Ismail Kadare - The Concert

Whenever she visited her sister’s grave Silva recalled parts of the story of Ana’s second marriage. It wasn’t because of the grave, with its pale marble vaguely suggesting a bride’s veil, the wreath of flowers, and the traditional handfuls of rice. These things belonged to Ana’s first marriage rather than her second, for which she had dressed very soberly. No, it was because of something else, something that in a curious way erased the memory of the interminable days of Ana’s illness, the months in hospital, the anxious waiting, the operation. Ana’s first marriage, to Frédéric, had somehow been swallowed up in those sad memories — had been stripped of its veil, its lights, of everything that was joyful, and had made way for Ana’s second marriage as one house may give up its contents in order to furnish another.

“Silva, I’m going to divorce Frédéric…” She well remembered hearing Ana say that. It was on a cold grey day like today, without mercy for anyone who stepped out of line. Ana’s face had been paler than usual as she spoke. Before Silva had time to get over her astonishment, her sister had continued, even more amazingly: “I’m going to marry someone else.” “Marry someone else?” gasped Silva. Then she tried to speak more moderately. “Have you gone out of your mind? Haven’t you said yourself that for you men are only interesting at a distance, and as soon as they get near you they lose most of their attraction?” “Not this time,” said Ana, “I’ve been with him — or rather I’ve been his, as they say — for a week.” “I can’t believe it!” Silva had cried. She seemed to say nothing else all those icy weeks. “Fred thinks I’ve betrayed him lots of times,” said Ana, “but I never did, as you know. Never, Except perhaps once, in circumstances where I…where we both…”

Silva had sat staring at her sister. She was probably referring to her relations with Skënder Bermema which had been the talk of the town but which no one — including Silva. — really knew anything about, Silva was tempted to say, “What’s all the mystery about Skënder Bermema? You might at least tell me! You’re always making enigmatic references to it …Unless you only met him in a dream, or vice-versa, or unless the gossips themselves dreamed it all up …” But that day Ana had been talking about somebody else, a third man, and that wasn’t the moment to try to find out about Skënder Bermema. Nor did a suitable occasion present itself later. Ana never told Silva her secret; she was to take it with her to the grave.

Anyhow, that day, the subject of conversation was somebody else. “Who is it you want to marry?” Silva had asked, finally. And thee, for the first time, Ana had uttered the name of Besnik Straga.

“The man who was in Moscow and has jest broken off his engagement?” Silva asked.

Ana nodded.

“Yes. Perhaps yoe remember me going to dinner with Victor Hila a few weeks ago? Well, it was there I met him.“

“And what are you going to do now?”

“I’ve told you. I’m going to marry him.”

Silva, perched now on a corner of the rose-strewn marble slab, huddled up to keep out the cold, felt a great emptiness inside her. Scraps of memories whirled around her indistinguishably; none emerged more distinct than the others. Then vaguely, distantly, they formed into a kind of television film with the sound turned off: first came the scandal caused by the announcement of Ana’s divorce; thee the legal proceedings, with Frédéric coming into court carrying an armful of books by Skënder Bermema in which he’d marked all the passages he alleged referred to the author’s affair with Ana; the gossip; Ana’s dignified behaviour throughout. The storm, which Ana, with her talent for making everything around her light and airy, transformed into a spring shower, was followed by a fiat calm: her marriage to Besnik Strega; the little dinner party with just a few close friends. When, after the first few weeks, they assessed the damage this earthquake of theirs had caused among their circle, they realized there hadn’t been any great upheavals, apart from one loss that affected them deeply: they couldn’t see the Bermemas any more.

Silva remembered a bright rainy afternoon when she and Ana were walking past the puppet theatre, and her sister nudged her and whispered, “Look, Silva — that’s the girl who was engaged to Besnik …” The girl was hurrying along under a transparent umbrella which cast pale mauve reflections on to her face. In that lavender light her expression struck Silva, who had never seen her before, as full of mystery. There was no trace of resentment in Ana’s eyes or voice. She just said, “She’s pretty, isn’t she?”, when the girl had gone past, Silva didn’t know what to say. She agreed. When she saw the girl again later, after she’d got married to an engineer, she still seemed just as mysterious as on that first day, through that mauve mist. But perhaps this was because Silva had heard people say that although she was so attractive to men, she was also proud and self-willed; it was even whispered that she was very cold towards her husband. But Silva was rather sceptical about that. Perhaps because of all the tittle-tattle about Ana, she tended to discount rumours about women’s infidelity. There was much more to be said about the infidelity of men.

Silva sighed. In the end, what did it all matter? She’d come here for something else. She stared at the wet marble; her eyes were so tired they hurt. What would she have said to her sister if she’d still been alive? “Ana, I’m going to divorce Gjergj”? She shuddered. Oh no, she thought. Never! She’d heard someone else use such words, and now she wanted to give them back, like something she’d borrowed that didn’t suit her. Like most younger sisters, she’d often imitated Ana, but the time for that had gone by. They had been as one, like sisters in the ancient ballads, and they still were one. But now they were like twin water-lilies, the invisible roots of one of which were dead. Even though people still spoke of them together, the old symmetry was no more. The words Silva had been on the point of saying were quite alien to her.

She glanced around. No one. When she looked at her watch she couldn’t believe her eyes: it was after two o’clock. At home they’d have been wondering where she was. She felt her lips curve in a bitter smile. Perhaps she’d smile like this when she first spoke to Gjergj. It was late, but she hadn’t yet bothered to think what she’d say to him. She stood up, smoothed her skirt down, and started to make her way out of the cemetery. The worst would be if he tried to hide the truth, and degraded himself in her eyes with petty lies. How horrible! thought Silva, as if a new misfortune had suddenly been revealed to her. I only hope it won’t be like that, she thought as she got on to the almost empty bus. Then she wondered what it would be like if he simply admitted he was having an affair; at this idea she wasn’t quite so shattered. She sighed again. Whichever way she looked at it, she couldn’t see any solution. What horrible chance made me go by that cursed café, she wondered. It would have been better for me not to know. I'd a hundred times rather not have seen anything.

The bus picked up passengers at every stop. It was almost three o’clock by the time she got off. She still hadn’t thought what she would say to Gjergj, She ought at least to have an answer ready when he asked where she’d been. But she felt too worn out to think about anything. She was almost surprised to see a couple of young men unloading crates of mineral water from a lorry outside a bar in the street where she lived. They whistled as they staggered across the pavement to the shop, the bottles clinking. Was life really still going on as if nothing had happened?