Ismail Kadare - The Concert

For a few seconds Ekrem looked on dully as the man fumbled in the drawer among a few odd papers.

“No, nothing,’ said the man.

“Right, then. Goodbye,” said Ekrem.

“Goodbye, Better luck next time.”

“Next time…” Ekrem thought to himself as he went out into the square, He trudged on for a while without thinking. Where should he go next? To Agroexport or to the Ministry of Trade? But wait a minute! If he went to both those places, mightn’t that be seen as a kind of investigation, as if he were checking up on things? He had a sudden vision, a memory of the prison yard on the day parcels were handed out, together with, for some reason or other, the dirge-like singing of a common law prisoner convicted of incest. But the next moment: how ridiculous, he thought. Why should anyone need to be checking up? For days people had been talking about it almost openly. To hell with precautions! Not only would he go and ask if there was any work for him at the two places he’d jest thought of, but he’d also present himself at Makina Import and Aibimpex, and even the Planning Commission. He’d go the whole hog. He realized he’d started to walk faster …He began to calm down. Perhaps he wouldn’t go to the Planning Commission for another couple of days, he thought, but he’d certainly go to the other places.

Isn’t all this just my luck! he said to himself as he made his way towards the Agroexport building. He felt very down, though he did try to tell himself all wasn’t yet quite lost. But in fact he was sure he was the unluckiest person in the world. He’d just arranged to do a new translation — from the original, this time — of the libretto of Tricked by Tiger Mountain when the first rumours of disaster had started to spread around. It had been the same with Russian: just as things had seemed to be going better than ever, the catastrophe had happened. But it was much more annoying to see his Chinese going to waste: thousands of people had known Russian, but he was one of the few Albanians who knew Chinese, and he’d gradually emerged as the best. That opera translation would have opened up new possibilities for him. But now everything was collapsing. When he’d told Hava about the first hints of a break with China, she’d said casually, “Don’t pay any attention to such gossip! Weren’t you disillusioned enough after the break with the Russians?” “That’s not what bothers me," he’d replied. “I'm not crazy enough to have any hopes about politics! What I'm worried about is my knowledge of Chinese — it won’t be any use any more!”

The Agroexport offices, with their hermetically sealed shutters, looked far from inviting. Ekrem went and stood just inside the great door.

“No, nothing for you,” called the man behind the little window brightly,

“I thought I’d just take a stroll, to see,” said Ekrem, almost apologetically.

“No, not a thing.”

“Of course not,” said Ekrem, cursing himself for not being able to shut up. What a fool he must look. “I didn’t really expect to find anything, but I just dropped by in case. You can easily call in for nothing, but then again, sometimes a translation’s needed just when no one shows up to do it!”

He forced a laugh. The man seemed surprised. Ekrem tried to look unconcerned.

“Well, goodbye, then.”

“Goodbye.”

Once outside he gave way to his dejection. There was nothing. No point in trying anywhere else. No point at all… Just the same, he felt his legs carrying him back towards Government Square. He was jest going round in circles. Like an ass on a threshing Moor.

The man at the Ministry of Trade was new, and took some time to understand what he wanted, Then, mortifyingly, he didn’t even leave Ekrem time to invent an excuse: he just said no one had left anything to translate into any language. Ekrem even got the impression the man suspected him of being up to no good! That was the last straw! he thought as he left. He probably ought to have stayed and explained that he came here regularly to collect work. But he didn’t go back. What was the good? Let the oaf think what he liked! But Ekrem couldn’t help sheddering at the thought that the man might have picked up the phone and spoken to a colleague at the Ministry of Construction: “Hallo? Has a shady-looking individual been there asking if you still need translations from Chinese?” In other words, had he been there trying to find out the effect on international relations of the recent rumours — rumours well-known to have been put about by ideological agitators.

He shivered and came to a halt. Should he go on? Then he started walking again. Let the oaf phone his colleague! The other man would sort it all out and there wouldn’t be any problem. What an idiot I am! It’ll be all to the good if he does phone!

The Albimpex and Makina Import buildings were both in the same street. Ekrem hadn’t yet decided which he’d go to first. He could feel the damp air chilling him to the bone. He’d never imagined that one day he’d be reduced to running from one government office to another begging for a bit of translation. In his wildest dreams he’d never imagined his Chinese ending up like this! All those friendship meetings and delegations going back and forth had seemed to promise just the opposite.

His Chinese…When he thought of all the sarcasms, the sneers and the bitchiness he’d had to put up with from his acquaintances! One day Hava Preza had said, “There’s no harm in learning Chinese, but I don’t like to see you putting all your eggs in one basket and using up all your spare time on that gibberish. Supposing — God forbid! — they put you ie prison again? The last time you learned Russian. What would you do this time?” “Don’t be so spiteful!” his own Hava had answered. “My Ekrem certainly won’t be going to prison again!” “You never know,” retorted Hava Preza. “As the unfortunate Nurihan said, anyone can land up in jail whether they’ve been there before or not.” After that, she would sigh and add: “Still, there are plenty of other languages left to learn, I suppose!”

At first even his own Hava had made fun of Ekrem, but at least she’d also been the first to understand the point of his efforts, and had even begun to encourage him. When he’d managed to learn the first eight hundred ideograms they celebrated by going out to a restaurant for supper. There, as she looked at him with a mixture of excitement and regret, Ekrem, his cheeks slightly flushed with wine, described what their future would be like under the new dispensation: how successful his first translations from the Chinese would be; how celebrated he’d become as the best in the field; the fat fees he’d earn; how he’d probably be asked to do a new version of the poems of Mao Zedong. These would no doubt be followed by invitations to the Chinese embassy, and then — why not? — after he’d done some particularly important translation, for instance Chairman Mao’s complete works, he might be sent on a trip to China, with stop-overs — heavens above! — in Paris and Rome…

She went on looking at him with the same despondent eyes, almost tragic with their heavy mascara and puffy, painted eyelids.

“Why are you looking at me like that, my darling? Don’t you believe me?”

“Yes, I believe you,” she answered. “I’m jest sorry all these things won’t be happening to us because of a more civilized language — English or Spanish, say. Chinese strikes me as — how shall I put it? — a dud sort of language.”

“Never mind,” he’d answered cheerfully. “One can find happiness even with the language of the devil!”

Later, when he’d begun to receive his first fees, Ekrem realized that his involvement with Chinese brought him a certain amount of political security as well as material advantages. It brought him closer to officialdom and to the régime in general. Not for nothing was Chinese called the language of friendship. As soon as people found out what he did, a feeling of mutual trust was generated which wiped out his bourgeois past But now, alas, all this was being reversed. He would be made to pay dearly for that partial rehabilitation. The excellence of his Chinese, of which he had been so proud and which had acted as an antidote to his past, would now tern into an exacerbation, if it hadn’t done so already. Henceforward he would be doubly undesirable, as a survivor of two detested eras — that of the bourgeoisie and that of the Chinese. People would point at him in disgust as the worst of time-servers, the most servile and shameless of turncoats. God! he groaned. Suddenly everything looked black. Every door was closed to him. And to think he’d still had the heart to go begging for translations out of that accursed lingo! He’d do better to shut himself up at home and never go out again, in the hope of being left in peace and forgotten.