Ismail Kadare - Twilight of the Eastern Gods

Wandering around like a lost soul, I ended up in Red Square. Yet more posters were stuck on the front windows of the GUM department store. Dozens of them. Lenin’s Mausoleum was closed. Perhaps it was the day when they aired it. Maybe it was closed because of the smallpox epidemic. Or perhaps they were taking measures to stop Lenin catching the disease.

A whirl of crazy ideas churned through my mind. All of a sudden I remembered that Alla Grachova had invited me to lunch the next day at her parents’ dacha . Amid the treacherous drabness Alla instantly appeared to me as an utterly delightful being.

Hundreds of people were pouring out of GUM, burdened not only by their everyday worries but also by the new anxiety from India. The microbe was present among them. It had smuggled itself unseen on who knew which handkerchief, lips or hair, and now it was turning the country upside down, as no visiting prime minister, president or emperor had ever done before. Two or three days previously, when it was still on its way, the city was at peace — as it had been a few weeks earlier when Vukmanović-Tempo had still been en route. It was the calm of yesterday and the day before when those innumerable bundles of deaf and blind newspapers had come into town.

I had wandered to the site where public executions were held in the old days. I tried to work out which side the prisoner had come from and where the executioner’s ladder had been. There would have been a special roll of the drums. The sentence would have been solemnly recited with a declamatory tremolo, then the broad, half-Asiatic, half-European blade would have fallen.

I put up the collar of my overcoat against the wind blowing in from the Moskva River and began to walk back to Okhotny Ryad.

Sunday lunch at Alla Grachova’s parents’ dacha began in good humour but ended almost in tears. Alla told me that was usual in her family when vodka was on the table. Apart from her mother, her grandmother and her younger sister, Olya, there was also the uncle she had told me about, as well as two couples who were old friends. At the start we talked about smallpox; they presumed that quarantine would be imposed in due course. Alla’s uncle, a ruddy, fat-faced man, bald and overweight, argued that there would be no quarantine, above all because it would make a bad impression on the political front. As he spoke he looked at me askance, as if I was among the supporters of quarantine.

‘If it had been up to me,’ he said, ‘I’d have kept quiet about this disease. It’s the sort of thing that’s like manna from Heaven for our enemies. You’ll see — they’ll trumpet it all over the world, as if they’ve never had outbreaks of smallpox or any other calamity. Only they’re clever, they are. They don’t wash their dirty linen in public, but they keep their eyes on ours.’

He kept a sideways eye on me all the time he was holding forth. It was clear that at this table I stood for all that was foreign and hostile, from Western Europe to Standard Oil and the decadent bourgeoisie. Alla, who was surely well aware of his dislike of foreigners, kept contradicting him, and blushed with satisfaction every time when, in defending his position with excessive passion, he made some egregious blunder. When the others burst out laughing, Alla, who was sitting next to me, took the opportunity to whisper in my ear, ‘I told you he was a right old Slavophile!’

‘There’s a real lack of gratitude towards the Soviet Union,’ the uncle went on sourly. ‘We spilled our blood for the peoples of Europe, we gave them the great gift of freedom, and they don’t even bother to thank us!’

He looked as though he was staring at the piece of bread in front of me and I automatically drew my hand back from it.

Some of those round the table were paying attention to him, while others chatted to each other sotto voce .

‘There is only one Communist Party in the world,’ he resumed, without looking at me. ‘One, not ten. There’s a mother party and daughter parties, and people who say differently…’

I struggled to swallow the piece of meat that was in my mouth. Does he know something? I wondered.

Alla interrupted, ‘Are there uncle parties as well?’

He glanced at her, disapproving. ‘Stop it, Alla,’ he grunted.

But his reproach had no effect on her. As she knew her uncle was really out to get at me, she seemed happy to have an opportunity to support me in an environment where I was entirely on my own, showing the warmth and sweetness of her nature.

In the course of the meal, despite Alla’s interventions, her uncle got on my nerves. I hadn’t yet opened my mouth, although I’d long been itching to retaliate. An opportunity arose, or so I thought, when someone alluded to Khrushchev.

‘I’ve noticed that in recent weeks he’s been referred to in the papers by pet names, like Nikitushka, Nikitinka, or Nikituchnok,’ I said, in an excruciating accent, with the stress on all the wrong syllables. ‘I know it’s a Russian folk tradition, but don’t you think it makes him sound a bit silly?’

While I was speaking the uncle stared hard at me, struggling to guess whether I was making fun of him or not. When I’d finished, he replied, ‘Contrary to the impression some people may have, the pet names show the people’s affection for our Nikita Sergeyevich. Got that?’ The beer glass he was holding was jumping around. ‘Have you got that, molodoy chelovek , young man?’ he repeated. ‘Nobody would have thought of calling Stalin “Joseph”, let alone “Yossifuchka”!’

There was evil in his eyes.

‘Nikitushka, Nikitinka… That’s how drunks talk,’ said Alla.

I expected him to pounce on his niece, but all he did was look at her disapprovingly again. Apparently all his anger was being saved up for me.

He kept on coming out with unpleasant, double-edged observations, and I wavered between two reactions: to get up from the table and invent a pretext — a headache, for example — for taking my leave; or just to push off without a word of explanation. I would surely have taken the second option had not Alla’s grandmother, who was, I thought, the only person present, apart from Alla, to have realised that I was the sole target of the old soak’s bilious drivel, spat at him through clenched teeth, ‘You should be ashamed of yourself, Andrey Timofeyich!’

The others didn’t notice anything and carried on chatting among themselves. A young widow from a neighbouring dacha even seemed about to break into song. She tried out a few notes at low volume a couple of times, but didn’t dare either to proceed or to give up, like a swimmer hovering at the lakeside.

Alla said no more. She was on the verge of tears, staring scornfully at her uncle who continued relieving himself of spiteful remarks, but she had turned away from me. As for myself, I was trying to keep my temper by imagining those parts of Alla’s body that especially attracted me: I was pretty sure that later on, when we were alone together, she would be more than usually comforting to compensate for her uncle’s bile.

That was when something unexpected happened. The young widow from the nearby dacha , who had seemed about to burst into song, burst into tears instead. But it wasn’t unalloyed weeping: it contained all the ingredients of the song she’d been ready to sing, including the words, which you could just about make out between her sobs.

‘Come on, Rosa, pull yourself together,’ two or three people urged, though their voices were also near to breaking.

Alla explained later that it happened quite often at her home. Most of the dacha s surrounding her mother’s were allocated to the families of airmen who had been shot down during the defence of Moscow. It took almost nothing to turn a lunch party into a funeral wake. Her father had also been killed at the start of the German air raids on Moscow.