dance nearly a year before, just after he’d been taken on at the ministry, Illyrian had paid her some very meaningful compliments. Silva was used to masculine admiration and paid no attention, but when, a little later, he returned to the charge more iesisteet!y, she responded so tartly she surprised even herself. What had made her iy out was the thought that his boldness might be due to some image about her, and especially about her sister Ana, that he’d acquired from somewhere else. After that incident she’d expected him to bear her a grudge, but apparently he’d concluded it was his owe fault, and had swallowed her snub with surprising dignity.

At eleven o’clock, as she was going down the stairs, she met Simon Dersha. He was still wearing his navy-blue suit, and his face was as drawn as before. One of these days this chap’s going to go off his rocker, she thought as she greeted him. The registry clerk in the planning department, who saw and heard everything, claimed that Simon had been invited to dinner one evening by minister D—, and that ever since thee he’d been wearing his only smart suit in the hope of being invited again.

As soon as she was outside the ministry, Silva breathed in a gulp of fresh air and felt much better. It was a dreary, drizzling day, but Skanderbeg Square suited her cheerful mood. You could stroll along the pavement in front of the ministry, and facing you was a garden laid out in the form of an amphitheatre. The road overlooking the garden was wet, and shrouded in a seasonable veil of mist. But she had no time to waste. At half-past one, two o’clock at the latest, she and Brikena must leave for the airport, and she still had a few things to do. But nothing very important. Perhaps she should buy two or three bottles of wine and some cakes to be on the safe side. as a few friends might very well drop in in the course of the evening. But everything else had been ready since the day before.

As she went by the local greengrocer’s shop she noticed some very fine apples on display outside, and went in. As usual the green. grocer, a great beanpole with a voice like disc jockey, was holding forth to the customers as he served them. There were eight or so of them, men and women, awaiting their turn. The greengrocer was tipping some apples into a string bag held out by a man who was rather carefully turned-out.

“How’s the Chinese coming on?” asked the greengrocer, rummaging in the cash register for the man’s change.

“I beg your pardon?” said the other.

“I asked how the Chinese was coming on,” the greengrocer said again.

“Well!” exclaimed the man, pursing his lips indignantly at the other’s lack of discretion.