Ismail Kadare - The Concert

“That’s C–V—, the critic.”

“Is it? I’ve read some of his articles, but this is the first time I’ve seen him in the flesh. Does he really like the Chinese?”

Skënder’s grey eyes went cold.

“After the break with the Soviets he was all poised to step into the breach and fill Albania with Chinese theories on literature and art. And he was the first to suggest our adopting the Chinese habit of not putting authors’ names on the books they write.”

The crowd seemed to have grown since Silva and Skënder arrived. It was quite difficult now to move about the long room, which every so often was lit up by a camera flash.

“Two years ago in this very hall,” Skënder said, “they exhibited the famous sculpture, Outside the Tax Office — a real piece of rubbish, as you may imagine. There were plenty of sarcastic remarks about it, but in those days the people who swallowed Chinese art hook, line and sinker were still in the ascendant."

Silva’s smile told her companion she thought he was overdoing it a bit.

“And look at them now,” he went on, “prowling around those vases, or whatever they are, making disparaging remarks. The whole thing is a cold-blooded war in which neither side really gives a damn about anything. But of course, in present circumstances, the enthusiasts are in the minority…”

“Look over there,” said Silva, interrupting him.

A group of people were gathered around a showcase. A press photographer, who from his equipment looked like a foreigner, kept crouching down to take pictures.

“I should think that’s where the fox is lurking, shouldn’t you?” said Skënder.

But when they got near enough to see, the vases the group was looking at turned out to be quite ordinary.

“Sorry I interrupted,” said Silva. “You were saying the China enthusiasts are on the wane…”

“Ye-e-es…But that sort of riffraff don’t give up easily. To start with, they still hope the rift with China can be mended. But the main thing is, they think that even if the Chinese do go they’ll leave a useful amount of their jiggery-pokery behind.”

“How can they possibly hope such a thing?” said Silva indignantly.

“Because they’re swine!” he answered. “Still, you ought to know there’s a difference between the two camps. The first lot’s love of Russia was to a certain extent understandable — it was connected to a part of their life that they’d spent there. To Russian literature, the Russian winter, and so on. And especially Russian girls — as you may have heard, Russian girls are very charming. But the other lot’s love of, or rather craze for China is completely base. It hasn’t got anything to do with China really, with Chinese art or the Chinese view of the world…It’s inspired by ignoble considerations that have only to do with themselves …”

Silva shrugged — a gesture he liked, because it reminded him of Ana — to indicate that she couldn’t quite follow.

“Let me put it another way,” he said. “While those who felt a kind of nostalgia for things Russian stayed loyal out of conviction, or misapprehension, or sentimental attachment, those — a smaller group — who went crazy about China did so not out of love for the place but because things Chinese provided them with something that disguised their own deficiencies — inefficiency, lack of talent, envy, inferiority complex and spiritual poverty. It provided them with an outlet for their fundamental wickedness, and! don’t know what else!”

“Phew! You don’t mince your words!”

“Perhaps, but such are their motives, and that’s why it’ll be difficult to turf them out, even after the Chinese have gone… Just look at C–V—!” he said, turning towards him. “The perfect embodiment of…”

Silva turned round, but the shoulders of other visitors hid the critic from view.

Skënder leaned closer.

“I expect you think I’m fanatically anti-Chinese, Be frank — you do, don’t you?”

“Well…”

He stifled a laugh.

“Well, you’re quite wrong!”

She rolled her eyes mockingly.

“I’m serious,” he exclaimed, looking at her evenly as if waiting for her to stop smiling. “In fact I’d regard myself as an ignorant boor if I did entertain such views!”

Two or three people nearby turned to look at them.

They think we’re quarrelling, thought Silva, and tried to draw him away. Someone must have accused him of being anti-Chinese before, she thought. There was no other explanation for this sudden outburst.

“I have a great respect for their culture, as anybody must have if they’re in their right mind,” he said. “We’ve talked about their culture before, haven’t we?”

“Of course.”

“And who created that culture, that poetry, and so on, but the people you thought I was denigrating?”

Silva felt like saying she’d never thought any such thing, but knowing what he was like she restrained herself.

“If I get worked up and talk like this, it’s because it’s the Chinese people who suffer most when things go wrong.”

“I do understand, ‘Skënder,” said Silva soothingly.

He was talking now without even looking at her.

“People in this country are always telling stories and jokes about the Chinese, and I expect they always will. But it’s got nothing to do with racism, whatever some may think.”

“No…Good heavens, what a crush! It’s like being packed in a tie of sardines!”

The visitors were cruising around in complete disorder. They seemed to have come there to meet one another rather than to study Chinese ceramics. Everyone was beaming, contributing to one great meaningful smile. They came and went, eyes sparkling, ready to burst out laughing at the slightest excuse.

“And there’s the old guard for you!” said Skënder.

“So what’s their position?”

“They’re gaga. If they still had all their faculties they’d be lamenting now instead of exulting as they did when we broke with the Soviets.“

“But why should they be downcast?” asked Silva. “Perhaps they’re cherishing some hopes, now as then?”

“They’ve no reason to hope. We’re drawing away from China at the very moment China’s moving towards America. And so…”

“Yes, you’re right.”

“But they’re completely past it, and can’t understand the situation. Unless they’re only pretending…”

Silva started to laugh.

Then, from their right, there came a sudden noise, followed by cries of “What is it?” “What’s happening?” Heads turned, but no one could make anything out from a distance.

The crowd drifted towards the centre of interest. The more impatient elbowed their way forward. Others could be seen coming back in the other direction, wearing smiles of satisfied curiosity.

“What’s happened?” Skënder asked one of these.

“Someone’s broken a vase.”

“Good gracious!” Silva exclaimed,

“A Chinaman knocked it over by accident,” said the man. “I don’t know what would have happened if it had been one of us!”

Silva thought for a moment of Victor Hila. Scraps of conversation could be heard all round: “That beautiful vase — smashed to smithereens!”…“I was sure someone had knocked it over!”, “What? Who’d have dared?”…“Well, Ï never!”…“It was very valuable, too!”…“Still, I suppose it’s a good sign”…

Silva, turning round to see who’d spoken the last few words, was surprised to see the man they’d noticed a little while ago, looking at the poster. He was rubbing his hands, and his face was flushed with satisfaction.

“Let’s slip away,” said Skënder.

And after having strolled around for a little longer, they left. He went with her for part of the way, and as they parted she could feel on her lips a trace of the collective smile worn by the visitors to the exhibition. It was colder now and she walked faster. As she strode along she wondered if she’d been right not to tell Skënder Bermema that her brother had been expelled from the Party. Perhaps he might have been able to give her some explanation? Anyhow, she’d contrive to mention it to him another day.