The Concert (18 page)

“It feels so strange to be home again,” he kept saying, in a tone that made Silva and Brikena exchange surreptitious glances.

After midnight, Brikena retired to bed and Silva and Gjergj went to their own room. The voices of late passers-by wafted up from the street.

“I
have
missed you!” he whispered, stroking her hips.

They lay for a long while in one another's arms. In the silence, punctuated by their breathing, she thought again about the possibility of his having made her pregnant, but she soon dismissed the idea. Anyhow, it wouldn't be so tragic. A dreamy procession of those who had phoned or dropped in passed through her mind, Her brother Arian hadn't shown any sign of life. He was gradually drifting away from those he used to know, as people usually did when they were expelled from the Party. This thought caused her a pang. She sighed, and hesitated for a moment. Should she talk to Gjergj about it? It was two o'clock in the morning. The pillow where their hair lay intermingled was inviting. She brushed his cheek lightly as if to check whether his eyes were still open,

“Gjergj,” she whispered in a low voice that was more like a strangled sigh. “I didn't mean to mention it this evening, but I can't help it. A week ago Arian was expelled from the Party.”

“What!”

She repeated what she'd said. He lay still for a moment, staring up at the darkness.

“But why?”

“I don't know. He hasn't said.”

“Very odd,” he said. “I suppose it couldn't be anything to do with the Chinese?”

“The Chinese? You must be joking!”

“Not at all”

He moved his arm from around her so as to turn and look at her.

“It may sound ridiculous, but things like that can happen when there's a crisis. You know what I mean…It happened before, with the Soviets…Some people weren't very keen on making a break… Though in this case, of course, it would be crazy to suppose…”

“You mean he might have sided with the Chinese?” Silva exclaimed. “Never — you can be sure of that! The idea never even crossed my mind. I'm sure it must be something else - probably nothing whatsoever to do with the Chinese.”

“Maybe,” he said.

“I'm sorry, Gjergj — I probably shouldn't have mentioned it, especially this evening. But I've been so worried …for days and days …”

“No, no,” he interrupted. “You were quite right to tell me.”

A clock they'd never heard before chimed somewhere nearby. All those clocks, in apartments full of human memories, thought Gjergj.

After a moment he said:

“No, I'm sure it's nothing to do with the Chinese.”

EKREM FORTUZI DREW BACK
the curtain and looked outside. It was a damp, grey day. I'd better wear my galoshes, he thought. He pondered for a while before a heap of shoes that he kept in a cupboard beside the bathroom door, then bent down and rummaged among a mass of sandals, slippers and boots, most of them with holes in the sole, broken straps or missing heels. Eveetually he found his galoshes, dropped them on the floor, and was about to put them on when he heard his wife's voice calling from the bedroom.

“Ekrem - where are you going to so early?”

“It's not early, Hava — it's nearly ten o'clock. I'm going round to the ministries to see if there's any work.”

“You still haven't given up hope?”

He didn't answer.

“I've lit the stove,” he said after a moment. “And the milk has been boiled. So I'll see you later, my pet.”

“All right, my love.”

A feeling of relief came over him as he went out into the street. The shutters of the house opposite, warped and weatherbeaten by the rain, were still shut. Sunday, he thought — people are having a lie-in. But he had to do the rounds of government departments to see if anyone had left any translation jobs for him to do. So that his employers wouldn't need to seek him out, he'd got into the habit of calling at the various offices after working hours or on Sundays to pick up files containing documents to be translated from Chinese. They'd be left at the door for him to collect, usually with a note attached saying when the job was to be finished — in most cases far sooner than was reasonable. Nor did he go in and receive his fees personally: he waited for them to be sent by post. For his friend Musabelli had given him some useful advice when he first started to translate from Russian, in the days of the Soviets: “Be careful not to be seen too much around government offices — the communists don't like falling over us ex-members of the bourgeoisie every time they go out into the corridor.”

Ekrem had stuck to this rule. Whenever he came upon a crowd of people outside a ministry or other government building at the end of the day, he would turn away and not come back until everyone else was gone. Sunday was usually the best day. Not only could he pick up the files then without any bother, but he could even exchange a few words with the man on duty. They all knew him now. Most were ex-servicemen, and though Ekrem felt rather shy with them, he was grateful for their friendliness. Some even seemed to admire him. One day the man at Albimpex said, “You must be pretty clever, eh? How did you get to be so good at Chinese?” “Somebody had to, I suppose,” he'd answered. “You're right there,” said the man, gazing at him respectfully. “Good for you, comrade!” Ekrem blushed, but any kind of display embarrassed him and he hurried away.

It was almost with affection that he thought back now to those afternoons, those snatches of conversation by the porters' lodges and the smell of the chestnuts the inmates roasted over their little electric stoves. Work had grown scarcer and scarcer lately. And now the demand for translations had almost completely dried up.

Ekrem had reached Government Square. The wide grey pavements, more sombre than ever in the rain, were deeply depressing. The lofty portals of the Ministry of Construction, with their heavy bronze door-knobs, stood ajar. He peered through the opening at part of the cold, empty, dimly lit hall, then slipped inside. The man on duty was in his usual cubby-hole, warming his hands over a stove. “Good morning,” said Ekrem. “Chilly, isn't it?”

“Good morning,” answered the man. “Yes — it's the time of year. Is it raining?”

“Just spitting.”

“There isn't anything for you, I'm afraid.” Ekrem felt his heart miss a beat. “I'll have a look in the drawer to make sure, but I don't think there's anything.”

For a few seconds Ekrem looked on dully as the man fumbled in the drawer among a few odd papers.

“No, nothing,' said the man.

“Right, then. Goodbye,” said Ekrem.

“Goodbye, Better luck next time.”

“Next time…” Ekrem thought to himself as he went out into the square, He trudged on for a while without thinking. Where should he go next? To Agroexport or to the Ministry of Trade? But wait a minute! If he went to both those places, mightn't that be seen as a kind of investigation, as if he were checking up on things? He had a sudden vision, a memory of the prison yard on the day parcels were handed out, together with, for some reason or other, the dirge-like singing of a common law prisoner convicted of incest. But the next moment: how ridiculous, he thought. Why should anyone need to be checking up? For days people had been talking about it almost openly. To hell with precautions! Not only would he go and ask if there was any work for him at the two places he'd jest thought of, but he'd also present himself at Makina Import and Aibimpex, and even the Planning Commission. He'd go the whole hog. He realized he'd started to walk faster …He began to calm down. Perhaps he wouldn't go to the Planning Commission for another couple of days, he thought, but he'd certainly go to the other places.

Isn't all this just my luck! he said to himself as he made his way towards the Agroexport building. He felt very down, though he did try to tell himself all wasn't yet quite lost. But in fact he was sure he was the unluckiest person in the world. He'd just arranged to do a new translation — from the original, this time — of the libretto of
Tricked by Tiger Mountain
 when the first rumours of disaster had started to spread around. It had been the same with Russian: just as things had seemed to be going better than ever, the catastrophe had happened. But it was much more annoying to see his Chinese going to waste: thousands of people had known Russian, but he was one of the few Albanians who knew Chinese, and he'd gradually emerged as the best. That opera translation would have opened up new possibilities for him. But now everything was collapsing. When he'd told Hava about the first hints of a break with China, she'd said casually, “Don't pay any attention to such gossip! Weren't you disillusioned enough after the break with the Russians?” “That's not what bothers me," he'd replied. “I'm not crazy enough to have any hopes about politics! What I'm worried about is my knowledge of Chinese - it won't be any use any more!”

The Agroexport offices, with their hermetically sealed shutters, looked far from inviting. Ekrem went and stood just inside the great door.

“No, nothing for you,” called the man behind the little window brightly,

“I thought I'd just take a stroll, to see,” said Ekrem, almost apologetically.

“No, not a thing.”

“Of course not,” said Ekrem, cursing himself for not being able to shut up. What a fool he must look. “I didn't really expect to find anything, but I just dropped by in case. You can easily call in for nothing, but then again, sometimes a translation's needed just when no one shows up to do it!”

He forced a laugh. The man seemed surprised. Ekrem tried to look unconcerned.

“Well, goodbye, then.”

“Goodbye.”

Once outside he gave way to his dejection. There was nothing. No point in trying anywhere else. No point at all… Just the same, he felt his legs carrying him back towards Government Square. He was jest going round in circles. Like an ass on a threshing Moor.

The man at the Ministry of Trade was new, and took some time to understand what he wanted, Then, mortifyingly, he didn't even leave Ekrem time to invent an excuse: he just said no one had left anything to translate into any language. Ekrem even got the impression the man suspected him of being up to no good! That was the last straw! he thought as he left. He probably ought to have stayed and explained that he came here regularly to collect work. But he didn't go back. What was the good? Let the oaf think what he liked! But Ekrem couldn't help sheddering at the thought that the man might have picked up the phone and spoken to a colleague at the Ministry of Construction: “Hallo? Has a shady-looking individual been there asking if you still need translations from Chinese?” In other words, had he been there trying to find out the effect on international relations of the recent rumours — rumours well-known to have been put about by ideological agitators.

He shivered and came to a halt. Should he go on? Then he started walking again. Let the oaf phone his colleague! The other man would sort it all out and there wouldn't be any problem. What an idiot I am! It'll be all to the good if he
does
phone!

The Albimpex and Makina Import buildings were both in the same street. Ekrem hadn't yet decided which he'd go to first. He could feel the damp air chilling him to the bone. He'd never imagined that one day he'd be reduced to running from one government office to another begging for a bit of translation. In his wildest dreams he'd never imagined his Chinese ending up like this! All those friendship meetings and delegations going back and forth had seemed to promise just the opposite.

His Chinese…When he thought of all the sarcasms, the sneers and the bitchiness he'd had to put up with from his acquaintances! One day Hava Preza had said, “There's no harm in learning Chinese, but I don't like to see you putting all your eggs in one basket and using up all your spare time on that gibberish. Supposing - God forbid! - they put you ie prison again? The last time you learned Russian. What would you do this time?” “Don't be so spiteful!” his own Hava had answered. “My Ekrem certainly won't be going to prison again!” “You never know,” retorted Hava Preza. “As the unfortunate Nurihan said, anyone can land up in jail whether they've been there before or not.” After that, she would sigh and add: “Still, there are plenty of other languages left to learn, I suppose!”

At first even his own Hava had made fun of Ekrem, but at least she'd also been the first to understand the point of his efforts, and had even begun to encourage him. When he'd managed to learn the first eight hundred ideograms they celebrated by going out to a restaurant for supper. There, as she looked at him with a mixture of excitement and regret, Ekrem, his cheeks slightly flushed with wine, described what their future would be like under the new dispensation: how successful his first translations from the Chinese would be; how celebrated he'd become as the best in the field; the fat fees he'd earn; how he'd probably be asked to do a new version of the poems of Mao Zedong. These would no doubt be followed by invitations to the Chinese embassy, and then - why not? -after he'd done some particularly important translation, for instance Chairman Mao's complete works, he might be sent on a trip to China, with stop-overs — heavens above!
—
in Paris and Rome…

She went on looking at him with the same despondent eyes, almost tragic with their heavy mascara and puffy, painted eyelids.

“Why are you looking at me like that, my darling? Don't you believe me?”

“Yes, I believe you,” she answered. “I'm jest sorry all these things won't be happening to us because of a more civilized language — English or Spanish, say. Chinese strikes me as — how shall I put it? — a dud sort of language.”

“Never mind,” he'd answered cheerfully. “One can find happiness even with the language of the devil!”