A Girl in Exile Page 8

  His voice was as reassuring as ever. Was he suffering from anxiety again? Poor sleep, irritation? This was nothing to worry about. He could see him again if he wished. They could try a different tranquiliser. Whenever he wished. ‘Next week, Wednesday for instance.’ ‘Wednesday? Well . . .’ ‘Or another day if you’re busy.’ ‘Not at all, Wednesday would be ideal for me too.’ ‘Early evening perhaps.’ ‘Early evening is fine.’ ‘Six thirty, OK?’

  The doctor had read his mind. Even if the decision about the play were postponed today, the question would be settled by next Wednesday for certain. It was the best possible day for an appointment.

  Incorrigible, he thought. Always anticipating the worst, and then complaining when things didn’t turn out as expected. ‘Can you hear me, Doctor? Yes, yes. I don’t know what was wrong with the line. I wanted to say something else, but not about myself. It’s about a young woman, in our family . . . I wanted to say . . . after an unfavourable breast scan, is there a danger that, out of despair . . . she might harm herself?’

  From the other end of the wire, the doctor’s voice lost its exuberance. Of course it couldn’t be ruled out. It depended on the circumstances, and especially the character of the patient. ‘I understand,’ said Rudian. ‘She’s a young woman, extraordinarily beautiful—’ ‘That doesn’t make it easier for her,’ the doctor interrupted. ‘On the contrary—’ ‘What do you mean, on the contrary? Do you mean that beautiful women are more prone to suicide?’ ‘That could be true,’ the doctor said, ‘but it’s more complicated than that.’

  Rudian apologised. ‘Six thirty then, on Wednesday,’ he said, and replaced the receiver.

  He paced his study, paused in front of his wall calendar, and circled Wednesday in red.

  Two days, today is day three, he thought. For the umpteenth time he rehearsed what he would say to Migena. The ploy of not phoning was a familiar, always successful strategy: to get the better of your partner and make yourself desirable, and so on. But Migena was forgetting that they’d talked about this. She should have been aware that he knew this tactic very well, so that it not only didn’t work on him, but had the opposite effect.

  If only she would come, he thought. He was sure that half, if not all of his anger would evaporate.

  His mind, in search of a peaceful haven, wandered again to that memorable day on Olympus when the gods talked of nothing but Orpheus’ distress. Aside from the question of approving his innovation or not, there was another concern, of which Zeus alone was aware: the sickness of the young woman to whom the musician was engaged. She grew paler every day and was racked with pains throughout her body, especially in the chest. Nobody knew, not even Zeus, about the connection between her illness and the two additional strings on the lyre.

  After Eurydice’s death, the truth slowly seeped out. Orpheus was asking for something impossible: her return from beyond the grave. He began to employ his art, which he had so far used only to entertain and win celebrity, to extract consent for this difficult request. His task was to enchant with his singing the ministers of hell. His music had to move Hades himself. The blind god was indeed moved by the artist’s voice, and just as much by the homage the artist paid to him. Artists were accustomed to the luxuries of Olympus and rarely paid any attention to hell. Yet Hades took no revenge for this indifference. On the contrary, he listened with the utmost appreciation, without demanding any of the favours that evil tongues expected he would want, such as hymns to hell or free concerts for the dead. Hades was not like that. He knew how to behave like a gentleman, even though what was being asked of him was not easy. No inhabitant of hell had ever left his realm. Yet Hades was sure that the obstacles, however serious, were not insuperable, except for the matter of Cerberus, the dog guarding the gate. The question was not whether the famous Orpheus would sing to a dog – he might be persuaded to do such a thing for Eurydice’s sake – but would it have any effect? The dog was of an unknown breed and totally unresponsive to any intercession, human or divine.

  Perhaps there is some hope, Orpheus said. He talked about the new feature he wished to introduce to his music with those celebrated two strings. Hades had heard something about it, but only vaguely. Orpheus had sensed that destiny would turn against him, and like a man casting round for a means of salvation, he had been looking for a new and unparalleled form of music.

  What were the two new strings for? Why were they necessary? Now this riddle that had so preoccupied the curious minds of Olympus that summer would at last be solved.

  Hades shook his head in disbelief. Cerberus the dog, which Orpheus hoped to tame with his song, would never in all eternity allow anybody to pass the gate. The only hope lay not in charming the beast, but in lulling him to sleep.

  Orpheus was sure he could do it. Hades wished him luck, but explained to him one last condition. This was a compulsory bargain between Orpheus and Hades himself, or in other words with death. It was an apparently simple agreement, whose fulfilment depended entirely on Orpheus.

  If it depends on me, I’ll do it, however cruel it is, said Orpheus.

  We’ll see, said Hades, and in a few words outlined the deal.

  The ring of the telephone came to him from a distance, sounding somehow uncanny. In slow motion, Rudian stood up, went to the phone and lifted the receiver. Then came the low female voice: ‘It’s me.’

  Migena. A longing that he had never felt before enfolded him. He could not bear it. Did he say or only think the words ‘I was waiting for you’ or ‘I was waiting for you, darling’ or merely ‘darling’?

  He must have said something like that, because she replied, ‘I want to come over, but . . . ’ ‘But what?’ he said, his voice faint. ‘Is there a problem?’ ‘I’m not alone, I’m together with Linda.’ ‘Oh, I see,’ he said, less astonished by this than he should have been. ‘So there are two of you.’ ‘Naturally,’ said the girl’s voice. How peculiar, he thought. From these words, from these thoughts even, something was missing. ‘Could we both come, if possible?’ Migena asked. ‘Together? With Linda? Naturally.’ Rudian used Migena’s word even though he knew that it was the least appropriate choice at that moment. He wanted to ask if there was any hindrance, but the only reply was the hum of the interrupted phone line, as if he had said something wrong.

  What have I done? he thought, and immediately woke up from his somnolent state. Oddly, he still felt sorry that he had not heard the reply. How had they received permission? How had they lulled to sleep the Ministry of Internal Affairs?

  Sleep a while longer, he thought. But it was late morning now. He could keep his eyes shut for as long as he liked, but nothing would save him from wakefulness.

  It is you who has to lull Cerberus to sleep, he said to himself. Everything was fraught with meaning and at the same time meaningless. They were both there – meaning and non-meaning – in the briefest coexistence imaginable. It was no use him crying for them to stay together a moment longer. The two separated, as one would expect, each to its own business.

  Abhorring the vacuum left behind, his mind wandered back to the celebrated bargain. There had been a lot of discussion about it, as well as of the two extra strings. Was there or was there not a deal, and if there was, why was it being kept secret?

  As expected, when the truth came out the rumours were stilled. There really was a deal, and like all classical bargains it was very simple. After sending Cerberus to sleep, Orpheus had to meet a single condition. While leaving hell, he must not turn round to look at his beloved, who would be following him. This was the essence: however intense his longing, however urgent his impatience, he must not turn his head. If he looked back, he would lose her. For all eternity.

  To most of the Olympians, the deal seemed easy. He had only not to turn his head. The challenge should have been at least, say, to have his bride in his bed and not to touch her. There were muttered complaints everywhere about concessions made to artists while others got it in the neck for the slightest mistake. These continued unt
il the news came that Orpheus had lost his chance. His beloved had called out to him with such tenderness that he had not been able to resist the temptation. There was some sympathy for him. Poor fellow, his love got the better of him. But some Olympians said: How feeble, the typical artistic type.

  A third group of gods who rarely spoke up took a different view. They were convinced that the deal had been bogus. No Eurydice had been following Orpheus when he crossed over from hell. This turning of his head had been a diabolical trick. As long as she was unseen, Eurydice was supposedly there, and Orpheus won credit, but as soon as he turned to look at her, she melted away, and for this he was to blame. So, either way, there was nothing there and Orpheus lost.

  But what if Orpheus had not fallen into the trap? asked one dissenting voice. If he had kept his side of the bargain and not turned his head, what would have happened then?

  What would have happened? The moment would inevitably have come when he turned his head. The road was long, night would fall – apparently the deal didn’t say for how long he shouldn’t turn his head . . . Another way out might have been found.

  The story might be called ‘The Deception of Orpheus’. There was a reason why it was called humankind’s darkest myth.

  Rudian Stefa sat down on the sofa.

  If only she would come, he said to himself again. The Evil Ambush. The Three Wells. That evening now seemed so far away. He wandered to the telephone again, without knowing why. He lifted the receiver and left everything to his fingers. The investigator’s voice down the wire did not sound as friendly as before. It was polite but nothing more. There was no allusion, even obliquely, to their previous conversation. ‘I just phoned you, for no reason,’ Rudian said for the second time. The investigator thanked him, and finally mentioned their coffee. ‘I would like us to have coffee together, but you can’t imagine how busy we are these days.’ Rudian hardly waited before banging down the receiver. What was all that for? He cursed under his breath. The bitch, what has she done to me? A few moments later the renewed ringing sounded alien, out of place. He picked up the receiver with the confidence of someone who at last has the right to speak his mind. But he was brought up short by words in a foreign language, apparently German, and his name, mispronounced strangely, in the middle of the flow. He replied in English, ‘Yes,’ and then recognised Albana’s voice: ‘My dear, how are you?’

  She could hardly have chosen a worse time to call. ‘Hello, can you hear me?’ her voice continued. ‘Yes, but the line’s bad.’ ‘I can hear you fine.’ ‘But not this end.’ ‘Hello, how about now, is that better?’ ‘I don’t know. This hellish handset.’ ‘Hello, are you well, my dear?’ ‘What?’ ‘I asked you, are you well?’ ‘I don’t know, I can’t hear.’ ‘Darling, it seems to me . . . What’s the matter with you?’ ‘Nothing’s the matter. Why should there be? How do you know I’m not well? How do you think I should be? Eh?’

  For a moment there was silence. He could hear the woman’s breathing, so the connection must have been in order.

  ‘Did you get an answer about the play?’ she asked hesitantly. ‘Not yet,’ he replied. ‘Aha,’ she said, to imply she understood the situation. ‘Don’t worry, darling, I thought as much . . . I had a bad feeling about it. I’d like to be with you at a time like this. But my internship has been extended by three weeks. I wanted to tell you.’ ‘Never mind, never mind,’ he replied. At least the delayed answer about the play had come in useful for one thing – it was the best possible excuse for being tongue-tied on the phone. She wouldn’t repeat her awkward question of whether there was anything wrong, which would force him to give a vacuous reply rather than admit that something irreparable had happened and he needed to recover his balance; that there was a ghost they were insisting on cutting from his last play, and a suspected tumour – no, not his, but someone else’s – which was perhaps his fault.

  He had rarely had such a conversation, where things he said aloud were interlaced and confused with things he had only thought, or half-said. Of course he needed her – the sweet anaesthetist who soothed away his pain, who brought him oblivion, not just because they whispered to one another in their moments of intimacy, but beyond this. He remembered these things, but there was something else, something sad. Several sad things had happened while she had been away. It was not just the apartment that had sunk into chaos, but his whole life. ‘Perhaps we should have got married last summer,’ he said. ‘Do you think it’s too late to get married now?’ ‘I didn’t say that.’ ‘Don’t start turning against the idea yourself. I’ve got enough on my hands with everybody else being against it. You’re not well, Rudian. Tell me if you need me; I’m ready to drop this internship and come back.’ ‘No, don’t say that.’ Of course, he thought to himself, I’d like you to put me under, in the way you know best, at which you’re so skilled, without the need for this internship in Austria, to put me to sleep for a long time, a very long time, but I’m afraid that no sedative can make me forget.

  He had replaced the receiver long ago, but the conversation continued in his imagination.

  Get outside as much as you can, the doctor had told him last time. If you haven’t any reason to go out, invent one.

  Well, he thought, he didn’t need to invent excuses. He had a special reason, that neither the psychiatrist nor anyone else would ever know: Linda B. He felt he had already made an agreement with her, a strange agreement to show her, as if to a tourist, the Tirana of her dreams.

  It was getting dark. As usual, he stared at the street for a few moments before going out. A jungle, he thought, with Vietnamese coffee. And only here and there, very rarely, an anaconda – that is, Brazilian coffee – instead of the cobra.

  Sometimes, on those unforgettable Tirana evenings when the light of the moon and the fragrance of the lime trees grew stronger, Linda B. also underwent a transformation, from a tourist into his fiancée. She linked her arm in his, and both of them set words aside.

  Their imagined conversation usually began in the city centre. From the National Bank to the Café Flora it was only a five- or six-minute walk. Really? I thought it was a bit further. It’s the same name as that famous café in Paris, isn’t it? Café de Flore. Exactly the same.

  As they passed the Marionette Theatre she looked afraid and averted her eyes from a poster showing a masked puppet. For a moment he thought he understood the reason why, but his insight was vague, and the clue vanished at once.

  A walk to the Writers’ Club would take them past King Zog’s former palace, or directly through the square with the ministry buildings.

  He was often tempted to tell her more about the club during the sixties, when under their breath people called it the Petöfi Club, because of its counterpart in Budapest. But he decided against it. She was very young, and also under political suspicion. Passing the garden of the Academy of Sciences, they usually did not speak again until they had reached Caernarvon Street and the dark shadow cast by the National Library, which had previously been the princesses’ palace. At this point he would ask ‘Are you tired, darling?’ and she, resting her head on his shoulder, would admit that even though she never thought that happiness could tire her, she did feel truly exhausted. But to him it seemed natural for a girl who had not walked for several days (twelve days, day thirteen today), or who, in other words, had lain still, like everyone under the earth.

  They would turn back, and he would accompany her to the door of the Drini Hotel, in whose garden there had been dancing a long time ago. Here he would embrace her gently and he would return to his apartment. Luigj Gurakuqi Street was very close and he would extend his walk by going round the Opera House.

  He did so on this evening too. On Barricade Street he paused as usual in front of the antique shop. They had taken the expensive rings out of the window, as they did every evening after the shop had closed.

  The sound of singing in a protracted, nasal voice came from the Voza beer hall. Rudian stopped to make out the words.

  The m
an who takes me for his wife

  Will have a star, not a woman, all his life.

  A few steps further on, he stopped to listen again.

  He repeated the words to himself and shook his head. How strange.

  Later, at almost midnight, when he opened the door of his apartment he felt paper rustling underneath it. He bent down to pick up the paper and recognised Migena’s handwriting: I phoned you twice. I’ll phone again at ten o’clock tomorrow, M.

  11

  HER FACE SEEMED whiter. Her keen eyes, combined with her paleness, made her more desirable.

  He drank a little brandy, then stared at the glass that he’d set down on the corner of the table in his study. Migena seemed to be trying to convey something to him. He looked at her smile, which should have been accompanied by words and appeared bereft without them. Rudian felt sure he knew what she was not saying. There was a rumour that a few days ago the Leader had issued another warning about the perils of foreign influences, citing the example of girls drinking brandy in the cafés of the capital city.

  Waiting perhaps for nightfall, they spoke all the words they needed to say. Finally, in a very soft voice, so faint that if what he said annoyed her he might claim that he had not spoken but had only thought the reprehensible words, he asked, ‘Shall we go next door?’

  To his astonishment, she stood up without speaking and led the way into the bedroom. As he drew the curtains, she calmly undressed and with the same natural movements lay down on his bed.

  They embraced for longer than they had ever done and made love without a word.

  How easy this had been, he thought, without knowing exactly what ‘this’ was. He was stroking her breasts, but it occurred to him that he had still not uttered to her the words that should accompany his caresses.

  He had rehearsed so many versions that he was sure that nothing but gibberish would come from his mouth. But the girl did not ask him what he meant. Perhaps she too was confused in her mind.