Ismail Kadare - The Concert

Gjergj walked with her to the ministry. It was very cold. People were flocking round the newsstands as usual to buy their morning paper. Nonsensical as it was, it always seemed to Silva they bought more of them when the weather was cold. Gjergj bought a paper too, folded it twice and put it in the outside pocket of his raincoat. Silva suddenly felt she couldn’t bear to start discussing China again, though lately this had been one of her favourite subjects of conversation. As if he guessed this, Gjergj had avoided the topic since the day before. Had Arian’s arrest got anything to do with these events? Though they’d asked themselves this question several times, and every time answered it in the negative, they both still harboured a slight doubt. But be that as it might, Silva didn’t want to hear China so much as mentioned any more.

After she’d left Gjergj, she went up the steps into the ministry, calling out her usual greeting to the porter as she passed by his lodge. But inside the hall she couldn’t help turning back to check up on his expression: had it been colder than usual, or had she just imagined it? This is getting to be an obsession! she exclaimed, and ran up the stairs.

Her boss and Linda had just arrived in the office. Silva said good morning, took off her raincoat, and sat down at her desk. But she didn’t do all this in her usual manner. She told herself this odd feeling would soon pass. This misfortune of hers was connected with society, and her first encounter with other people after it had happened was bound to be difficult. But she couldn’t imagine how she was going to get through all these hours at the office without unburdening herself to someone, Gjergj had advised her not to talk to anyone about it for the moment, but she could tell it was going to be hard for her not to. Suddenly people seemed to be divided into two groups — those she could confide in and those she couldn’t. It wasn’t a question of trust, but of something else which even she couldn’t define. ln any case, she couldn’t make up her mind for two minutes together whether she wanted to talk to anybody or not.

She tried to concentrate on her work, but it was too much for her — what had happened was so much a part of her, she couldn’t get it out of her mind for more than a moment. How painful this first stage was, when no one else knew about her trouble yet, and she had to speed hour upon hour alone with it. No, it would be better for the others to find out, whatever the consequences. Gradually she persuaded herself that she ought to speak out somehow, but she didn’t know how or to whom. It was easier for Gjergj: the Party had definite rules for such situations. A Party member had to report such a thing right away to the secretary of his cell.

But ordinary citizens had no such guidance.

What Silva feared most was the beginning of the mysterious and inexorable process which took a person out of the category of ordinary people and put him into the category of those whose life is tainted. It was a process which began with the individual concerned, but as other people saw that individual withdraw into him-self, so their own attitude changed, provoking another retreat in him; and so on until he became unrecognizable, no longer having anything in common with what he used to be.

Though she didn’t make a show of it, Silva took a pride in her family’s past. She’d always been conscious of it, and it had acted as a foil to the image of themselves she and her sister — especially her sister — had created in their palmy days: the freedom of their ways, their poise, the clothes they wore…She could foresee how much she would miss it if it were lost, I shall grow ugly I she thought. Then she reproached herself: “Selfish brute that I am! My brother’s in prison, perhaps being interrogated at this very minute, and I…” But she couldn’t quite suppress the thought that from now on she wouldn’t be able to wear her most elegant clothes.

“What’s the matter, Silva? Have you got a headache?” Linda whispered.

“No.” Silva smiled gratefully. “Well, yes, a bit.”

“Would you like an aspirin?”

“No, thanks, Linda. Later on, perhaps,”

Heaven knows what she was going to have to face later on! It would almost certainly include the sarcasm, perhaps even the vengefuleess, of people who didn’t like her: “Oh, here’s the Biografibukura!” (God, why had she said that instead of Sybukura}) .

Silva shook her head as if to get rid of these thoughts. She knew that if even a fraction of what she’d been imagining came to pass, she’d go out of her mind. But she wouldn’t let it get that far! She’d fight, she’d leave no stone unturned, she’d explain to everyone, beginning with herself, that she…But what? What? She nearly asked it aloud…Her thoughts were in utter confusion.

“Linda,” she croaked feebly. “I’ll have that aspirin now, please.”

At any rate, she must do something before this mental turmoil got the better of her. Right. She’d tell Linda what had happened, straight from the shoulder. Then she’d see what attitude to adopt. She might even discuss things with her. But first their boss would have to clear off and leave them by themselves.

The prospect of talking to Linda calmed Silva down somewhat, but just as she thought the boss was about to go out of the room, it was Linda who walked over to the door.

Silva, taken aback, watched the door shut. Then she was thrown into a state of agitation again by the thought that she was now alone with someone she could talk to, even if it wasn’t the person she’d have chosen. An opportunity had occurred which might not present itself again that day and which she’d better take advantage of before it was too late.

“Comrade Defrim!” she found herself saying.

God, how could his parents inflict such a name on him? She and Linda hardly ever used it, and she now realized for the first time how inhibiting it was.

“Yes,” said the boss, raising his eyebrows but not looking up from his papers.

“I’d like to talk to you,” said Silva, in such a faint voice that now he did glance across at her. “My brother was arrested yesterday.”

She felt him subside with all his weight on to his desk, and even thought she heard his body give out a groan as if he’d become a block of wood himself. She kept her eyes on his face, as if it might reflect the gravity of her brother’s situation. After a moment of stupefaction, the boss broke out into a sweat. He didn’t know where to look. His whole being seemed to be groaning, “What have I done to deserve this?” He obviously wished she’d never opened her mouth.

“But your husband’s a member of the Party, isn’t he?”

“Yes, of course,” she said. But why was he suddenly addressing her with the formal second person plural? And what had her husband got to do with it?

She watched him, waiting for him to go on. It didn’t matter what he said so long as he said something!

“So how did it happen? I mean, what was the reason?”

He spoke reluctantly, as if to convey that he didn’t want to discuss the matter: she could think what she liked about him, but after all she belonged to an iniuential family, and had a husband who worked at the foreign ministry and was sent on secret missions…And so on …So why didn’t they just sort it out for themselves and leave him alone? — he didn’t have a Party card or the advantages that went with it, and there was no reason why he should share the disadvantages.

“The reason?” Silva repeated. “It just happened — we don’t know the reason.”

So much the worse! said the boss’s expression. Worse for the individual concerned, and worse for him too — having to listen to this rubbish, and so early in the day! He would probably have got up and left the room to avoid being left alone with her, but at that moment the door opened and Linda walked in. The boss felt reassured: Silva thought she heard his desk creak again as it was relieved of his weight.