Ismail Kadare - The Concert

While the engineers scribbled feverishly, Tchan and the others listened open-mouthed. No one noticed that, outside, night had fallen long ago. A dismal night, wet and windy.

2

The same night, Van Mey, a citizen of N—, hobbled along the Street of the Red East on the way to see some friends. The street lanterns were few and far between, and blowing about in the wind and rain. But if he was worried it wasn’t only because of the weather, or because, in the mist, the light from the lamps was dimmer and gloomier than usual The same thought kept going round and round in his head: it was incredible that on this night in late September, in the town of N—, in the People’s Socialist Republic of China, in the middle of the Cultural Revolution, he, citizen Van Mey, chemist in the laboratory at Factory No.4, member of the unions, praised for his zeal in studying the thoughts of Chairman Mao and his speeches at meetings held to denounce Liu Shaoshi, the liberalism of Deng Xiaoping, the idealism of Confucius, the four mysticisms, the seven demons of the country, and so on — that he of all people should have left home and gone out in order to take part in a spiritualist séance.

And on a night like this into the bargain! It might have been specially ordered!

A week or so ago a couple of his friends had given him a great surprise. For years they’d all been moaning and groaning about the boring life they led — a life without one heart-warming element, without restaurants, without traditional customs, without even the chance to flirt with a pretty woman; a life of chaff without wheat, insipid as canteen rice without salt or garnish; a life in which even fear was ugly, and anguish dry and calculated, nothing like the good old terror that used to be inspired by ghosts and spirits…Well, a couple of weeks ago these two pals of his had told him they’d organized a spiritualist séance.

Were they making fun of him? Could such a relic really still be found on Chinese soil? Even when they swore it was true, and said the medium they’d managed to find was only waiting to be told when they wanted to meet, Van Mey still couldn’t bring himself to believe them. Were they sure this man was to be trusted? That he wasn’t an agent provocateur , trying to lure them into disaster? Heavens, no, said Van Mey’s friends. Safe as houses.

And now here he was on his way to throw down the biggest possible challenge to that existence made up of meetings, slogans, quotations, empty phrases, hate and sterility. He was ready to swap the whole lot for a twinge of genuine old-fashioned terror.

He was drenched by the time he got to his friend’s house. He knocked at the door and went in. Both his pals were waiting for him. As was the medium. He was pasty-faced, with a flaccid skin, hair plastered down on his skull, and big bags under his eyes. Well, he doesn’t look like an agent provocateur\ thought Van Mey. He’s the old China all over.

The room was small and sparsely furnished: a plain wooden table, a few glasses, a thermos flask, and the inevitable anthology of quotations from Mao. The medium’s eyes seemed to be looking inward, not seeing anything in the external world. Nobody said much. The host poured tea from the thermos flask into the glasses.

“Well, Tchai Chang,” he said, smiling rather guiltily at the medium, “we’ve arranged this gathering…and we’re eternally grateful to you for making such a thing possible in this day and age…”

The medium listened impassively. Perhaps he had his doubts too: might they be pro-Pocateurs trying to lure him into a trap?

“I’ve got some candles — you said we’d need them,” said the host. “I don’t know if you want anything else…”

The medium glanced at the uncurtained windows.

“Oh, I get you… someone might see …And we’d need some reason for using candles instead of electric light. I thought about that. We’ll take the fuses out of the box, so that even if someone comes and knocks on the door…But I shouldn’t think they will It’s late, and in this weather…”

“No, there’s no danger,” said Van Mey’s other friend. “Even if some nosey parker did look in, he’d only see four people talking in the light of a couple of candles because there’s been a power failure.”

“And the windows are streaming with rain,” added their host. “It would be practically impossible to see in…What should we do now, Tchai Chang? You only have to say. We’re at your service.”

The medium nodded towards the naked light bulb hanging from the ceiling, and spoke for the first time.

“Take out the fuses, as you said.”

His voice was normal, and less mysterious than Van Mey had expected.

Their host got two candles from the sideboard, lit them, and went out into the hall A few seconds later the whole apartment went black, until people’s eyes got used to the candlelight.

As they all looked at one another. Van Mey felt as if the iickering of the candle flames was communicating itself to his whole being.

“You are going to concentrate, concentrate very hard, and think about the person whose spirit you want to summon here tonight,” said the medium, looking round at them all “I can only make him come back with your help.”

“What?” said the host. “We hadn’t actually thought of anybody in particular…”

“You mean yoe haven’t chosen the dead person you want to speak to?”

They looked at one another,

“Well, I suppose…I suppose we could choose someone now …Sorry, Tchaï Chang — we were so excited we didn’t think about details …Does it matter if we decide now? Is it allowed?”

“Yes. It’s quite possible,” said the medium.

“No problem then. There are several dead people whose voice we’d like to hear. But the one we’d probably all choose first is Qan Shen, our dear Qan Shen, whose death caused us such sorrow and left such a void. What do you think, Van Mey?”

Van Mey had nodded in agreement even while their host was still speaking. Who else should it be but Qan Shen, with whom they’d had so many quiet chats until his sudden death the previous year? Van Mey’s grief was still quite evident.

“Especially as he died…in such suspicious circumstances…”

Van Mey wondered if they’d be able to question Qan Shen about his death. Brr — a chill ran down his spine at the mere thought.

“And hell really come, and we’ll be able to communicate with him?”

“I think so,’ replied the medium, “It depends on you. And on me too, of course.”

“Forgive our ignorance, Tchaï Chang,” said the host, “but may I ask you if it’s true, as I’ve heard, that sometimes one can not only hear the dead person’s voice but also see something of them? Excuse me if that’s a silly question.”

“Yes, it is possible to see the dead person,” the medium answered. “But not usually at the very first séance, and of course not completely. What you might see is a sort of ghost of his hand or face or some other part of his body — a vague image, rather like an X-ray photograph…”

“Of course,’ said the host in a quavering voice. “Of course…That’s a great deal, anyway… And what are we going to do now?”

“We’re going to begin,” said the medium.

What happened next Van Mey could never remember as a whole, but only in fragments that didn’t seem to belong in the same space and time. Perhaps this was due to the flickering light of the candles, or the rain streaming down outside, or the silence into which they poured their unspoken appeal to the dead man. “Qan Shen, it’s we, your bereaved friends, who are calling you from the depths of our grief. We can’t forget yoe…” Perhaps it was all those things together that blurred the outlines of everything so much at the time that Van Mey’s memory couldn’t join them together later.