The Concert Read online

  You have trampled your sister’s memory underfoot… How often Silva had heard that phrase! One day, after the scandalous marriage had taken place which was never referred to except with horror, Aunt Hasiyé, an elderly relative, had said: “God moves in a mysterious way. As soon as Marie started dolling herself up and doing her hair like a hussy, I had a premonition. All this bodes no good, I told myself. That’s why when I heard of her goings-on I realized all those frills and flounces were omens. Like those you see in dreams…”

  One of her grand-nephews had protested at this ridiculous fatalism, but Aunt Hasiyé wasn’t to be moved: “I don’t know anything about fatalism or revisionism — that’s your business. But I can read the signs of the Lord!”

  Silva now covertly examined this aunt’s profile. Her striking facial resemblance to the dead woman was emphasized by the way her hair was done, smoothed back stiffly as in a stained-glass window. The same style as that of the war heroine herself, in a photograph that had shown her dressed in the bourgeois fashion of the day.

  Silva, suddenly remembering she ought to offer the visitors some refreshment, stood up. She mused on them all out in the kitchen, as she poured brandy into glasses. There were four visitors in all: her aunt, her aunt’s husband, their daughter, and another woman, whom Silva had never met before and who must be the husband’s sister.

  When Silva came back into the living room the sister-in-law had lit a cigarette and was talking. Her voice was at once raucous and cooing, with little bursts like laughter. You could tell she got on very well with Suva’s aunt.

  She was the first to drink.

  “Your health!” she said, raising her glass.

  “And yours!” said Silva.

  Her aunt looked at her placidly. It was three years, perhaps four, since they’d seen one another. The last time, they’d met by chance in the street. Silva thought she’d never seen her aunt looking so gaunt, but when she asked if she was worried about something the older woman had replied tartly: “As if you were interested in my worries! My dear niece, you have your owe life with your husband. Everything goes smoothly for you two. And why not? Your day has come…”

  Silva tried to interrupt and say, “But you wanted it this way…You were the one who insisted…”

  “I know, I know what you’re going to say, but I’ve had enough of being criticized! And I don’t intend to listen to any more of it today!”

  It had taken Silva some time to find out why her aunt was so sour: her son had been refused permission to go to the University. The reason was obvious: his father’s past.

  Your day has come…Silva repeated to herself. But now times had changed again: instead of belonging to one or other party, she now had a foot in both camps. So she and her aunt could now visit one another… Especially as none of your owe folk come and see you any more. Haven’t you spent all your time listening for the door-bell and the telephone this last week? But never mind — if they don’t come, we shall. We shall come quite freely now there’s no barrier between us any more. We’re all marked men, but your mark is more painful than ours because it’s more recent…

  Silva’s mouth was dry. Why didn’t Gjergj come home? Or even Brikena?

  The sister-in-law contributed most to the conversation. It suited her nicely. They’d probably brought her along for that very reason. Silva heard only scraps of what was said. They’d jest collected a motorbike from the customs for their nephew, but it wasn’t the make he wanted: what should they do?… Benedetto Croce? When she was a student they all had his books by their beds… In fashionable restaurants people sometimes ate chicken with their fingers…

  The coeversation was like something out of the Ark. Allusions to Hondas and Vestas only made matters worse, and the word “genetic”, through some absurd association of ideas, made Silva think of Greta Garbo’s profile.

  They went over all the little dinner parties they’d invited one another to, together with trivial events quite free of any of the more serious emotions. Behind the veil of old-fashionedness one divined a completely self-contained and self-satisfied world.

  Brikena arrived just as Silva was making coffee.

  “What a big girl she is now!” exclaimed the sister-in-law, kissing her. Then, turning to her niece: “Vilma, come and say hallo to your cousin. Have you really never met before?”

  Brikena blushed and looked inquiringly at her mother. Then the two girls awkwardly kissed.

  Silva felt a weight at the pit of her stomach again. Now she understood why they’d brought their daughter with them. They wanted to get their claws on the younger generation too.

  “Come and sit down next to Vilma,” said the sister-in-law to Brikena, enjoying herself hugely.

  The girls stared at one another like strangers. Brikena turned to her mother again. Why isn’t Gjergj back yet, Silva groaned to herself.

  She got up and handed round the coffee. She had meant to wait for her husband, but perhaps it was better if he wasn’t there.

  “I’m going to read the coffee grounds in my cup,” said the sister-in-law, laughing noisily. “I’m very good at it,” she told Silva. “Would you like me to read yours?”

  Silva longed inwardly to put an end to this farce. But something forced her to do nothing, to see how far they would go. She secretly hoped the woman would snatch her cup, solemnly turn it round and round, and utter the ritual formula: “Someone near to you will soon be going on a long journey…” (Gjergj, obviously. Was he going to be sent abroad again?) “You see that dark patch at the very bottom of the cup? That’s an illness or a great misfortune — probably a misfortune. But look at this V — that means the sorrow is starting to lessen…”

  Meanwhile the sister-in-law was commenting half-seriously, half-jokiegly, on what she saw in her own cup, while the others listened, smiling.

  “She’s always been like that,” the aunt’s husband told Silva. He sounded apologetic. “She likes to look on the bright side!”

  They’ve talked about everything except Arian, Silva noticed. It’s as if he didn’t exist. And yet, she said to herself as they were putting on their coats in the hall, hide it as they might, it was because of him that they’d come!

  “Goodbye, Silva,’ said her aunt, kissing her.

  “Goodbye, my dear,” said the sister-in-law, doing the same.

  When the door closed behind them, Silva collapsed on to the settee. She felt exhausted.

  “Don’t you feel well, Mother?” asked Brikena.

  Silva didn’t answer. She just looked at the cups and glasses on the coffee table, as if trying decipher, through them, the motives of her visitors. It was easier to think about it now that they’d gone. They didn’t really seem to have come out of resentment or in search of revenge. Nor for the malicious pleasure of seeing her down and out. But neither had they come out of sympathy. At best, what they felt was closer to half-hearted tolerance than to pity. But then if they had felt sorry for her she wouldn’t have been able to bear it! She had to hold back her tears. There was something repulsive even about their goodwill: welcome to our cosy little world, we’ve been expecting you, so just calm down and relax…

  And that’s how Gjergj found her - sitting with her face buried in her hands. Brikena, who had let him in, had evidently told him about the visitors. He looked for a moment at the cups, one sinisterly upside down in the middle, and without saying anything, not even his usual “Anything wrong?”, he came over and stroked her hair.

  As if she’d only been waiting for this sign of affection, which seemed to rise up from the happiest times in their lives, Silva burst into tears.

  He let her give vent to her feelings for a while, then drew her close and whispered, “There, there, that’ll do now. Won’t you make me a cup of coffee too?”

  8

  AS AT EVERY CHANGE of season, the sky was now fell of flocks of birds migrating. Billions moved from one place to another within the continents, other billions crossed from one continent to another. Millions o
f them died, some by drowning as they flew over the ocean, some from exhaustion over the land; others had their wings frozen; others again got lost. But there wasn’t a mention of all this in any of the thousands of newspapers and magazines throughout the world, or on radio or television, or at any of the international meetings, seminars and conferences.

  Perhaps it would have been otherwise if there hadn’t been so much political tension, said a couple of rather senile old professors of zoology as they drank their morning coffee in the Clock Bar in Tirana.

  As it was, the air was completely saturated. Dozens of press agencies were busy transmitting the list of members of the Chinese Politbureau, as issued on the occasion of a recent state funeral. The list was as follows, in that order: Mao Zedong, Zhou Enlai, Wang Hoegwen, Ye Jiaeying, Deng Xiaoping, Zhang Chunqiao, Liu Bocheng, Jiang Qing, Xu Shiyou, Hua Guofeng, Ji Dengkui, Wu De, Wang Doegxing, Chan Yoeggui, Chen Xilian, Li Xiannian, Li Desheeg, Yao Weeyeae, Wu Guixiae, Su Zhenhua, Saifudin, Song Qingling…

  Hardly had the list been sent out than it was followed by the first comment: as compared with the previous list, two names were missing. There was another change too: the positions of the member with the turban and the member with the two barrels were reversed again, so that each occupied the place he had had on the last list but one. But this was only a minor alteration compared with the complete disappearance of two names.

  Phone calls, ciphers, queries and requests for verification flew in all directions. But it wasn’t an accidental omission or a mistake in decoding. Funerals provided the most reliable opportunity for checking up on the order of the hierarchy, and it so happened there had been plenty of funerals lately. So this anomaly couldn’t be merely a matter of chance. Two names were really and truly missing. The names of Wei Guoqing and Ni Zhifu.

  Signals from all the major press agencies, secret services and spy satellites purred through the heavens. The search was on for two men who’d got lost. Their names echoed round the globe like those of a couple of mountaineers who had fallen down a crevasse. But there was no answer.

  “Let’s leave it at that,” said an observer at a station near the North Pole, taking his headset off for a minute to rest his buzzing ears. “Why should we wear ourselves out all night looking for a couple of sharks like that?”

  He’d been working at this listening post for several months by now, and perhaps his perceptions had become rather dulled. There were plenty of reasons why they might have done so: the length of time he’d spent cut off from normal life; the isolation; the mountain range of ice all round him, the hopeless sky above, the earth below - all so smooth and featureless that there was nothing for the mind to catch hold of. It was a landscape that stripped you of everything and gave you nothing in return but solitude and unfathomable distance. No wonder he often oversimplified things. He only had to look down -as it seemed to him — at the world: most countries were riddled with debt, and that was why they were always squabbling and grumbling, slandering and accusing one another. Krushchev was dead, Mao was ill, and so was Franco: the ranks of the tyrants were clearly thinning out, an-d maybe the death of these spectres would eventually make the world go round more merrily. But for the moment all that arose from below was a tissue of nonsense.

  He put his headset on again. The search for the two lost names was still in full swing. As if they’d really be missed! There wouldn’t have been nearly as much fuss if they’d been a couple of innocent doves, like the ones children play with in spring! But what can you do? He was going to have to start listening to that idiotic buzzing again. Especially in a couple of hours. time, after midnight, when the diplomatic receptions were over and the ciphers started up again worse than ever.

  In Paris on this evening in late November, twenty-seven diplomatic receptions were being held. It was nine o’clock. A fine rain was falling. The headlights of the last tardy guests swept over the railings in front of the various embassies concerned. In the Rue de la Faisanderie, Juan Maria Krams found a parking space just big enough for his car, slammed the door, and made a dash for the Cuban Embassy. It was clear the party was at its height. But he made his way round both the drawing rooms without finding anyone of interest to talk to. Two waiters, probably realizing he’d just arrived because of the drops of rain still sparkling in his hair, both offered him drinks and petits fours at the same time. He took a whisky, but just held the glass in his hand, without drinking. He’d wasted almost an hour at the Cambodian Embassy, where everything was very dead. There were plenty of people he knew there, but not a single conversation of any interest. All the guests had looked lethargic, and though he’d hoped things might improve in due course, they’d only got worse. It was very different here, though he was surprised not to see any familiar faces. Perhaps they’d drop in later, but he couldn’t be sure, and he didn’t want to fritter away the whole evening.

  He was invited to three other embassies — the Albanian, the Romanian, and the Vietnamese — and he couldn’t afford to waste time. He looked at his watch. A quarter past nine. Without more ado he made for the door, In the hall he realized he was still holding his glass of whisky. He put it down on a table, beside a telephone, and left.

  It was still raining. As he got into his car he wondered whether to go to the Albanian or the Romanian Embassy next. It was the Albanians’ national holiday, so their reception would probably go on longer than the others. The Romanians just had a kind of exhibition on, if he remembered rightly. But as the Albanian Embassy was quite close by, he decided to go there first. He had to call in on the Albanians anyway, even if it meant he wouldn’t get to the other two receptions: they were the ones most concerned with what he wanted to know.

  He drove round the Etoile without thinking, and found himself in the Avenue d’Eylau. But although it wasn’t unusual to find out more about what interested you at a different embassy from the one directly concerned, Juan Maria Krams pressed on. When he reached the little Place de Mexico, he had to slow down as usual to find the turning that led to the Albanian Embassy. The narrow Rue de Longchamp was wet and empty. He was soon in the Rue de la Pompe.

  The reception was very lively, but with a liveliness he didn’t care for. The guests seemed unnaturally cheerful, and couldn’t stick to any one subject, He made several attempts to talk about third-world problems to some Albanians he knew, but got the impression they didn’t want to get involved in that. If this had been due to lack of expertise he wouldn’t have minded, but in fact they seemed irritated and made little attempt to hide it. One of them, after trying unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn, said playfully:

  “Comrade Krams, couldn’t we talk about something more serious? All those other problems are so boring…Typically Chinese discussions, I’d call them!”

  “What!” exclaimed Juan. “Do you think discussions can be categorized according to…?”

  The other smiled broadly and gave a vague wave of the hand.

  “Is is really worth cudgelling one’s brains over things like that? You should take my advice and stop worrying…”

  “Is that so?” said Juan coldly.

  Well, that’s putting it plainly enough, he thought. His last doubts were removed. For some time he’d been noticing the signs…

  He made for a quiet corner, but even there he wasn’t out of range of the hum of conversation, the flashing of jewels, the bursts of laughter. He gazed absently at the guests as they came and went, most of them brandishing a glass as if it were a candle lighting their way — the way to the abyss!

  A hand on his shoulder roused him from his musings.

  “Comrade Krams? Good evening.”

  The speaker’s face looked even swarthier and more wizened than it really was under its mop of black curly hair.

  It took Krams a few moments to remember who he was. They’d met for the first time a couple of years before at an international gathering at which the Moroccan had represented a movement involved in the Sahraoui question. Then Krams had come across him again at an
other conference, where he represented a completely different school of thought, which, though it still had something to do with the Sahara, advocated other views and put forward other claims.

  “How’re things?” asked Krams,

  “Not too good…We’ve had lots of dissension lately. We’re reforming hard now.”

  In other circumstances Krams would have been interested ina conversation like this, but when, about a year before, he’d studied a sheaf of documents about the Sahraoui movement, he’d got so muddled up he’d given up hope of ever understanding anything about it. It really was difficult to discern the logic behind all the changes of policy, and Krams had come to the conclusion that to look for it was as hopeless as trying to read the traces left by the wind on the desert sands.

  To stop the other going into explanations of the inexplicable, Krams asked him if he’d heard anything about the U.S. president’s projected visit to China.

  “Yes,” said the Moroccan, “I have heard some rumours. But as far as Î can make out, it’s only bluff.”

  “Bluff?”

  The Moroccan nodded.

  “Yes. You can say “bluff in French, can’t you? Anyway, a great booby-trap, just like the business of the hundred Mowers.” He laughed.

  “Who told you that?”

  “A friend I can trust, Mao intends to find out who’s pleased at the news and who’s going to try to take advantage…And then — bang! Like the last time. They’ll strike without mercy, obliterate, destroy. There’ll be another Cultural Revolution even more terrible than the first. And those who escaped the typhoon last time won’t be able to escape this,…”

  “Really?” said Krams thoughtfully. “So there’s not going to be any visit?”

  “I don’t know about that,” the Moroccan answered. “The visit may go ahead, but it won’t make any difference - the trap will work anyhow.”