A Girl in Exile Read online

  This was the most important and decisive indicator, the test of malignancy.

  Even in the offices of the Security Service the employees found it hard to understand. They muttered about it day and night. Why were some so cossetted, while others got it in the neck? The staff thought they had every right to feel aggrieved. They had worn themselves out gathering this incriminating poison, and nobody paid any attention to it. The poison turned out to be harmless! But why in some cases and not in others?

  To keep them quiet, it had been necessary to threaten and imprison them. Shut up. The Party knows best. And they did keep quiet. They could do nothing else. But this didn’t prevent them gnashing their teeth: the rat’s got away one more time.

  ‘I’m sorry, this was the exact phrase they used about you.’

  ‘Of course,’ Rudian replied. But he wondered why the investigator was telling him this in such detail. Was this honesty, or a threat? Possibly both. But so what? he thought. Nothing more was going to happen.

  He’s got away from us . . . the rat . . . So that’s how they talked about him. He had been aware of this, more or less, but it was different hearing it at first hand.

  Amazingly, he did not crumple. He only felt stronger. Like someone who, already soaked, thinks nothing of a downpour. They had been watching him for a long time and still not touched him.

  And yet he could not feel totally calm. There was part of him that could not be reassured. Why, really, had he asked for this meeting? He tried to recall the moment when he had stood up to ask for the phone in the bar of the Dajti Hotel. He couldn’t remember what he had been thinking of as he went over to the counter. There had been nothing in his mind, only a mist behind which lay, as if veiled, the dim shape of a woman.

  Why had he sought this meeting? The question came back to him, this time with a pang of guilt.

  Speak, like Caligula. Tell the horse about her breasts and what lay between her thighs, that space you never fully enjoyed.

  The investigator, as if knowing from long experience that he was going to say something, remained totally silent.

  ‘Do you remember that day when you summoned me to the Party Committee? Strange, how long ago it seems. You remember, I talked to you about a girl . . . In fact, I was so sure that you had asked me to come because of her that I jumped to conclusions and talked about her far too quickly.’

  The investigator screwed up his eyes as if to assist his memory.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I remember.’

  Rudian waited for him to continue, and imagined him producing phrases along the lines of, To tell the truth, I was a little surprised too. Or, Yes, why did you mention that girl? How easy it would have been to keep the conversation going. Any playwright could do it. But the investigator showed no curiosity.

  He wanted to shriek: What the hell is the matter? What sort of investigator are you? Does this mean nothing to you? Ask me about her!

  A familiar wave of fury that he knew he was powerless to stem swept over him.

  Filthy trade, he railed to himself. When you want to, you probe any sort of nonsense – what old Xija says in the milk queue, which widow the lame doorman at the theatre is screwing – but when a really fine story comes along you close your ears. Go on, he appealed again. Are you made of stone, are you a horse? Why not say something?

  For the first time, he weakened. He was reduced to this, he thought. He was worse off than the Russian cart-driver in the steppes. At least Chekhov’s peasant of the plains had confessed to his horse. His luck was to open his heart to an Albanian investigator.

  ‘I see you’re upset,’ the investigator said. ‘I don’t understand why.’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ Rudian replied. ‘Nothing at all. It’s my fault.’

  ‘Honestly, I don’t understand you.’

  ‘I don’t understand you either.’

  Rudian could hardly contain the urge to tell him to his face, You pretend to be frank with me but you’re nothing of the sort, and then to ask the simple, specific question: Why not ask me about her? I gave you the cue myself, and you pretend not to understand. Why not? Say something. Only if she . . .

  An old suspicion came back to him. In after-dinner conversations, it was often said that in any group of four people one was a spy. Some believed it and others considered it an invention of the Security Service itself, intended to spread fear. Now it seemed more probable than ever. They didn’t want to hear about the girl because she was one of their own.

  His anger was plain to see, but he couldn’t care less. The radio played popular songs from the south: Grow, my little almond tree, in the cypress shade. He thought it was that one, but couldn’t be sure. A song with a similar tune, heard one afternoon on the train between Rrogozhina and Lushnja, suddenly came to his mind:

  Girl from Kolonja

  In Roskovec born and bred

  Why did you drink Chinese poison?

  For now you are dead.

  His nerves were frayed. Finally, he told the investigator if not the gist, at least a part of what he had wanted to say, and in a very obscure fashion. He had, by accident, told him an intimate secret and the man had shown no interest. Of course, he was not obliged to do so, but still, it was strange behaviour from anyone, and especially from an investigator.

  The investigator listened with concern.

  ‘I’m sorry if you took it in this way,’ he said. ‘But believe me, it was not intended.’ The investigator was also no longer clear. ‘I meant it quite differently . . . in fact in the opposite way . . . as you might say, out of respect for you . . . especially as your secret came out, as you said yourself, by accident.’

  Rudian stared as he listened. The investigator was entirely right, but pride would not let him apologise. The clumsy thought passed through his mind that her breasts were just as sweet whether she was an informer or not. And her tears too. Especially her tears. Besides, how could a police informer weep so movingly? It was of course impossible. But then the opposite thought, that this was precisely the reason why she had wept, disoriented him again.

  This was his final suspicion.

  A melting sensation spread through his chest, perhaps from the exhaustion of this endless day.

  ‘I’ve never seen her since,’ he said softly.

  What am I doing? he thought. He then put the question to himself again, as if it were being asked by someone else from the wings of a stage. What do you think you’re doing?

  The investigator listened, not taking his eyes off Rudian, still quiet as before and with no sign of professional inquisitiveness.

  ‘She was beautiful,’ Rudian said. ‘I mean, she is . . . I hope she hasn’t changed.’

  What am I doing? he said to himself again. But still he kept talking. ‘There was something enigmatic about that girl, something elusive, that you couldn’t grasp . . . Still, I was sure that she’d really fallen in love with me.’

  With a sort of fastidiousness, perhaps prompted by the long silence, the investigator intervened:

  ‘You artists and writers are lucky with women. In fact, I sometimes think that these occasional outbursts of resentment against writers come from envy, or more exactly, envy of your success with women.’

  ‘I also think that I loved her,’ Rudian said, seeming not to hear what the other man had said. ‘For a long time I thought I’d lost the ability to fall in love.’

  He screwed up his eyes as if suddenly remembering something, stared at the tabletop and muttered to himself. ‘I thought about that for a long time.’ Then he turned to the investigator with a changed expression. ‘My impression is that you are aware of this.’

  The investigator leaned forward as if to hear better.

  ‘What should I be aware of?’

  ‘They were both from the same small town. I mean, my friend Migena and that girl. My friend probably took my book to her . . . I’m sure you realise that.’

  His voice was almost hoarse.

  The investigator sat motionless. />
  ‘Let’s suppose that was the case,’ he said at last. ‘Then what?’

  ‘Then what? What do you mean, then what?’ Rudian burst out. ‘You pretended to be honest with me. If that was the case, if you really were being upfront, you should have asked me questions. Looked for explanations.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘I understand even less. If you knew that my friend had taken the book to where the girl was interned . . . why didn’t you say something to me?’

  ‘Let’s suppose we did know,’ the investigator replied. ‘Why should we question you? I mean, why should we cause you anxiety?’

  ‘Thank you so much! Why should we cause you anxiety, you say. What a gentleman!’

  ‘No need for sarcasm. I explained to you a while back how things are, where personalities like you are concerned. I told you in all honesty that it’s not up to us to decide.’

  ‘If that’s so, why did you summon me?’

  ‘As you know, you weren’t summoned to the Investigator’s Office, but to the Party Committee. Second, the most important thing about this case is that it was initially taken very seriously. I told you a little about it. There was a suspicion of something really big, with royalist émigrés involved, even the king himself.’

  ‘And then? What happened after that? Was that dismissed?’

  ‘More or less.’

  ‘I see . . . Anyway, we don’t understand each other,’ Rudian said. ‘We belong to different worlds. Let me ask you a question. I promise you, it’s the last. Then I’ll leave you alone. The question is about Migena, the girl we talked about. Is she, or was she, your informer?’

  For the first time the investigator did not hide his annoyance.

  ‘No,’ he said curtly. He picked up his cup and raised it to his lips, even though it was empty. Then he lowered it in angry haste. ‘No.’ He shook his head, avoiding Rudian’s look. The investigator himself seemed to have the greater need for this denial.

  Rudian also looked away.

  ‘Who knows what you did to the poor thing,’ he said quietly. ‘You must have scared her. You must have made her sick.’

  The investigator shook his head.

  ‘Not at all.’

  Rudian could barely restrain his bitter smile.

  ‘I can understand your surprise,’ the investigator said. ‘But I’ll try to explain, because I respect you. And this is for the last time.’

  So much the better, thought Rudian, to end this torture as soon as possible.

  7

  THE INVESTIGATOR’S SPEECH slid into an indistinct drawl. Of course investigators were no angels, he said. This wasn’t Monte Carlo, but the dictatorship of the proletariat. Yet sometimes, as in cases like his, or in similar ones like that of this student – his girlfriend – they showed extreme care. I see, Rudian said to himself. So their respect for him ran even deeper. The investigator asked Rudian to understand him correctly. It was not solely for his sake. The fact that she was his lover played a part, but that wasn’t enough in itself. There was another reason. Rudian was curious about this other reason but could not help noticing the words the investigator used for the girl – not her name but his ‘lover’, ‘the girl you love’ or, more rarely, his ‘girlfriend’. (Who are you? Are you my prince or someone else’s?) She had never used these words except perhaps in one of her two letters (And me, who am I? Am I really your lover . . . as you might say . . . your princess?).

  They had handled this girl with caution, the investigator said, because of someone other than himself. Rudian tried to concentrate. It was because of Migena’s father. He was an unsung hero, someone who had silently put himself in the service of the revolution and asked for nothing in return. Rudian started paying more attention. Migena’s father was still young, in his forties. He had been pensioned early, and he was injured not so much by the bullets in his body as by mental damage. An assassin, Rudian thought. One of the state’s hitmen. They usually ended up like that, marginalised but treated with special honour. Of course his daughter would not be closely investigated. This also explained her friendship with the other girl, who was an internee. She lived in a small town, so hers was not a classic kind of internment – not like being exiled to the villages of Lushnja, or being sent to a camp. But it was still internment: reporting to the police every evening and all the rest. Even though she went to high school, nobody else would dare make friends with her as Migena had done. They were top of the class at school, and also, no doubt, the prettiest.

  The ghost of the partisan on the edge of the marsh at the end of Act Two appeared, motionless, in Rudian’s mind.

  Her father and her lover, both handled with kid gloves, he thought.

  He couldn’t muster another bitter smile. His possible father-in-law, privileged for his extreme loyalty, and he himself, the possible son-in-law, privileged for his possible disloyalty. Rock solid. He’d heard that expression for the first time at a birthday party some years before. In our family we have four Party members, two war dead, and an ambassador. Rock solid, aren’t we? In contrast to a certain other person, they muttered under their breath. Amazingly beautiful girl, but what can you do, a dodgy family. Father shot, and a priest at that. Two aunts interned. Uncle in prison.

  ‘Shall we have another?’ the investigator said. ‘I could drink one more coffee.’

  Of course, Rudian thought. Till two in the morning, perhaps three. Maybe you’ll interrogate a bishop next. If there are any left.

  Again he felt drained, exhausted.

  ‘And her suicide?’ he said softly. ‘What happened?’

  The investigator’s expression became sombre.

  He’s clammed up, Rudian thought. There’s no more.

  The investigator hesitated, and for the first time did not conceal it.

  ‘That’s a different question,’ he said at last.

  Rudian waited for more, until he realised that was all the other man would say.

  ‘Was it a private matter?’

  The investigator waved a flattened hand to indicate ‘sort of’.

  ‘Anyway . . .’ Rudian said. ‘I wanted to know.’

  The investigator looked him in the eyes.

  ‘Better if you don’t know,’ he said.

  Rudian felt a stab in his heart. This was the second time he’d heard this phrase. He was too angry to think clearly. What business of his own was this story? Why was he suddenly being treated as a part of it, as if for one reason or another he had something to hide? What does this mean? he shouted to himself. Did he alone have no right to ask what was going on? Why this fatherly care, shielding him from anxiety? They could keep these scruples to themselves, or for that crippled hero of theirs, who wasn’t yet his father-in-law.

  The waiter, to whom the investigator had apparently gestured, stood expecting a new order.

  ‘Don’t you have any other coffee besides this Vietnamese stuff?’ Rudian asked with annoyance. ‘Anything else, just not Vietnamese.’

  The waiter shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Go and ask the manager,’ the investigator said gently.

  Rudian tried to catch the investigator’s eye again. Had he really glimpsed an expression of sympathy a few moments ago, or had it been an illusion? He didn’t need anybody’s sympathy, least of all this man’s. What responsibility did he have if a girl he’d never seen had killed herself five hundred miles away? Let the man keep his sympathy for somebody else, if he even knows what that feeling is. Does he think he can make me feel guilty for giving this girl an inscribed book? Who knows what this idiot investigator and all these other fools are thinking. Do they imagine that writers are such sissies that, if they hurt a sparrow, they suffer pangs of conscience for months? Cretin. Didn’t he know how cruel writers can be? If their roles were reversed, Rudian Stefa wouldn’t interrogate with this delicacy. He would shackle the man’s hands behind his chair back and scream at this filthy state torturer: Tell us how you gouged out Father Meshkalla’s eyes because he ba
ptised a baby; tell us how you ripped up a painter’s canvases with scissors before his very eyes, while he shouted, ‘Cut off my fingers, but leave my pictures alone,’ and so on, for forty years on end.

  ‘There’s only the Vietnamese,’ the waiter said, sounding guilty.

  ‘Whatever it is, bring one coffee,’ the investigator said. ‘Perhaps you’d prefer hot chocolate,’ he said to Rudian. ‘It’s not bad here.’

  Rudian nodded. To hell with this, he thought. The only thing waiters ever did properly was interrupt his train of thought. He was looking at the investigator’s hands and thinking about handcuffs. That’s how he would question him, handcuffed, while force-feeding him torrents of Vietnamese coffee and making him listen to six-hour radio speeches by Fidel Castro. You were so sensitive, so delicate, so careful not to cause offence when mentioning the inscription in that book. Well, don’t expect the same from us writers.

  From us, he repeated to himself. Why get so agitated? We have nothing. They have the handcuffs. We just dream of them.

  The investigator’s eyes now seemed fixed on his own hands. No doubt, like every investigator, he had handcuffs in his pocket. Rudian knew from reading about Russian dissidents that arrests happened in the most incredible places. In the cinema, for example: the man sitting next to you laughing in the most simple-minded way at the film, and you think that at least there are some happy people in this world who can enjoy anything. This man suddenly slides the handcuffs from his pocket and there is the steel round your right wrist.