The Concert (33 page)

He gazed up at the bedroom ceiling. His thoughts were in confusion. He'd wondered several times why this humble clerk wanted to see him, but told himself that was of no importance. What mattered was that he should come to see him. When you're the victim of such…no one will come near you. It's as if you had the plague.

But what if he was worrying for nothing? he asked himself for the umpteenth time. Supposing all these black thoughts, all these torments, were unfounded? He turned over. Oh, if only that were so, he wouldn't mind all the anguish! He'd put it all behind him, if only it had been a mistake!

From then on he didn't try to hide his fears. What still wasn't clear to him was when it had all begun. But probably Enver Hoxha's phone call during that dinner party was the turning point, the watershed between before and after. Unless it all began before that, one cold evening on the dreary plain from which he was directing the grand manoeuvres, when he was informed that a group of tank officers had disregarded one of his orders. He had stood at the entrance to his tent staring at the liaison sergeant who'd brought the message — or rather at the square of anonymous face left uncovered by the hood of a raincoat: just the lower part of a forehead, eyes, mouth and two patches of cheek.

“The tank officers have disobeyed the order to encircle the town's Party committee,” the man had said in a tired, expressionless voice. And the minister had suddenly felt hollow inside.

“What?” he'd cried, “They dare to disregard an order?”

And as the sergeant, still in the same faint voice, started on some sort of explanation, the minister had started to yell louder and louder, drowning the other's now baneful words. “Arrest them!” he bawled. But something of what the man was trying to say had sunk in, The officers…had said that in no circumstances…could the tanks…encircle a Party committee ….

“Arrest them!” he shouted, louder than ever. “Arrest them!”

When the courier had gone he stood at the entrance to his tent for some time, an icy void in his breast. Despite his subsequent efforts to hide it, his anxiety had probably started when he gave that order.

But had it begun even before that? — on an evening in Peking, after he'd come back from the theatre? It was a hot, damp night, and he was in a state of excitement. He wanted to stay up late, to talk to someone, to unburden himself. He'd never have dreamed a Chinese play could affect him like this. People were right when they said the Chinese party line emerged most forcefully in the theatre. The play he'd just seen was extraordinary. In the finale, a victorious crowd of good characters dragged the first secretary of a provincial Party across the stage by the hair.

“What did you think of the play?” Zhou Enlai had asked him afterwards, turning aside from escorting an African head of state towards the exit. He hadn't known what to say. Zhou had looked very ambiguous,

“Perhaps well meet again after supper,” he said, “when I've seen our friend here home.”

Driving back through the dark to the government guest house, the minister felt strangely troubled. He'd never experienced this mixture of pleasure and horror before. It had begun during that final scene at the theatre when the mob hauled the Party secretary across the stage — the thrill you feel at the destruction of something sacred. It seemed odd that the Chinese, with their reputation for dogmatism and inflexibility, should allow such a thing. He couldn't wait to hear what Zhou said about it. His eyes sparkled,

Zhou came straight after supper, as promised, and as soon as they'd shaken hands he asked again, “What did you think of the play?”

“Well…how shall I put it? Rather strange,” said the minister.

Zhou Enlai gave him a piercing look.

“It was magnificent,” he said.

The minister felt a shudder run through him again.

The two men then retired to a room in the guest house where they could talk alone. As he listened, the minister wondered why on earth Zhou Enlai was daring to speak like this to him. When you confided in someone you usually chose a person whose attitudes you could take for granted. Had the Chinese been bugging his, the minister's, conversations with one of his aides? Both of them, carried away with enthusiasm for what they'd seen happening in China, had let fall a few criticisms here and there about the situation in Albania. This didn't seem impossible, especially as their objections were mostly about the way the Party at home had its finger in every pie. In China, on the other hand, the position had become very different. Not only was it obvious that the Chinese Party was dominated by the army, but apparently other bodies were superior to it too. Of course, the minister and his aide weren't in favour of any such aberrations in their own country, but the time had come for Party control to be relaxed. People were fed up, to put it politely, with being called to account before the Central Committee for the least little thing. The Chinese had put a stop to that kind of nonsense: an officer in charge of a military region was his own master, and didn't take orders from either the regional committee or the Central Committee of the Party, And was China any the worse? Had China been weakened? On the contrary, China was stronger than ever.

That was more or less what the minister and his aide had said, and perhaps the Chinese had listened in. Perhaps that was even why they'd taken them to the theatre. As Zhou went on talking, the minister became convinced that such was the case.

“The revolution before everything!” Zhou was saying, “The revolution changed everything, and to it nothing is sacred, not even the Party!”

“Not even the Party?” stammered the minister, at once ecstatic and appalled.

“You need the same thing in your country,” said Zhou.

“In our country, a thing like that could never—” began the minister.

“I know, I know,” Zhou interrupted. “A lot of things aren't allowed in Albania, but that can't go on much longer. China's preparing to make changes that will alter the balance of the whole world. The question is, will you come with us or no? If you do, you will remain our friends. If you don't, well have to ditch you. For the moment we're putting it to you very nicely - or rather, I'm telling
you
in the strictest confidence…please don't tell anyone else. We're going to see upheavals and sudden storms all over the world, especially in the Balkans. And as an old Chinese poem has it, in bad weather it's up to everyone to take shelter. But it's something that has to be thought about now. Afterwards, it'll be too late. Glorification of the Party was meant to prevent change. That's why Mao has abolished the cult of the Party. And in your country too…”

Zhou Enlai went on and on. The conversation changed from one subject to another, but always came back to the Party. It was now openly identified as the main obstacle to progress. It was no accident that Mao Zedong had permitted two lines to coexist within it. If it hadn't been for that they would never have seen that play this evening. “But they'd never be allowed to put on a play like that in my country,” sighed the minister. “I know that,' said Zhou, “but there are lots of other things you could do. You've knocked down the churches and mosques, haven't you? In that case, why should you hesitate to tackle another kind of worship?” “Oh, not in our country - it would be practically impossible!” “One always thinks it's impossible to start with…But once you get started …!”

The minister suddenly got a grip on himself, This was getting a bit out of hand. How dared Zhou?…And so openly? What's more, he was talking to him as if he were a mere vassal…The time had come to let him understand there were limits! The minister drew himself up as he sat in his chair.

“I'm not sure I quite understand you, comrade Zhou Enlai,” he said coldly, throwing his head back so as to seem as distant as possible. But his bravado didn't last. Zhou Enlai stared back at him unremittingly, his eyes seeming to converge and grip the minister as in a vice.

“You used to be more frank, once,” he said quietly. “Our Yugoslav friends have told us - maybe they had it from the Soviets themselves
—
about a certain private conversation you had with them jest before the row between Albania and the U.S.S.R. in 1960. You were much more open then!”

The minister felt his eyes glaze and his mouth go dry. He'd thought that story had long been forgotten. It had happened twenty years ago, and strangely enough the Soviets had said nothing about it. And now, when he least expected it, here in Peking of all places…He was completely thrown. As he had been in 1960, when the Soviets, to make him sit down and talk to them, had reminded him of a conversation he'd had once with the Yugoslavs: “We're well aware of what you said to the Yugoslavs in 1947. ” they'd said. When he'd started to get over the shock, the first thing he'd asked himself then was why the Yugoslavs had sold him down the river? and for how much? Perhaps in exchange for Krushchev's visit to Belgrade, when he went to apologize to Tito? Perhaps for something to do with Kosovo? Or had they simply sold him in instalments?

And now here he was, betrayed again. But by whom, and why? Because of a conversation. Oh, if only I'd held my tongue in 1960, or even in 1947! That wretched conversation — the years went by, but like a plague bacillus it refused to die! We know what you said to the Soviets in 1960 …We know what you said to the Turks in 1911…And what you said before that, in 999, about the destruction of the socialist bloc…Not to mention what you said to Pontius Pilate that famous night in the year dot…

His mind was in a whirl If you looked at it closely, it was only an ordinary conversation, but these people clung to it like limpets and wouldn't let it go…Yes, just an ordinary conversation — and what were they doing now, really, but just having a chat, man to man?

He'd never been ie such a mess. And to crown all, Zhou's eyes were still riveted on him. Bet they were now slowly loosening their vice-like grip. The Chinaman's expression was softening, and what he was saying came back to the beginning, like a loop of recording tape. “That's how one always feels to start with. It seems impossible, but once you've taken the first step… For example, you could do something that looks quite modest but has a great symbolic value. Do you see what I mean?”

But he couldn't concentrate. His mind drifted back to the prologue to all this, that windy, rainy day in February 1947 when, biting his nails nervously, he'd listened to the Yugoslav, in his broken Albanian, filling him with bitterness.

“As if you weren't as capable as anyone else! You're cleverer than them, really, but…”

The Soviets had told him the same thing later, in 1960, and it had seemed to him that from now on he would always be haunted by those terrifying words. One day, returning home at mid-day, he'd frozen as he went into the drawing room: someone was saying them again. It took him some time to realize it was his son. He fell upon the boy, tore the book out of his hands, and started to yell like a madman. The boy didn't understand, “It's only my textbook on medieval Albanian literature. Father,' he murmured…

“You see what I mean?” said Zhou Enlai.

But the minister didn't see anything at all

“I'm sorry — would you mind saying it again? I'
m
sorry…”

“It doesn't matter — I understand,' said Zhou, smiling affably. “I was saying you could do something symbolic. Such things have always been important in a country's history, and always will be. Things which look quite ordinary at first sight, but which take on a special meaning in their context — an alliance, a symbolic marriage, for example. To show you what I Mean I'll tell you about an episode in my own life. As you know, my wife is the sister-in-law of our greatest enemy, Chiang Kai-shek. Have you ever considered the fact that, through all the changes and chances China has gone through, Î have never ended my marriage? It wouldn't have been difficult for me to find another wife — most of our other leaders, Mao first and foremost, had remarried, And my rivals in the struggle for power might well have tried to exploit what they called a dishonour. And try they did, but someone stood in their way every time: Mao himself. Leave Zhou's marriage alone, he'd say, and the matter was closed. But he didn't do it out of friendship for me, still less out of friendship for my wife! No, he did it because it was in the interests of us all.”

Here Zhou paused for breath.

“Mao didn't do things like that for nothing. That marriage was and still is imprinted on the consciousness of the Chinese people. For it has a meaning. Behind my wife there was Chiang Kai-shek, and behind him the United States! Every time I heard Mao say ‘Leave Zhou's marriage alone!' I realized that marriage would turn out to be useful one day. And now, it seems, that moment has almost come…Bet that's enough about me. I just wanted to illustrate the influence of symbolic acts, Now let's get back to you. Don't look at me like that! I know you're married — “ he laughed. “You're not going to be asked to marry a woman from the old guard! You can do something else — something apparently unimportant, bet really very significant. For example, during manoeuvres you could encircle a Party committee with your troops, or better still your tanks, I don't say it has to be the Tirana Party committee - that would be premature - a district committee would do. As you probably know, in the course of our Cultural Revoiution hundreds of Party committees were burned down. So surround a district Party committee with your tanks. It sounds simple. It
is
simple. But it could act as an important symbol, and the people are always influenced by symbols! It will travel by word of mouth in the form of rumours and conjectures, it will awaken ideas and hopes. We've initiated many great actions in China like that!”

As Zhoe was speaking, the minister thought of the cynicism with which the Yugoslavs, Soviets and Chinese — an infernal triangle that seemed intent in keeping him in its clutches all his life - had passed that conversation to and fro. Once or twice he thanked his lucky stars that the Chinese weren't asking more of him. To hell with their symbolic act - he'd do it, if that would shut them up!