Ismail Kadare - The Concert

“And here’s the cultural attaché!” he cried, smiling at a Chinese diplomat who was coming towards them, together with the foreign relations secretary of the Writers’ Union. “How are you, comrade Hun? Well, I trust? Allow me to introduce you: my wife and a friend of ours…”

“Great pleasure,” said the Chinaman. “Come to wish you bon voyage,”

“Thank you, comrade Hun. So the birds are iying to Peking — tweet tweet tweet!”

The Chinese attaché laughed.

“Pretty little things, birds, eh?” he squeaked. “Good for inspiration! Where’s the other comrade gone?”

Silva could feel her relief at the news about her brother slowly turning into euphoria. She wanted to laugh and shout. The whole place was full of the buzz of conversation. What a lot of people seemed to be going to Peking…Suddenly, among all the travellers hurrying to and fro, she noticed a Chinese with one foot in plaster. Victor Hila’s Chinaman! It could only be he!

“Look at that Chinaman over there,” she whispered to her friends.

“The one with his foot in plaster?”

She nodded.

“If he’s the one I think he is, that foot is behind an absolutely fantastic story.”

And to the accompaniment of giggles from Skënder’s wife and guffaws from Skënder himself, she told them about the incident between Victor Hila and Ping, the Chinaman.

“Wonderful!” said Skënder, “Incredible! An X-ray of a Chinese foot mixed up with diplomatic notes!” Then, with a sigh: “To think of the country I’m about to be transported to through the air, like Nosferatu!”

His wife’s face fell even before she stopped laughing, and Silva recalled the presentiment she herself had had sometimes when Gjergj was in China. I hope to God he never has to go there again! she thought.

There was an increased stir of activity in the hall.

“The plane has just got in,” they heard someone say.

Outside, it was getting dark.

Over the public-address system a woman’s voice asked all passengers travelling to Shanghai to be ready for embarkation.

The three of them stood up and went over to the glass door. Skënder’s wife, stifling a sob, kissed him goodbye; Silva did the same. Then both women stood by the window, watching the stream of passengers make their way over to the huge aircraft. Some turned and waved. Perhaps because of the heavy bags they were carrying in either hand, they looked as if they were tottering rather than walking. Through the dusk, Silva made out the figure of C–V—, thee that of Ping, hobbling as he brought up the rear. He and Skënder will be travelling together, she thought regretfully.

The passengers were beginning to disappear into the plane. Skënder turned at the top of the steps and waved to them, though probably he couldn’t actually see them from all that distance.

“Look!” his wife suddenly exclaimed. “Look who’s going up the steps to the plane!”

“Yes,! noticed him before,” said Silva, trying to smile. The other woman looked terrified.

“I have a feeling he’s a bad omen,” she whispered.

Silva wanted to protest, but couldn’t find any words.

“Why did they both have to go on the same plane?” asked Skënder’s wife fearfully.

The two women stood with their faces pressed against the cold glass until the plane lifted off the runway and vanished into the eight.

By the time they got back into the car it was quite dark. They sat for a long time in silence. Silva could see how upset her companion was, but what was there to say? She felt very tired herself. Something Skënder Bermema had said came back to her vaguely — ”It looks as though there’s something going on in the army” — mingled in her mind with the sound of aircraft engines and the sight of a lone Chinese hobbling after the rest of the passengers on to the plane.

“Well,” she thought sleepily, “after all that fuss, all those diplomatic notes and radio messages, after having caused another man’s misfortune — how are you really any better off?” She shuddered at the thought that Skënder Bermema might tread on the Chinaman’s foot by mistake as they were finding their seats on the plane, and trigger off another scandal …“A subtle kind of a novel…” — that’s how Skënder’s wife had described his new book…She knew that if she’d been alone in the back of the car she’d have nodded off to sleep.

“Drop in and see me one of these days,” said Skënder’s wife as the car stopped and Silva prepared to get out. “We can keep each other company for a while.’’

“Thanks,” said Silva. “I’d love to.”

They said goodnight, and Silva hurried towards the front door of the apartment block where she lived. Only thee did it occur to her that Gjergj must have been worried at her being away so long.

Rumours went on multiplying about an improvement in relations with China, though the press was silent on the subject, apart from a couple of articles in a literary review about the discovery near Peking of the tomb of an early emperor. None of the large freighters said to have set sail on the express orders of Mao Zedong had yet reached the port of Durrës. There wasn’t even any news that they’d passed through the Straits of Gibraltar.

The matter of the freighters was the main subject of all conversations, and accounts of their long voyage were so many and various that people came to imagine a vast ieet of ghost ships wandering through the mist. Some observers maintained that it was all deliberately engineered by the Chinese to keep the Albanians in a state of doubt and anxiety,

Enver Hoxha referred to the matter in his speech closing the current plenum of the Central Committee. As he spoke his eyes ranged slowly over the side of the room occupied by members of the government responsible for economic affairs. Everyone else was so quiet you could almost hear their eyes turning towards the group Enver Hoxha was addressing.

Some members of the army were visibly relieved. So the others are in for it, thought Minister D—. Just so long as the thunderbolts don’t fall on us!

“In order to modify their general line — in other words, to draw closer to American imperialism — the Chinese have had to prepare the ground and remove any obstacles to such a turnaround. One of the obstacles was the Party. So they made it a puppet of the army, subjected it to the terror of the Red Guards — so much so that they practically annihilated it…”

Here Enver Hoxha paused for a moment. His eyes seemed to be seeking out someone. Minister D— felt as if all the columns on the other side of the room were tilting towards him.

“Here too there are some people,” Enver Hoxha went on, “not just anyone, but people who have risen to high places, who, perhaps in imitation of the Chinese, perhaps at their instigation — time will tell — have tried…”

He paused again. The group of soldiers he was now looking at directly shook in their shoes.

“To try to encircle a Party committee with tanks is tantamount to rehearsing for a military putsch…”

This is the end, groaned Minister D—. He’d never have dreamed it could all finish so suddenly. The columns that had hitherto seemed to be leaning towards him now appeared to be falling on top of him. Between the blows the voice of Enver Hoxha came to him, at once distant and deafening.

“I can’t say for certain that it was done with evil intent. I’d prefer not to have to believe such a thing. But that’s not the point…The point is that the order was not carried out, and such orders never will be carried out in Albania, no matter who issues them. And that’s what’s so marvellous, comrades! It is not through decrees and orders, but if necessary against them, that our great popular mechanism, acting of its own accord, without being commanded by anyone, defends our glorious Party!”