Ismail Kadare - The Concert

Silva, suddenly remembering she ought to offer the visitors some refreshment, stood up. She mused on them all out in the kitchen, as she poured brandy into glasses. There were four visitors in all: her aunt, her aunt’s husband, their daughter, and another woman, whom Silva had never met before and who must be the husband’s sister.

When Silva came back into the living room the sister-in-law had lit a cigarette and was talking. Her voice was at once raucous and cooing, with little bursts like laughter. You could tell she got on very well with Suva’s aunt.

She was the first to drink.

“Your health!” she said, raising her glass.

“And yours!” said Silva.

Her aunt looked at her placidly. It was three years, perhaps four, since they’d seen one another. The last time, they’d met by chance in the street. Silva thought she’d never seen her aunt looking so gaunt, but when she asked if she was worried about something the older woman had replied tartly: “As if you were interested in my worries! My dear niece, you have your owe life with your husband. Everything goes smoothly for you two. And why not? Your day has come…”

Silva tried to interrupt and say, “But you wanted it this way…You were the one who insisted…”

“I know, I know what you’re going to say, but I’ve had enough of being criticized! And I don’t intend to listen to any more of it today!”

It had taken Silva some time to find out why her aunt was so sour: her son had been refused permission to go to the University. The reason was obvious: his father’s past.

Your day has come…Silva repeated to herself. But now times had changed again: instead of belonging to one or other party, she now had a foot in both camps. So she and her aunt could now visit one another… Especially as none of your owe folk come and see you any more. Haven’t you spent all your time listening for the door-bell and the telephone this last week? But never mind — if they don’t come, we shall. We shall come quite freely now there’s no barrier between us any more. We’re all marked men, but your mark is more painful than ours because it’s more recent…

Silva’s mouth was dry. Why didn’t Gjergj come home? Or even Brikena?

The sister-in-law contributed most to the conversation. It suited her nicely. They’d probably brought her along for that very reason. Silva heard only scraps of what was said. They’d jest collected a motorbike from the customs for their nephew, but it wasn’t the make he wanted: what should they do?… Benedetto Croce? When she was a student they all had his books by their beds… In fashionable restaurants people sometimes ate chicken with their fingers…

The coeversation was like something out of the Ark. Allusions to Hondas and Vestas only made matters worse, and the word “genetic”, through some absurd association of ideas, made Silva think of Greta Garbo’s profile.

They went over all the little dinner parties they’d invited one another to, together with trivial events quite free of any of the more serious emotions. Behind the veil of old-fashionedness one divined a completely self-contained and self-satisfied world.

Brikena arrived just as Silva was making coffee.

“What a big girl she is now!” exclaimed the sister-in-law, kissing her. Then, turning to her niece: “Vilma, come and say hallo to your cousin. Have you really never met before?”

Brikena blushed and looked inquiringly at her mother. Then the two girls awkwardly kissed.

Silva felt a weight at the pit of her stomach again. Now she understood why they’d brought their daughter with them. They wanted to get their claws on the younger generation too.

“Come and sit down next to Vilma,” said the sister-in-law to Brikena, enjoying herself hugely.

The girls stared at one another like strangers. Brikena turned to her mother again. Why isn’t Gjergj back yet, Silva groaned to herself.

She got up and handed round the coffee. She had meant to wait for her husband, but perhaps it was better if he wasn’t there.

“I’m going to read the coffee grounds in my cup,” said the sister-in-law, laughing noisily. “I’m very good at it,” she told Silva. “Would you like me to read yours?”

Silva longed inwardly to put an end to this farce. But something forced her to do nothing, to see how far they would go. She secretly hoped the woman would snatch her cup, solemnly turn it round and round, and utter the ritual formula: “Someone near to you will soon be going on a long journey…” (Gjergj, obviously. Was he going to be sent abroad again?) “You see that dark patch at the very bottom of the cup? That’s an illness or a great misfortune — probably a misfortune. But look at this V — that means the sorrow is starting to lessen…”

Meanwhile the sister-in-law was commenting half-seriously, half-jokiegly, on what she saw in her own cup, while the others listened, smiling.

“She’s always been like that,” the aunt’s husband told Silva. He sounded apologetic. “She likes to look on the bright side!”

They’ve talked about everything except Arian, Silva noticed. It’s as if he didn’t exist. And yet, she said to herself as they were putting on their coats in the hall, hide it as they might, it was because of him that they’d come!

“Goodbye, Silva,’ said her aunt, kissing her.

“Goodbye, my dear,” said the sister-in-law, doing the same.

When the door closed behind them, Silva collapsed on to the settee. She felt exhausted.

“Don’t you feel well, Mother?” asked Brikena.

Silva didn’t answer. She just looked at the cups and glasses on the coffee table, as if trying decipher, through them, the motives of her visitors. It was easier to think about it now that they’d gone. They didn’t really seem to have come out of resentment or in search of revenge. Nor for the malicious pleasure of seeing her down and out. But neither had they come out of sympathy. At best, what they felt was closer to half-hearted tolerance than to pity. But then if they had felt sorry for her she wouldn’t have been able to bear it! She had to hold back her tears. There was something repulsive even about their goodwill: welcome to our cosy little world, we’ve been expecting you, so just calm down and relax…

And that’s how Gjergj found her — sitting with her face buried in her hands. Brikena, who had let him in, had evidently told him about the visitors. He looked for a moment at the cups, one sinisterly upside down in the middle, and without saying anything, not even his usual “Anything wrong?”, he came over and stroked her hair.

As if she’d only been waiting for this sign of affection, which seemed to rise up from the happiest times in their lives, Silva burst into tears.

He let her give vent to her feelings for a while, then drew her close and whispered, “There, there, that’ll do now. Won’t you make me a cup of coffee too?”

AS AT EVERY CHANGE of season, the sky was now fell of flocks of birds migrating. Billions moved from one place to another within the continents, other billions crossed from one continent to another. Millions of them died, some by drowning as they flew over the ocean, some from exhaustion over the land; others had their wings frozen; others again got lost. But there wasn’t a mention of all this in any of the thousands of newspapers and magazines throughout the world, or on radio or television, or at any of the international meetings, seminars and conferences.

Perhaps it would have been otherwise if there hadn’t been so much political tension, said a couple of rather senile old professors of zoology as they drank their morning coffee in the Clock Bar in Tirana.

As it was, the air was completely saturated. Dozens of press agencies were busy transmitting the list of members of the Chinese Politbureau, as issued on the occasion of a recent state funeral. The list was as follows, in that order: Mao Zedong, Zhou Enlai, Wang Hoegwen, Ye Jiaeying, Deng Xiaoping, Zhang Chunqiao, Liu Bocheng, Jiang Qing, Xu Shiyou, Hua Guofeng, Ji Dengkui, Wu De, Wang Doegxing, Chan Yoeggui, Chen Xilian, Li Xiannian, Li Desheeg, Yao Weeyeae, Wu Guixiae, Su Zhenhua, Saifudin, Song Qingling…