Ismail Kadare - The Concert

When Gjergj came in he found Silva preparing the salad for lunch. He talked to her over the sound of the tap as she stood at the sink washing lettuce leaves. She kept laughing at what he said,

“You ought to find out how Victor Hila stands now,” she said, “I think I’ve told you about him…He’s our best guide to China’s present attitude towards us.”

Gjergj burst out laughing.

“And how’s he getting on?” he asked.

“Not all that well, as far as I can make out. A few days ago he wanted to come and see me at the office. I believe he’s been chucked out of the factory where he was working.”

“Really? That’s a definite sign that we’re cosying up to China!” said Gjergj, laughing.

“I doubt it.”

“So do I. I think it’s out of the question.”

The telephone rang in the hall. Gjergj went to answer it.

“Silva — it’s for you!”

She hastily dried her hands and hurried out into the hall It was Skënder Bermema.

“I’m sorry to bother you at lunch-time,” he said, “but I absolutely must talk to you.”

Silva felt her heart beat faster.

“Whenever you like,” she said.

“It concerns the matter you came to see me about.”

“Yes — I thought as much…”

“The trouble is that I leave for Peking this afternoon — unfortunately I couldn’t ring you earlier…”

“How’s that?”

“I was busy all morning…You do believe me?”

Silva felt herself blush, and tried to explain.

“I didn’t mean that! I was wondering why you’re going to China!”

“it is surprising! But in spite of all the talk, they notified us yesterday that our delegation had to be ready to take off without delay.”

“And you leave this afternoon?”

“Yes — at a quarter past five. On the London — Shanghai Might of Pakistani Airlines. Listen, Silva — it’s twenty past two now and I have to leave for the airport at four o’clock at the latest if I want to be there by half-past. Could you come to my place at half-past three?”

Silva thought for a moment.

“Half-past three? All right. No problem,” she said.

“Good. I’ll be waiting for you. So long!”

Silva hung up, then went slowly back into the kitchen.

“It was Skënder Bermema,” she told Gjergj, who as usual was standing by the window. “He’s got something to tell me about Arian.”

“Is that so?”

Silva hadn’t told Gjergj she’d been to Skënder’s studio a few days before to get news of her brother.

“I gather he’s just leaving for China?”

“Yes — this afternoon.”

“Another sign…”

“I have to be at his place by three-thirty,” said Silva.

Gjergj looked at his watch.

“You’ve got plenty of time. We can have a snack lunch. But where’s Brikena?”

“Now you mention it, I have no idea.”

Silva set about laying the table, but something prevented her from doing it as automatically as usual

“So the exchanging of delegations has started up again,” said Gjergj, still looking out of the window,

Silva was thinking of how awkward she’d feel, coming face to face with Skënder Bermema’s wife again. For years they’d pretended not to see one another if they met in the street.

“Unless it’s just the dying throes…”

“What are you talking about?”

Gjergj looked at her affectionately.

“The only thing you can think of is this business about your brother…But don’t worry …I have a feeling it will all be sorted out.”

“Do you really think so?” she said, looking at him but still busy around the table.

He nodded emphatically, and winked for good measure.

“That must be Brikena,” she said, going to the front door.

Out in the hall, their daughter could be heard making breathless apologies for being late.

Gjergj turned away from the window and sat down to lunch.

The closer she got to the street where Skënder Bermema lived, the more doubtful Silva felt about going to see him so soon before his departure. True, she’d been there before, but his wife hadn’t been at home then. It was unlikely that she’d be out today. If Silva hadn’t been so worried about her brother she would probably have turned back. The most difficult moment would be meeting Skënder’s wife. It wouldn’t have been so embarrassing if they’d never met before, but unfortunately they’d known each other well in the past and then gradually drifted apart, I only hope she doesn’t actually open the door! thought Silva as she went up the stairs. If she did, could Silva say she wouldn’t come in as she knew they must be busy getting ready for Skënder‘s trip? Then she could hear what he had to say at the door, or if necessary just inside the hall.

She rang the bell, determined not to go in. It was exactly half-past three. Surely he would come to the door himself? — he must find the situation as awkward as she did herself.

But the footsteps approaching the door were too light for a man. For a second, Silva was tempted to rush back down the stairs. But it was too late: the door opened and Skënder’s wife appeared. He might have had the tact to open the door himself, thought Silva briefly. Her hostess was standing with her back to the hall light, so Silva couldn’t make out her expression.

“How are you?” Silva asked, flustered.

Should she introduce herself, as if they were strangers? That didn’t seem right, though.

“How are you?” she said again. “I'm sorry to bother you at a time like this, but Skënder phoned me…”

“Yes, I know,” said the other woman. “Unfortunately he had to go out.”

Silva was taken aback.

“But come in,” said the other woman affably. “He had an urgent call from the foreign ministry — they probably wanted to give him some last-minute instructions. Well have seen everything by the time this delegation takes off!”

She smiled so naturally as she spoke that half Suva’s embarrassment melted away.

“I do hope you’ll forgive me,” she said again, “It’s not a very good day…”

“It doesn’t matter in the least,” said her hostess placidly, sitting down opposite Silva. “We can wait together. The children are away skiing near Mount Dajti — they don’t even know Skënder’s leaving today.”

Silva covertly examined the other young woman’s oval face, ash-blonde hair and bright eyes: her expression might be interpreted as either serenity or indifference, according to the attitude of the observer. So we’re going to wait for him together, thought Silva. As if we were both at a concert. She suddenly felt she’d done the other woman an injury, and had an almost irresistible desire to apologize. But almost immediately she thought, Why should I? I never did her any harm…And yet, and yet…Not only had Besnik Struga ditched this woman’s niece on account of Suva’s own sister, but for a long time Skënder’s name too had been linked to Ana’s, This must have had a profoundly disturbing effect on this other woman’s life: she must have considered it an outrage, and it might well have given rise to painful domestic scenes,

Silva went on looking at her hostess with an expression unusual for her.

“Skënder said something to me about your brother, but he’ll prefer to tell you himself.“

“Is it serious?” asked Silva.

“No — just the opposite, as far as I can tell.”

Silva felt like flinging her arms around the other woman and asking her forgiveness again — forgiveness for everything. But perhaps she’d forgiven everything already, now that Ana was dead. That was what her expression seemed to convey — her whole face, and the smooth curls that moved almost musically. That placid look seemed to be saying: “All those wild passions, all those problems and suspicions, for nothing! For the day must come when we have to quit the stage and leave it empty…”