Ismail Kadare: The Successor

She turned the handle carefully and pushed the door open.

“Mama,” she said in a whisper, so as not to startle her. But her mother seemed to be sleeping like a log.

Suzana stood rigid on the threshold, not sure what to do. Incredible! she said inwardly. Her mother, who was in the habit of rising at first light, was still deep in the land of Nod. Just like the other time, on the night of December 14.

“Mama!” she said a second time.

It took the drowsy woman another minute to come to. You could see she was beginning to panic.

“What’s the matter?” she snapped. “What’s going on?”

“They’ve come to check … They’re here, in Papa’s bedroom, and downstairs as well, in the grand salon …”

Her mother’s eyes bulged, but seemed to be blind.

“To check what? What for?”

“Their inquiries,” the daughter replied. “The minister himself has come. He said they were going to do an autopsy.”

The woman’s hair, as much as her eyes, suggested distress. As if it was the last part of her to shake off sleep.

“What’s all this nonsense about an autopsy? Why can’t they just leave us alone?”

“They’re going to do an autopsy,” the daughter repeated. “They even said it was a scandal that one hasn’t been done before. Mama,” she added more gently, “I think it’s not … not a bad idea.”

“You do, do you? And what’s not bad about it?” the older woman retorted, as she tried to cover her face with the pillow. It muffled the sound of her next words. “What’s not bad about it? You’re into autopsies now, are you?”

Suzana bit her lower lip. She was about to walk out, but changed her mind.

“I think it’s a good sign … The inquiry itself is a good thing. You’re aware there are suspicions that …”

“Hold your tongue!” the mother shouted. And after a moment she wailed, “Unhappy that we are! Misfortune will be upon us evermore!”

Suzana shook her head in despair, and left.

The landing was still shrouded in half-light. Voices from downstairs had a muffled sound. Outside, dawn was breaking.

She went back to her own room, shivering with the chill. All the same, she could not rid herself of a kind of good premonition. The minister’s eyes had been so kindly. And especially his voice. He had given just as much an impression of firmness when speaking of the autopsy as he had of attentiveness when he turned to her and said, “Did we wake you up?”

So someone had not wanted an autopsy … somebody who might be held accountable … You avoid an autopsy when you have something to hide … In the present case, it wasn’t hard to imagine what … Had the event really been a suicide, or had it been … had it been … murder? In circumstances of this kind, an autopsy was normally obligatory … All the more so when the deceased was so prominent. Therefore, someone had wanted to hide something … Whereas now, someone else wanted the secret out in the open … Someone who went so far as to call the cover-up a “scandal” …

My God, let it be so! Suzana implored. She wasn’t even surprised anymore that she had invoked the forbidden name.

Truth would out in the end for all to see … The Party … as always … as ever … No, our comrade in arms, the trustworthy, the unforgettable … did not take his own life, as was first thought, but was murdered … perfidiously … by enemies of the Party … by saboteurs … by traitors …

She had already dreamed so many times of hearing these words from the mouth of the Guide standing on a red-draped platform or speaking on the radio or the television! But this was the first time they seemed to her to be within the range of possibilities. My God, let it happen! she prayed once more.

She was keeping her eyes shut in the hope that she would return to the dream she had been dreaming that morning and would discover its sequel. Such things had happened before, but rarely, so very rarely. And even when that did happen, there was never any correction. She tried to reconstruct it from memory, but she soon realized that, however hard she tried, she could not bring back its sweetness of tone any more than she could make pink clouds stay longer in the sky. The only thing she could still feel was the bitter taste of regret at the moment of waking. Maybe the reason she so much wanted to return to the dream — if only for a few seconds — was so she could wash away the regret. Except that she was no longer very sure what depressed her the more — that she had not managed to speak to her father, or that she had not had a thought for her fiancé until the very end …

“Let’s do this again,” the minister said in a casual, almost jovial tone of voice.

His words sounded less like those of a senior official in charge of a crucial autopsy, the most important to have taken place in the history of the Communist State of Albania and maybe in all Albanian history, than like someone saying goodbye to old friends after a sumptuous meal in one of the restaurants in the hills around Tirana’s artificial lake. “The fish is really great here. Let’s do this again, okay?”

Is this case going to be tied up or not?

Petrit Gjadri, the forensic pathologist, strode along the Grand Boulevard toward the Hotel Dajti, thinking all the while about the minister’s remark, which grew a tad more inconceivable with every step he took.

The architect drank in the minister’s words with feverish eyes that could have signified either pathological inquisitiveness or prurient pleasure — the kind of look that spreads like wildfire at the circus or at a fistfight in the market, when spectators or passersby rub their hands as if to say: Let’s see how this turns out!

Are they both blind, or are they just pretending? the doctor had wondered as he watched them trading jokes like a couple of youngsters.

As for himself, he recalled quite clearly when he had been officially notified that he would be required to undertake an autopsy of prime importance. On the body of the Successor.

He had gone deaf for a brief instant. The whole universe had gone silent. Inside him, everything stopped — his heartbeat, his brain, his breathing. Then, as those functions gradually returned, a thought slowly formed in his mind: So that’s how we’ll put an end to this business.

“This business” was his own life.

After an autopsy of this kind, the continued existence of the person who carried it out seemed as improbable as evidence of life on the face of the moon.

In the oppressive silence, broken only by the minister giving instructions, the forensic pathologist, involuntarily as it were, looked back on his career with a strange sense of distance … He had lived an honest life, insofar as that was possible, and it had certainly not been easy, given the risky nature of the profession he pursued. He had always been vulnerable to attack on account of his “semi-bourgeois” family background, but he had escaped the campaign to unmask and denounce the “so-called intellectual circle of the Tirana doctors” — accused of denigrating Soviet life — as he had fortunately only been a student at the time. After that first stroke of luck, he had managed to steer clear of being identified with another group, a coalition of teachers and students who stood accused of making jokes about China’s barefoot doctors, at the time of his country’s idyll with Peking.

The minister’s words were clear and unemotional, pregnant with ominous promises. One had failed to carry out a procedure that it was obligatory be made on any citizen, and even more so on the Successor: an autopsy.

The doctor tried to concentrate, but he felt as if that was only muddling his mind even more.

So the autopsy would be done, the minister went on, despite the delay. The truth must come out, irrespective of whether it was to any particular person’s taste. The minister’s eyes sparkled with sincere indignation.