Ismail Kadare - The Concert

“The tank officers have disobeyed the order to encircle the town’s Party committee,” the man had said in a tired, expressionless voice. And the minister had suddenly felt hollow inside.

“What?” he’d cried, “They dare to disregard an order?”

And as the sergeant, still in the same faint voice, started on some sort of explanation, the minister had started to yell louder and louder, drowning the other’s now baneful words. “Arrest them!” he bawled. But something of what the man was trying to say had sunk in, The officers…had said that in no circumstances…could the tanks…encircle a Party committee ….

“Arrest them!” he shouted, louder than ever. “Arrest them!”

When the courier had gone he stood at the entrance to his tent for some time, an icy void in his breast. Despite his subsequent efforts to hide it, his anxiety had probably started when he gave that order.

But had it begun even before that? — on an evening in Peking, after he’d come back from the theatre? It was a hot, damp night, and he was in a state of excitement. He wanted to stay up late, to talk to someone, to unburden himself. He’d never have dreamed a Chinese play could affect him like this. People were right when they said the Chinese party line emerged most forcefully in the theatre. The play he’d just seen was extraordinary. In the finale, a victorious crowd of good characters dragged the first secretary of a provincial Party across the stage by the hair.

“What did you think of the play?” Zhou Enlai had asked him afterwards, turning aside from escorting an African head of state towards the exit. He hadn’t known what to say. Zhou had looked very ambiguous,

“Perhaps well meet again after supper,” he said, “when I’ve seen our friend here home.”

Driving back through the dark to the government guest house, the minister felt strangely troubled. He’d never experienced this mixture of pleasure and horror before. It had begun during that final scene at the theatre when the mob hauled the Party secretary across the stage — the thrill you feel at the destruction of something sacred. It seemed odd that the Chinese, with their reputation for dogmatism and inflexibility, should allow such a thing. He couldn’t wait to hear what Zhou said about it. His eyes sparkled,

Zhou came straight after supper, as promised, and as soon as they’d shaken hands he asked again, “What did you think of the play?”

“Well…how shall I put it? Rather strange,” said the minister.

Zhou Enlai gave him a piercing look.

“It was magnificent,” he said.

The minister felt a shudder run through him again.

The two men then retired to a room in the guest house where they could talk alone. As he listened, the minister wondered why on earth Zhou Enlai was daring to speak like this to him. When you confided in someone you usually chose a person whose attitudes you could take for granted. Had the Chinese been bugging his, the minister’s, conversations with one of his aides? Both of them, carried away with enthusiasm for what they’d seen happening in China, had let fall a few criticisms here and there about the situation in Albania. This didn’t seem impossible, especially as their objections were mostly about the way the Party at home had its finger in every pie. In China, on the other hand, the position had become very different. Not only was it obvious that the Chinese Party was dominated by the army, but apparently other bodies were superior to it too. Of course, the minister and his aide weren’t in favour of any such aberrations in their own country, but the time had come for Party control to be relaxed. People were fed up, to put it politely, with being called to account before the Central Committee for the least little thing. The Chinese had put a stop to that kind of nonsense: an officer in charge of a military region was his own master, and didn’t take orders from either the regional committee or the Central Committee of the Party, And was China any the worse? Had China been weakened? On the contrary, China was stronger than ever.

That was more or less what the minister and his aide had said, and perhaps the Chinese had listened in. Perhaps that was even why they’d taken them to the theatre. As Zhou went on talking, the minister became convinced that such was the case.

“The revolution before everything!” Zhou was saying, “The revolution changed everything, and to it nothing is sacred, not even the Party!”

“Not even the Party?” stammered the minister, at once ecstatic and appalled.

“You need the same thing in your country,” said Zhou.

“In our country, a thing like that could never—” began the minister.

“I know, I know,” Zhou interrupted. “A lot of things aren’t allowed in Albania, but that can’t go on much longer. China’s preparing to make changes that will alter the balance of the whole world. The question is, will you come with us or no? If you do, you will remain our friends. If you don’t, well have to ditch you. For the moment we’re putting it to you very nicely — or rather, I’m telling you in the strictest confidence…please don’t tell anyone else. We’re going to see upheavals and sudden storms all over the world, especially in the Balkans. And as an old Chinese poem has it, in bad weather it’s up to everyone to take shelter. But it’s something that has to be thought about now. Afterwards, it’ll be too late. Glorification of the Party was meant to prevent change. That’s why Mao has abolished the cult of the Party. And in your country too…”

Zhou Enlai went on and on. The conversation changed from one subject to another, but always came back to the Party. It was now openly identified as the main obstacle to progress. It was no accident that Mao Zedong had permitted two lines to coexist within it. If it hadn’t been for that they would never have seen that play this evening. “But they’d never be allowed to put on a play like that in my country,” sighed the minister. “I know that,’ said Zhou, “but there are lots of other things you could do. You’ve knocked down the churches and mosques, haven’t you? In that case, why should you hesitate to tackle another kind of worship?” “Oh, not in our country — it would be practically impossible!” “One always thinks it’s impossible to start with…But once you get started …!”

The minister suddenly got a grip on himself, This was getting a bit out of hand. How dared Zhou?…And so openly? What’s more, he was talking to him as if he were a mere vassal…The time had come to let him understand there were limits! The minister drew himself up as he sat in his chair.

“I’m not sure I quite understand you, comrade Zhou Enlai,” he said coldly, throwing his head back so as to seem as distant as possible. But his bravado didn’t last. Zhou Enlai stared back at him unremittingly, his eyes seeming to converge and grip the minister as in a vice.

“You used to be more frank, once,” he said quietly. “Our Yugoslav friends have told us — maybe they had it from the Soviets themselves — about a certain private conversation you had with them jest before the row between Albania and the U.S.S.R. in 1960. You were much more open then!”

The minister felt his eyes glaze and his mouth go dry. He’d thought that story had long been forgotten. It had happened twenty years ago, and strangely enough the Soviets had said nothing about it. And now, when he least expected it, here in Peking of all places…He was completely thrown. As he had been in 1960, when the Soviets, to make him sit down and talk to them, had reminded him of a conversation he’d had once with the Yugoslavs: “We’re well aware of what you said to the Yugoslavs in 1947. ” they’d said. When he’d started to get over the shock, the first thing he’d asked himself then was why the Yugoslavs had sold him down the river? and for how much? Perhaps in exchange for Krushchev’s visit to Belgrade, when he went to apologize to Tito? Perhaps for something to do with Kosovo? Or had they simply sold him in instalments?