Ismail Kadare - The Concert

“It wouldn’t be polite,” said Silva, shivering and cuddling up against his chest — it had been cold out in the hall “People want to welcome you back.”

He didn’t answer.

The phone rang several times more, and in the end they both got up. Silva put the coffee on. Brikena, who’d fallen asleep in her room, woke up too. The smell of coffee made the warmth of the apartment more delightful still.

“How I’ve missed it all,” Gjergj said, looking round.

When they’d had their coffee Silva started on the washing up from lunch, which she’d left in the sink. On the stroke of six, two of Gjergj’s sisters arrived. They were followed by other visitors, relations mostly. But fortunately, after a while, they all said, “Now we’ll leave you — Gjergj must be worn out after that long journey.”

By about ten O’clock the three of them were alone again. After dinner Brikena put some discs on the record player, every so often asking her father if he liked what she was playing or if he’d rather listen to something else. Meanwhile, Gjergj looked from one object to another with a strange expression on his face, as if he was seeing them all for the first time.

“It feels so strange to be home again,” he kept saying, in a tone that made Silva and Brikena exchange surreptitious glances.

After midnight, Brikena retired to bed and Silva and Gjergj went to their own room. The voices of late passers-by wafted up from the street.

“I have missed you!” he whispered, stroking her hips.

They lay for a long while in one another’s arms. In the silence, punctuated by their breathing, she thought again about the possibility of his having made her pregnant, but she soon dismissed the idea. Anyhow, it wouldn’t be so tragic. A dreamy procession of those who had phoned or dropped in passed through her mind, Her brother Arian hadn’t shown any sign of life. He was gradually drifting away from those he used to know, as people usually did when they were expelled from the Party. This thought caused her a pang. She sighed, and hesitated for a moment. Should she talk to Gjergj about it? It was two o’clock in the morning. The pillow where their hair lay intermingled was inviting. She brushed his cheek lightly as if to check whether his eyes were still open,

“Gjergj,” she whispered in a low voice that was more like a strangled sigh. “I didn’t mean to mention it this evening, but I can’t help it. A week ago Arian was expelled from the Party.”

“What!”

She repeated what she’d said. He lay still for a moment, staring up at the darkness.

“But why?”

“I don’t know. He hasn’t said.”

“Very odd,” he said. “I suppose it couldn’t be anything to do with the Chinese?”

“The Chinese? You must be joking!”

“Not at all”

He moved his arm from around her so as to turn and look at her.

“It may sound ridiculous, but things like that can happen when there’s a crisis. You know what I mean…It happened before, with the Soviets…Some people weren’t very keen on making a break… Though in this case, of course, it would be crazy to suppose…”

“You mean he might have sided with the Chinese?” Silva exclaimed. “Never — you can be sure of that! The idea never even crossed my mind. I’m sure it must be something else — probably nothing whatsoever to do with the Chinese.”

“Maybe,” he said.

“I’m sorry, Gjergj — I probably shouldn’t have mentioned it, especially this evening. But I’ve been so worried …for days and days …”

“No, no,” he interrupted. “You were quite right to tell me.”

A clock they’d never heard before chimed somewhere nearby. All those clocks, in apartments full of human memories, thought Gjergj.

After a moment he said:

“No, I’m sure it’s nothing to do with the Chinese.”

EKREM FORTUZI DREW BACK the curtain and looked outside. It was a damp, grey day. I’d better wear my galoshes, he thought. He pondered for a while before a heap of shoes that he kept in a cupboard beside the bathroom door, then bent down and rummaged among a mass of sandals, slippers and boots, most of them with holes in the sole, broken straps or missing heels. Eveetually he found his galoshes, dropped them on the floor, and was about to put them on when he heard his wife’s voice calling from the bedroom.

“Ekrem — where are you going to so early?”

“It’s not early, Hava — it’s nearly ten o’clock. I’m going round to the ministries to see if there’s any work.”

“You still haven’t given up hope?”

He didn’t answer.

“I’ve lit the stove,” he said after a moment. “And the milk has been boiled. So I’ll see you later, my pet.”

“All right, my love.”

A feeling of relief came over him as he went out into the street. The shutters of the house opposite, warped and weatherbeaten by the rain, were still shut. Sunday, he thought — people are having a lie-in. But he had to do the rounds of government departments to see if anyone had left any translation jobs for him to do. So that his employers wouldn’t need to seek him out, he’d got into the habit of calling at the various offices after working hours or on Sundays to pick up files containing documents to be translated from Chinese. They’d be left at the door for him to collect, usually with a note attached saying when the job was to be finished — in most cases far sooner than was reasonable. Nor did he go in and receive his fees personally: he waited for them to be sent by post. For his friend Musabelli had given him some useful advice when he first started to translate from Russian, in the days of the Soviets: “Be careful not to be seen too much around government offices — the communists don’t like falling over us ex-members of the bourgeoisie every time they go out into the corridor.”

Ekrem had stuck to this rule. Whenever he came upon a crowd of people outside a ministry or other government building at the end of the day, he would turn away and not come back until everyone else was gone. Sunday was usually the best day. Not only could he pick up the files then without any bother, but he could even exchange a few words with the man on duty. They all knew him now. Most were ex-servicemen, and though Ekrem felt rather shy with them, he was grateful for their friendliness. Some even seemed to admire him. One day the man at Albimpex said, “You must be pretty clever, eh? How did you get to be so good at Chinese?” “Somebody had to, I suppose,” he’d answered. “You’re right there,” said the man, gazing at him respectfully. “Good for you, comrade!” Ekrem blushed, but any kind of display embarrassed him and he hurried away.

It was almost with affection that he thought back now to those afternoons, those snatches of conversation by the porters’ lodges and the smell of the chestnuts the inmates roasted over their little electric stoves. Work had grown scarcer and scarcer lately. And now the demand for translations had almost completely dried up.

Ekrem had reached Government Square. The wide grey pavements, more sombre than ever in the rain, were deeply depressing. The lofty portals of the Ministry of Construction, with their heavy bronze door-knobs, stood ajar. He peered through the opening at part of the cold, empty, dimly lit hall, then slipped inside. The man on duty was in his usual cubby-hole, warming his hands over a stove. “Good morning,” said Ekrem. “Chilly, isn’t it?”

“Good morning,” answered the man. “Yes — it’s the time of year. Is it raining?”

“Just spitting.”

“There isn’t anything for you, I’m afraid.” Ekrem felt his heart miss a beat. “I’ll have a look in the drawer to make sure, but I don’t think there’s anything.”