Ismail Kadare - The Concert

His eyes were riveted on the medium’s face: the life seemed to drain out of it, leaving a mere mask. But as his face froze, his chest rose and fell in ever greater agitation until his breath came in one long groan, punctuated every now and then by a sort of stifled death rattle. He had entered into a trance. You could tell that all his strength was being beet to the task of summoning the spirit. It obviously wasn’t easy. Heaven knew what heights and depths his call had to travel through, not to mention the dark and the wind.

“Qan Shen, we’re waiting for you,” Van Mey silently implored. “Please do come down amongst us, who miss you so,’ His two friends were no doubt sending out the same supplication.

Finally, after what seemed a very long time, the medium’s breathing changed. In something resembling a silence, you could feel a presence.

“Are you there, Qan Shen?” muttered the medium. “You can speak to him now.”

But their lips seemed sealed. Neither then nor later did they know whether they actually managed to speak to Qan Shen or if they only thought the words: “Qan Shee, please forgive us for disturbing you on a night like this …”

“Don’t ask me questions!” said the medium curtly, transmitting the words of the dead man. “Don’t ask me questions about that day! It’s better for you not to know…It’s always too late…”

And those were the only words they heard. No matter how often they addressed the dead man again, they got no answer.

“He wasn’t here long,” said the medium, when he was himself again, “Perhaps he’ll stay longer the next time.”

The others stared in wonder as the medium’s ashen mask gradually changed back into its normal form and texture.

It was almost midnight when they all emerged from the apartment and set off for their various homes. The wind was still blowing, the rain was still falling, and the wan streetlights still swung back and forth overhead.

3

Four days later there was another meeting in director Tchan’s office. This time it included all those who were going to be involved in supervising the installation of microphones in the town of N—. The two representatives of the Zhongnanhai were there too.

After he had given a brief account of how the first technical teams were to be trained, director Tchan handed over to the man from the Zhongnanhai, who was going to talk about how the project was to be supervised.

The envoy from Peking gave a supercilious look at his audience, and opened his address with a question.

“No doubt, during all the time you’ve been studying this matter, you’ve wondered where the microphones are to be placed, and who is to be bugged, and according to what considerations? The Zhongnanhai's answer is quite plain: the qietingqis are to be placed everywhere. Is that clear? Right, now let’s go on. I expect there are some among you who think “everywhere” doesn’t apply to the Party, i.e. to party officials. The Zhongnanhai's answer to this question is equally clear: if any suspicion arises, microphones will be installed anywhere, from the office of the first secretary of the Party committee to the premises of the humblest individual No need to say more on this point. But before! conclude I should like to emphasize three things: first, the Zhongnanhai is subject to no restriction; second, nothing must escape the ears of Chairman Mao; and third, you must keep this operation secret, or pay for it with your lives.”

His audience assiduously wrote down what he said, their heads bowed over their notebooks. Although his message was so daunting, they felt the joy they’d anticipated at the previous meeting beginning to burgeon. They would soon be performing the magical process of listening to what people thought was quite private: outbursts of resentment against the state, gossip, confidences, things people said in their sleep, secret baseness, the things people said when they were making love.

Already the prospect made some of those present feel faint and parched and short of breath. Others thought of the possibilities concerning men they hated or envied, and women they hadn’t been able to attract and so dismissed as frigid or over-sexed. Others again dreamed of unmasking plots, winning medals, and having brilliant careers.

When the meeting was over, director Tchan stayed on alone in his office, staring at the ashtray. The thrill he, like the others, had experienced hadn’t lasted. It had been nipped in the bud by an as yet unspecified fear. Not fear of responsibility, or of uncertainty, or of the jealousy of other officials: no, something more vague than any of those, but which nonetheless made him shudder with apprehension.

He was going to listen to all that was going on in space, to plumb all secrets, go down into the utmost depths of the human heart. But good heavens! — that was like descending into hell, where no one else had ever gone! And if he was going into a forbidden realm, he was probably going to be punished for doing so.

4

The first mikes were put in place at the end of the week. The work started with those that were easiest to install: those destined for some rooms in the town’s main hotel, for certain offices, for the guest-house where foreign delegations were accommodated, and for two or three apartments whose occupants were away on missions.

It was normal to begin like that, without undue pressure, while the workmen involved acquired the necessary experience. But they knew it couldn’t continue indefinitely: they knew they wouldn’t always be able to take down a chandelier or unpick the upholstery of a settee at leisure, and introduce a microphone while a colleague kept watch at the door. They’d soon have to operate in more difficult circumstances, perhaps even in the presence of their victims, who would think they were repairing a switch or a tap.

In fact, by the following week, the number of mikes to be installed had quadrupled. (The operation, like everything else, was being carried out according to a plan.) The technicians, disguised as plumbers, painters or sweeps (what could be easier than to block someone’s chimney if you wanted to plant a’ bug on him?), embarked on a mass campaign. On two occasions they narrowly avoided disaster. The workers in question were almost caught redhanded, but fortunately, remembering their instructions, they pretended to be ordinary criminals and were taken, much to their relief, to the nearest police station.

At the same time as the permanent microphones were being installed, a series of tests was carried out with others operated by remote control But the placing of four small begging devices counted as the triumph of that week’s achievement. There were very few of them, and the workers had been told to handle them with particular care (they trembled at the mere mention of them). Bugs were as difficult to remove as to plant. If they were to accompany the suspect wherever he went, they had to be attached to his clothes. The state had spent a colossal amount of money on miniaturizing them for this purpose, said one of the envoys from the Xhongnanhai , However, unlike a kitchen cabinet, a bed or a W.C., which could be fitted with a mike in their owner’s absence, a person’s clothes were something he carried about with him. The only solution seemed to be to slip the bug into one of his pockets. But then, no matter how absent-minded or easy-going he might be, wasn’t he bound to notice you doing it? And even if you did manage to slip it in somehow, wouldn’t he find it the next time he put his hand in his pocket? And then, even if he was the type who never did put his hands in his pockets, how were you ever going to get the mike back again? (For they did have to be got back again once they’d performed their allotted tasks: first, because the Chinese state would never break the sacred rule of thrift and merely write them off; and second, because they were top-secret equipment, and as such mustn’t be allowed to fall into the wrong hands.)