Ismail Kadare - The Concert

But it was only one preoccupation, and a small one it that, among the many that would be engaging the guests. The pulses of the Chinese would be beating fast over much more serious mysteries as they entered the hall. As most of them belonged to one or other of the various rival factions, secret or otherwise, such questions were a matter of life and death. They knew that all those rows of heads rising above the red plush seats were seething with plots, coups, putsches and massacres. All these projects depended on different eventualities: the death of Mao, the death of Zhou Enlai, or both, a seizure of power by Deng Xiaoping, or by Jiang Qing and her gang. Three deaths together, a single night of slaughter, or a blood-bath lasting for years?…There were other factors, too, that might trigger off a plot or coup — developments at home or abroad, natural phenomena. These categories might include provocative acts on the part of the United States or the U.S.S.R., a reversal of the situation in Vietnam, a famine decimating the population of India, a drought in northern China, floods, earthquakes, epidemics of cholera or smallpox, a plague of rats or locusts…

Many of the guests “at the concert would be seeking signs that evening as to how they should take advantage of such events. They would look for symbols in the movements and gestures of the dancers, the dark red of the prima ballerina’s cloak, the white of the cloak worn by the dancer next in seniority, the undulations of the dragon’s tail, the antics of the little monkey, the horses sweeping through the dreadful desert and finally exiting covered in gore.

But these signs wouldn’t be at all easy to decipher. You might easily get it wrong.

* * *

Ail the lights were on in the guest-houses for important foreign visitors built in the western part of a large park. Two kings, four sheikhs, a sick imam, two regents living in exile and a widowed queen were all getting ready for the concert, together with their guides and bodyguards and concubines, Powerful whiffs of perfume floated out towards the cars that waited outside with their engines already turning over.

In the last and most modest of the villas, set slightly apart from the others, Pol Pot, the master of Cambodia, was poring over a hefty volume about symbols, leafing through the pages impatiently. In the course of the last few days he’d been secretly thinking up a new massacre, greater in scope than anything that had gone before,not only in his own country but also in the whole of Asia, if not the world itself. He hadn’t told anyone about the scale of this project; this evenings at the concert, he would try to make out if the time was ripe for it. He’d started consulting this venerable tome as soon as he received his invitation, but there wasn’t much time, and the subject was extremely complex. He had a feeling that the answer to his question was to be found in the movements made and the colours worn by the second woman dancer, as these related to the figure of the ancient serpent; but he wasn’t quite sure. And if his interpretation was wrong it might cost him dear a few days later when he asked for Chinese backing for his plan.

It wasn’t easy, it wasn’t at all easy, he thought, his fingers trembling nervously. His eyes hurt, he was tired, and felt rather sorry for himself. Instead of being able to look forward to the concert in peace, like everyone else, he had to go on working right up to the last minute.

Behind the scenes in the theatre where the concert was to be held,there was the usual bustle before the show. People ran to and fro, Male and female dancers vanished into the make-up rooms, dressed as magicians, princesses, eunuchs, or priests preparing for human sacrifice. Not to mention those merely swathed in long strips of silk, who were to represent parts of the serpent or of the dragon’s tail. Former stars of the company, directors and the various technicians appeared and disappeared, looking worried. Some of their anxiety transmitted itself to the faces of their colleagues, even those of the dancers, which were covered with such thick layers of cosmetics you wouldn’t have thought they could reject any expression bet those that had been painted on them.

It wasn’t surprising if they were worried, Like all official concerts this was a great event: in theory all the top executives of Party and state were coming, and so was the diplomatic corps. Moreover, rehearsals had been punctuated by visits from mysterious officials not usually seen in artistic circles. Some people said they were there on the orders of Jiang Qing, and even that she herself might come to the dress rehearsal Others suggested that the visitors were from the Zhongnanhai , and this really scared everyone. But no one had been able to find out for sure who the visitors were. What was certain was that changes had been made right up to the last minute — even at the dress rehearsal the night before — changes affecting certain scenes, the lighting, the movements of the principal dancers and the colours of their costumes. Most of the company had been told something of the significance of these changes; in any case, they already knew how important a part symbols played in the theatre, especially on an occasion like this, But they didn’t really understand much, and if the organizers themselves were somewhat better informed, even their notions on what was going on were very hazy. Not that there had been any shortage of rumours on this subject in recent years! Some anti-Party theatre companies, such as the Three Villages group, were said to have used their productions to exchange messages about sinister possibilities like the overthrow of Mao, or events like Peng Dehuai’s plea for mercy from his judges. But even after the plot had been unmasked and many of the company’s artists and administrators arrested, no one ever found out exactly how their messages were sent.

And now it was being whispered that at the end of the first scene, and somewhere around the middle of the second, and also at the yellow stork’s exit just before the interval, something of the highest importance was concealed in the movements of the second woman dancer and in the lilac tints of her costume. It might have something to do (“Not so loud! Put your mouth closer to my earl”) — it might have something to do with Mao’s approaching death and the question of who was to succeed him. Just to hear such things made your blood run cold. What was more, there might be world-wide repercussions; the messages might have to do with terrorism in general, or with massacres in various parts of the globe, or with heaven knew what! It was more like a calamity than a concert!

The second woman dancer leaned against a pillar in the wings, gazing at the agitation all around her. Because of her heavy make-up, her face looked as if were set in plaster. The only sign of life was the worried expression in her eyes, all the more striking because of her impassive mask.

She looks terribly anxious, thought one of the make-up men as he went by. Perhaps she’d found out the meaning of the symbol she was being made to convey. The make-up man himself didn’t know much about it. He watched her surreptitiously, wondering what feature of her performance would act as a signal for the massacre of the intelligentsia that some people were predicting^ always supposing it wasn’t a delusion.

“Are you worried?” one of the oldest dancers in the company asked her younger colleague. “There’s no need. You’ve nothing to reproach yourself with…A few years ago I myself was accused of driving two ministers to commit suicide, bet it wasn’t my fault at all …I know it’s different in your case — people are talking about wholesale massacres — bet that’s no reason why yoe should fret. It’s not your fault, is it?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about," the girl replied, “You’re the second person who’s spoken to me like that, and I still don’t understand what it’s all about.”