Ismail Kadare - The Concert

Skënder looked in the mirror and put the finishing touch to his tie, thee felt the little cut he’d made on his right cheek while shaving. At that moment each of the eleven hundred guests was doing something connected with the concert: putting something on or taking something off, adjusting a collar or combing his hair. Ambassadors kept hurrying from their mirrors to their phones, which rang more and more often, while their wives got out of their baths at last, the gurgle of the water going down the drain — half a sob and half a cry of pleasure — carrying with it a hundred little mysteries the ladies couldn’t have explained even if they’d wanted to. Warm and naked still, they selected their jewels for the evening, while out in the hall their husbands were still on the phone, discussing the same theories as before: “Do you think it’s something to do with Mao? Or with Zhoe Enlai? It’s not impossible, now we know that he’s ill too…”

Unusually for him, Zhou Enlai was also looking at himself in the glass. His swarthy face looked greenish and chill. He tried to imagine what he’d look like when he appeared in his box. The men who for years had been hoping to take his place, men like Wang Hongwen, Zhang Chunqiao and Hua Guofeng, would probably heave a sigh of relief. All things come to him who waits. Zhou Enlai smiled bitterly. He couldn’t do anything now to deprive them of their satisfaction: as soon as he appeared in public everyone would think the same thing — he was attending his last concert. And it was true.

He wanted to turn away from the mirror, but he couldn’t. He felt his face slowly with his hand, as if it were a mask.

Every time he had to go to a political meeting, an official gathering, a session of the Politbureau or a government reception, he glanced briefly in the mirror before he left home, to make sure he hadn’t forgotten to assume the necessary mask. The idea of a mask had been suggested to him either by the descriptions of his face in the foreign press, or else by the rumours about all the top leaders that the Zhongnanhai picked up all over the country. Zhou couldn’t remember which. But it didn’t matter. He was now so familiar with the idea that he wouldn’t have been surprised if, as they were going out, Dan Yingchao, his wife, had asked, “Zhou, are you wearing your mask?’’, just as you might ask someone if they’d remembered to take their gloves or their handbag.

People had been talking about this for a long time, but Zhou took no notice. He had three masks: the mask of a leader, the mask of one who obeys, and the mask as cold as ice. The first two he usually wore to government and Politbureau meetings or committees. The third he kept for occasions when he had to appear in public.

The clock on the wall behind him struck six. This was the first time he had gone out without one of his three masks. They were all out of date now. Instead he now wore a fourth. A death mask.

On the chest of drawers below the mirror lay the envelope containing his will, which he intended to send to Mao that evening. How many people would have given anything to know its contents! Especially those who were waiting to step into his shoes. But it was not what they expected. It set out only a few general observations, followed by a request that his ashes be scattered in the sky over China.

A handful of dust, he thought — that’s how everything will end. Other people would have liked his will to contain a list of names suggesting his successor, together with accusations and settlings of old scores. But he had left all that far behind. He had no connection with the world any more. All he had to do was go to the concert, and wait for the curtain to fall. Then nothingness.

The invitation card lay just beside the will Perhaps I’ve already ceased to exist, he thought. Perhaps it’s only my ghost that’s going to the concert…

Yes, perhaps so. The concert was other people’s affair — he was merely a visitor, a visitant, half living and half dead. It was his first and last concert. The last of his life, the first of his after-life.

He would scarcely be any more present at tonight’s event than at future ones that might be attended by his ghost. There, that’s where he used to sit, people would say afterwards, looking at his empty box. (Would it really be empty?) Actually, he rather relished his present detachment. He would listen to this concert as if from a box in the beyond, set free at last from the passions and rivalries of the power struggle.

The clock struck again. Sometimes the ghost, sometimes the real man seemed to prevail within him. Why don’t I go for one last walk round Peking before the concert, he thought, before dismissing the idea. He felt as if he could do anything he liked. As if he had only to wish himself in his box and he would be there without any need for a car or a journey or an escort.

It was natural enough. A ghost had no use for such things. But still, he thought at last, I’d better get there somehow or other, or someone else might go and sit in my box. The box is occupied … Where had he heard that before?

Juan Maria Krams took out his invitation again to check that he hadn’t made a mistake about the time of the concert. No, he still had plenty of time, he thought, settling back in his chair by the window. But he didn’t stay there long. He suddenly realized he hadn’t noticed any other figures but 19.30 on the card. He checked. Yes, it didn’t say the number of the seat, and as far as he could tell, with his meagre knowledge of Chinese, it didn’t say whether it was in a box or in the stalls. This seemed very odd, for an official concert.

Juan Maria hurried out of the room and ran downstairs. As usual, one of his guides was waiting for him in the lounge on the ground floor of the villa. Juan Maria showed him the invitation and pointed out that the seat number wasn’t specified. To his surprise, the guide didn’t react.

“Don’t worry, comrade Jean,” he said with a smile. “I know the numbers of the seats.“

“You mean…?”

“Yes, everything’s as it should be.”

Krams went upstairs again, more slowly. It seemed very strange. His guide, though he hadn’t stopped smiling, had nevertheless refrained from telling him the number of his seat. This was obviously something to do with the security measures taken for an event at which top leaders were to be present, but still Krams was rather offended. Why were they showing so little confidence in him, Chairman Mao’s “European godson”, as friends and enemies alike called him, half-joking, half-serious? He’d learned to forgive the Chinese their little unpleasant surprises, but this time he thought they were going too far. But then, he reflected, this mystification probably applies to everyone. And in the present tense situation, extreme. precautions might really be necessary.

Yes, that would be it. He mustn’t be too touchy. There were much more serious things than the number of his seat to worry about in connection with the concert. It gave him an opportunity to guess which of the two factions in the struggle for power had the best chance of getting the upper hand — which, for the moment, enjoyed to however small an extent the favour of Mao. It was upon the outcome of this confrontation that his attitude to China depended, together with that of his group.

The Chinese guests were also getting ready to go to the concert. There were about seven hundred of them, all official figures — senior civil servants for the most part, ministers, members of the Central Committee, representatives of different nationalities, veterans of the Long March, members of the mysterious Z hongnanhai or General Bureau, and so on.

The member of the Politbureau who always wore a towel wound round his head like a turban looked at his invitation, and sighed. His seat was in box number y. He wondered where his rival would be sitting — “Double-Barrel”-as he was called, the man who claimed to live on two barrels of chick-peas. It was some comfort to know that as all the top leaders took their places in the concert hall, dozens of others would be straining their eyes to find out the answer to this question.