The Concert Page 12

  So for the moment he gave up trying. He just tried as best he could to clarify his ideas on the subject, as if drawing up a report on a press conference. He hoped this might calm him down.

  Clearly there had been no attempt at fleeing the country. Nor had the plane been piloted by Lin Biao’s son. Admittedly the marshal’s wife and son had been with him (perhaps all three had been invited to Peking together), but everything had been arranged so as to make the theory of escape seem plausible. And indeed everyone would have believed it had it not been for the shots. Who had fired them, and at whom? Had the son shot his father? Had they both fired at one another? Was it conceivable that the betrayal attributed to Lin Biao’s daughter had really been committed by his son?…Not very likely.

  There must have been others on that plane. But who? They must have been hostile to Lin Biao, since, whoever fired first, shots were indeed fired. So that made two opposing groups aboard, though at least one of the two parties - the one charged with killing Lin Biao - knew the other wouldn’t emerge from the journey alive. The plane took off. One hour, two hours went by. Peking, whither Lin Biao was supposed to have been summoned urgently, was still not in sight. It was then that he asked: “Where are we going?”

  Up till then everything was more or less clear, but after the fateful question all became obscure. Including the shots.

  But you’ve just said it was practically impossible for the presumed murderers to get on board the plane, whether it was a private or a government aircraft! Gjergj reminded himself. This is torture! Then suddenly he realized who it was that might actually ask him these questions. He even knew where the interrogation would take place: in the Riviera Café, where Gjergj often went and sat with Skënder Bermema. That’s it! thought Gjergj - it’s because of him I keep turning these thoughts over and over in my head. He knew that as soon as he got back Bermema would bombard him with questions. In particular about the murder of the marshal The two of them had talked about it several times before, Bermema probably meant to write about it.

  It was not a soothing thought, and Gjergj relapsed once more into a morass of conjecture. If ever there was a gleam of light, it vanished before he could examine it… Had there been a miscalculation? Had the plan been thrown off course by the marshal’s question about where they were going? He must have looked anxiously at his watch. Recent anxieties and suspicions must have played their part. His nerves were bound to have been on edge. He must have asked himself a dozen times why he’d been summoned so urgently. And so, when there was no sign of Peking…

  Or maybe none of all that happened at all: he neither looked at his watch nor asked any questions. They could have just shot him as he drowsed in his seat. “If anything unforeseen happens, kill him on the plane…” But, to be on the safe side, the killers didn’t wait for any hitch. So it was all over sooner than expected, and inside the plane all was deathly silent. The murderers were now escorting the cooling corpse of their master, little knowing that they, as well as it, would soon be burned to ashes.

  But you just said…What would have happened if…All right, all right, I know what you’re going to say. It’s a very curious scenario. So many complications. The most sensible approach was put forward by a senior official who suggested simply shooting the plane down with rockets. That would have dealt with the matter nicely. But according to official spokesmen the suggestion was made by one of the marshal’s own accomplices, in order to “destroy the evidence”! Evidence of what, if you please?…Oh, that’s enough! Gjergj imagined himself saying to Skënder Bermema as they sat in the Café Riviera.

  Gjergj struggled to stay there. He saw in his mind’s eye the low seats by the misty plate-glass windows, the rain on the pavement outside, the slim figure of the waitress, who’d seemed even frailer to him after he heard she was living with a wrestler. Ever since he’d met Skënder Bermema they’d gone to the Riviera every so often to have a coffee together, usually sitting in the corner overlooking the airline offices. An anonymous letter had brought about the beginning of their relationship, several years ago. Gjergj had received the letter just after he and Silva got engaged. It was the usual sort of thing: Silva was a capricious young woman, pleasant enough as a mistress, no doubt, but most unsuitable as a wife. Both the Krasniqi sisters, the unknown writer went on, were very free in their ways (it was clear that, on second thoughts, the writer had used the word “free” instead of “loose” throughout). There were all sorts of rumours — some of them might be unfounded — about them: they were supposed to swap lovers, or else be fiendishly jealous of one another, and so on, though all this was probably exaggerated. But what was true and common knowledge was that one of the sisters was having an affair with the famous writer S,B…. It was no secret that his novel, Forgetting a Woman,was dedicated to her.

  There the letter ended. What perturbed Gjergj was that its author didn’t say anything precise. He’d turned the letter over in a rage to see what was written on the back, as if he expected to find some accusation about Silva there — for example that she’d had an affair with an archaeologist on the site at Pasha Liman. She’d told him about that herself. But the writer of the letter didn’t mention it, and Gjergj was more upset by what he hadn’t said than by what he’d set down in black and white. The swine, he felt like yelling why doesn’t he mention what everybody knows? The answer was clear. The writer of the letter had foreseen that if he referred to that well-known liaison, Gjergj would have read the allusion with a sigh of relief. As it was, the “well-wisher” gave the impression of scorning gossip, turning a deaf ear to some of it, thus making the contents of his own letter more plausible. Similarly, having made the allegation about lover-swapping, and spoken of the affair between Ana and Skënder Bermema, he could leave Gjergj to think: if Ana and Skënder Bermema, why not Silva and Skënder Bermema?

  Gjergj had let some time go by before mentioning any of this to his fiancée. But one day he did ask her if she knew Skënder Bermema, He’d prepared himself for a painful moment in order to see her reaction. But her reply, instead of reassuring him, left him more troubled than before. “Yes, I know him,” she said. “We both do, Ana and I.” “Both of you?” There hadn’t been the slightest indication, either of guilt or of innocence, in her expression. Just something vague that was neither one nor the other. Then he showed her the anonymous letter. Silva read it calmly. Her cheeks did flush a little when she came to the part about exchanging lovers, but she didn’t flinch. She thought for a moment, then looked up at him and said: “What do you expect me to say? That it’s all just slander and tittle-tattle?” Gjergj was lost for words. “Of course it’s meant to be malicious,” she said. “Still, there is a grain of truth in it.”

  Gjergj’s mouth went dry.

  “But even if the letter’s right about Ana,” she continued, “do you think what it refers to is so shameful and immoral that it reiects on me…?”

  “What are you saying, Silva?” he broke in. “I didn’t mean that at all! I just showed you a letter. A horrible anonymous letter.”

  She told him she herself had questioned Ana about Skënder Bermema, but the answer had been so evasive she hadn’t raised the subject again. That was the only time Ana hadn’t confided in her. But it hadn’t changed Suva’s opinion about her sister in the least, she insisted. And Gjergj had replied that it wouldn’t change his either.

  One evening later on - at the theatre, during the interval — Silva had introduced him to Skënder Bermema…She was with Ana …After that the two men had come across one another on several occasions. But it wasn’t until after Ana’s funeral that they had their first coffee together …It was strange, Silva had said. Her sister, with her great beauty, seemed to have been sent on earth to stir men up one against the other. But strangely enough she had had the opposite effect. As if in accordance with some mysterious pact, those who’d desired her had always avoided anything that might embitter their relations.

  Gjergj tried to linger on these reminiscences, but it wasn
’t long before they were swept away and replaced by the sinister affair of Lin Biao. Gjergj groaned, clutched his brow, and longed for the journey to end.

  As soon as he’d landed in Tirana he would meet Skënder Bermema and unload this agitation on to him. Transferring it to someone else was the only way to get rid of it.

  But for the moment he had to cope with it alone.

  His nervous tension seemed to have given him a temperature, which was made worse by the sound of the engines…One of the marshal’s accomplices had suggested shooting the plane down with missiles…God, it’s started up again! he whispered. But there was no resisting it. So…One of the marshal’s accomplices, as yet unidentified, had suggested shooting the plane down. To do away with the evidence, the Chinese spokesmen had said. But that didn’t make sense! What evidence did the accomplice mean, the one who had remained on the ground? Whether the marshal managed to escape or got shot down, his plot would be exposed. And in either case the conspirators would be unmasked. The marshal’s supporters would be arrested one after the other, and those interrogating them would only have to tug on one thread for the whole skein to unravel. No one could save anyone else. So the idea of shooting the plane down, and for the reason alleged, was nonsensical if attributed to one of the marshal’s accomplices.

  But it would all — including the phrase “destroy the evidence” — make perfect sense if it had been suggested by others, and for a completely different purpose. While the fateful plane was still in the sky, the secret telephone network used by those following the escape must have echoed and re-echoed with the words: “We must shoot it down - otherwise how are we going to destroy the evidence?” Getting rid of the evidence - a perfectly natural preoccupation after such a murder. In this case, “evidence” meant details of the trap: the summoning of the marshal to Peking, the sabotaging of the plane, not to mention the disposing of the witnesses. During those feverish hours the phrase “destroy the evidence” must have been used over and over again: and something had to be done to explain such a compromising expression. So they attributed it to a conspirator who had been unmasked. Then it was all right. All those who had heard it occurring again and again during the incident could stop worrying: it had indeed been uttered, but by a traitor.

  But in fact, as everyone knew, the suggestion was rejected, Mao wouldn’t agree to having the plane shot down. Why? The answer went without saying: he didn’t share the anxiety of the others, for the simple reason that he knew something they didn’t know. Then another question arose: what did the others know? And what didn’t they know? Were those who suggested shooting the plane down so ill-informed as to think such a solution was possible? Didn’t they know that the plane of the marshal supposedly invited to Peking was doomed never to land? You’d have to be very naive to believe they were ignorant. No, they were all perfectly well-informed: after all, it was they who’d prepared the trap in all its details — the take-off, the re-routing towards the Mongolian frontier, the bomb placed on board or the sabotage of the landing gear, designed to cause a fire. They knew all this. But still they suggested shooting the plane down.

  Every so often Gjergj was consoled by the thought that he wasn’t the first person to rack his brains over this affair. Hundreds of people must have followed that flight. To make the theory of attempted escape more plausible, all the airports in China had been put on alert. But just as on the plane itself those who were leaving or thought they were leaving all had different notions about what was really happening, so too did those who were still on the ground. Most of them - officers in charge of military airfields or rocket launchers, pilots ready for take-off, radar experts and so on — had been informed about the marshal’s attempt to escape. But one thing they couldn’t make out: why had there been no order from Peking to pursue his plane or even shoot it down? Even when the plane appeared on the radar screen the order didn’t come. The pilots had difficulty holding themselves back — they longed to fall on their prey and tear it to pieces, and were afraid other pilots from another base might be given the chance instead. But soon, through some channel or another, the explanation came: Chairman Mao hadn’t allowed the plane to be shot down. Apparently he’d said: “Let him go if he wants to!” This information filled some people with admiration (the great Mao dealt with a traitor as calmly as he might have brushed off a fly), and others with amazement (this was no joking matter, and the marshal, far from being a fly, knew all the state secrets…).

  But a much smaller circle was in possession of quite a different set of facts: the summons to Peking, the attempted escape to Mongolia, and above all — yes, above all - the setting fire to the plane by means of a bomb or the sabotaging of the landing gear. They’d also had wind of the possibility that the marshal might be executed in the air. “If anything unforeseen happens, kill him on the plane!”

  As soon as they heard the plane had taken off they heaved a sigh of relief. Thank goodness the whole business would soon be over now. That’s what they thought at first. But soon, as the flight continued, they began to be assailed by doubts: wouldn’t it be more efficient to bring the plane down with rockets? What if the time-bomb didn’t go off, or the pilot managed to land the plane safely despite the sabotaged landing gear? (Hadn’t there been many such cases?) How could they bear to let their prey slip through their fingers?

  They probably went and told Mao about their anxiety. One of them added: “Even if Lin Biao were already dealt with — should the witnesses be allowed to survive?”

  Mao heard them out patiently, but showed no sign of going back on his decision. Finally he answered curtly: “As I said before, let him go. If he’s lucky enough get away in spite of the bomb and the sabotage, it means fate has decreed that he should live!”

  They exchanged glances. This was his new style. They weren’t used to it yet. It must be due to his spells down in the cave — they joked about these sometimes.

  But their anxiety only increased. Mao had assured them the plane had been doubly sabotaged, by the planting of the bomb and the damaging of the landing gear, but they couldn’t suppress their doubts. It wasn’t that easy to sabotage a plane Lin Biao was travelling in!

  Mao himself was perfectly at ease. For the simple reason that he knew another secret. Never mind the bomb and the damage to the undercarriage - Lin Biao was dead already. Killed not in mid-air, as their feeble brains might imagine, nor in the Mongolian desert, but on Chinese soil.

  As they dithered around him trying to tell him their worries, Mao looked them over sardonically. They always forgot he came from a peasant background — and a peasant always trusts terra firma better than the sky. Could he possibly have been so reckless as to let Lin Biao fly around before he was killed? He couldn’t afford such a luxury. That was why he’d said “Let him go!” so placidly, He’d known he was talking about a corpse.

  So Lin Biao and his wife and son had died, like the vast majority of human beings, on earth. On a landing strip or in a hangar in some remote airfield. Or else they were liquidated even more coldbloodedly inside the marshal’s official residence, as they were taking a stroll round the garden after breakfast. They were shot with a machine-gun through the iron railings, and their bodies were put in a van and driven to the little military air-base. There the bloody corpses were lashed to their seats in the waiting plane.

  If Mao was so calm it was because he knew all that. Bet he had never confided in anyone except Zhou Enlal. The reason for his silence was simple: he was protecting his owe prestige. He felt that the planting of a bomb on a plane and the sabotage of its landing gear were strategems which might have damaged his reputation, whereas a ground operation was something quite different. He hadn’t even spoken about it to Jiang Qing. Zhou was seriously ill and hadn’t got long to live, so the secret was safe with him. As for the killers, they would soon follow their victims to a place where they could tell no tales.

  Meanwhile the little army plane was flying over northern China. Deep silence reigned on board. No questi
ons were to be heard, no gunshots — only the monotonous purr of the engines. The bullets which were soon to put the whole world in a turmoil were already in the bodies. Every so often the corpses, now beginning to cool, would slip down off the seats. One of the killers had probably thought it enough to fasten them into their seat belts.

  Gjergj felt a tremor go through the giant plane, and leaned towards the window. The lights had gone on asking passengers to fasten their seat belts. They were apparently about to land. Night was falling; the tiny purple-glinting windows far below seemed to belong to another planet. The plane was bumping more often now. Gjergj ‘s ears were hurting. The ground was coming closer and closer, and he found himself glancing towards the place beneath the wings where the landing gear would soon emerge, with a faint jolt that would run right through the fuselage.

  What a relief! This torture would soon be over. He was sure that as soon as the plane had touched down he would be free of all these chaotic obsessions. But the landing was taking a very long time. The mauve lights of the airport building vanished to the right, as if they’d fallen into an abyss. Was he still going to have to keep churning up the same old jumble of thoughts in his skull, when after all the whole affair could be reduced to the story of a dead body being thrown over the Chinese frontier?

  Yes, that’s it, he thought, his temples throbbing as the air in the cabin was depressurized. The story of a dead body being dumped. In the old days, bandits used to leave the bodies of their victims at their enemies’ door. Mao dumped them at the door of the nearest super-power. Tossing corpses into forts and citadels in order to terrorize the defenders was a custom as old as time. He remembered, too, how the ashes of the false Dmitri of Russia were shot over the Polish border in a cannonball. All quite typical of such countries. And hadn’t Mao threatened them in exactly those terms when he said, “I'll scatter your corpses in the air?”