The Concert (7 page)

Linda smiled.

“I said I wouldn't mind changing places.”

“You must be joking!”

“No - I mean it.”

Silva knew her cheeks were still flushed. Why was she being so foolish?

Luckily the door opened, and in came a plump secretary from the protocol department.

“Brr! Isn't it cold today!” said the newcomer. Then, putting her hand on the radiator: “Your heating's working! It's freezing in our room! Where's your boss?”

Linda kept her eyes on the door until it was safely closed behind the intruder, then turned back to Silva again.

“Curiously enough,” she said, “I really did mean what I said just now. But it's not all that strange.”

“I think we'd better drop the subject,” Silva answered, who really had no idea what she was saying.

“Why?” asked Linda, with a mixture of cajolery and regret.

There was another knock, a more peremptory one this time, and without waiting for an answer a head appeared round the door.

“All Party members to meet at ten!” it announced. “Oh, sorry! There aren't any here, of course!”

The door was briskly shut again, and the voice could be heard receding along the corridor, repeating, “Short meeting of Party members at ten…”

That's how they'll announce the meeting at which Arian is expelled, thought Silva, and was immediately engulfed in a wave of sorrow. He'd said it was bound to happen soon; he didn't think there was any hope of avoiding it. You know, Silva, he'd told her, expulsion is the mildest possible punishment in a case of this kind. There had been neither regret nor resentment in his voice - that was what had frightened her most. “A case of this kind” - she kept repeating to herself. But what kind of case was it? “What is it really all about?” she'd asked him for the umpteenth time. But his answer had been as reticent as ever.

From the corridor there came the muffled sound of doors opening and shutting. Perhaps it was the official still going round calling the meeting. Silva felt a pang. What if, unknown to her, the meeting dealing with Arian's case had been held already, and she knew nothing about it? No, that was impossible, she thought. Even if Arian himself hadn't let her know, Sonia would have done so. Unless…

The door opened and the boss came in, looking even more gloomy than usual. He couldn't help assuming this expression whenever a Party meeting was announced during working hours. He wasn't a Party member himself, and it was common knowledge that this stood in his way. “What do you expect? — I haven't got a red one,” he would say to his friends, referring to the Party card, whenever the question of his promotion came up. Caught up in the routine of office life, absorbed in the giving of orders to his subordinates and by his owe position as boss, he could usually forget that he wasn't a member of the Party, and thought others forgot it too. But when, as today, someone announced a Party meeting, he felt horribly uncomfortable. His embarrassment lasted all the time the meeting was in progress, for he was afraid of coming face to face with someone who'd exclaim in astonishment — and this had actually happened several times — “Good heavens, why aren't you at the meeting? Oh, sorry — I was forgetting…You're not a member, are you?”

These really were his worst moments. He never knew what to do. To avoid being found in his office he would go and wander round the corridors, sometimes managing to disappear altogether. He felt worst of all at open meetings of the Party, when, after the customary pause, the secretary would say, “Would comrades who are not Party members kindly excuse us? We have a few internal matters to discuss.” Then, wishing that the ground would open and swallow him up, he would hang his head and slink out with the rest, the picture of dejection and humiliation, as if to say, “You'd have done better not to ask us to come at all.” After such scenes he would go on feeling mortified for a couple of days at least.

He was now poking about crossly among the papers strewn over his desk.

“Where's the report from the planning office got to?” he demanded at last.

“You must have put it away somewhere,” said Linda affably.

It was obvious he wasn't looking for anything in particular: he was just opening and shutting drawers at random. In desperation he got out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter — for some strange reason he kept them in a drawer — put a cigarette in his mouth but didn't light it, thee left the room.

“He looks furious,” said Linda.

Then Silva went out, to take some papers to the minister's secretary. All was quiet in the corridor. A phone was ringing unanswered in one of the offices: the person concerned must be at the meeting. Once again Silva thought fleetingly of the meeting that would seal her brother's fate, bet she repressed the idea. But she made up her mind to phone him that day.

Back in her office she found Linda in conversation with Illyrian, from a neighbouring room. They were laughing over something they'd been saying. Why didn't they see more of each other, Silva wondered. They'd make a handsome couple.

“I was telling him about the boss,” explained Linda. “And how he's all on edge whenever there's a Party meeting.”

“Today's is probably about our relations with China,” said Illyrian.

“Really?” said Linda.

“I think so. Because of the visit of the American president, In some ministries the subject's already been raised with members of the Party, and even with executives who aren't members of the Party.”

“Our attitude on the subject was made quite clear from the outset,” said Silva. “You've only got to look at the papers to see that.”

“Absolutely,” said Illyrian. “Everywhere else in the world the press and the radio hyped the trip up like mad, while our own papers dismissed it in three or four lines. Our television didn't show a single shot of it.”

The sound of doors opening and closing came faintly from the direction of the corridor. A telephone, perhaps the one Silva had heard earlier, shrilled insistently in the distance.

“In other words,” observed Linda, “all we've heard about China lately is true.”

“Apparently,” said Illyrian.

“And it could actually come to a breach?”

As Linda spoke she blinked incredulously.

Illyrian shrugged and turned to Silva as if for her opinion.

“I don't know what to think…”

She gazed at the top of her desk.

“… Perhaps a peaceful severing of relations. Which is quite different from-”

She was interrupted by the entrance of Simon Dersha from the office next door.

“May I use your phone?” he asked. “Ours is out of order.”

“Of course,” said Silva.

She was just about to turn back and resume her conversation with Illyrian when she realized they couldn't discuss a subject like that in front of the newcomer. Although he worked in the adjoining office he'd always remained a kind of stranger: they never noticed he even existed except on payday, when he sat beside the accountant, subtracting the union dues from everybody's wages. His presence didn't make any difference to them one way or the other, but even so Silva didn't like talking about anything whatever when he was there. So she just sat watching his hand as it dialled its number, and she could have sworn Linda and Illyrian were doing the same.

“Hey, Simon!” said Linda. “You're wearing a new suit! It 
does
look good on you!”

“Thanks,” said Simon, pressing the receiver to his ear, “but I've had this suit for ages!”

“I haven't seen you wearing it before.”

Simon smiled faintly and hung his head. The dark blue of his suit made his face look even more gloomy than usual

It was the first time Silva had really looked at him. He had always struck her before as narrow-minded and withdrawn, and she was surprised to see on those wan features, drawn after what had probably been a sleepless night, what looked like a flash of joy. Was it love? Silva wondered, almost with disgust at the thought that Simon Dersha could ever have anything to do with such a feeling.

The room had fallen silent except for the distant ringing of the phone at the other end of the line, in some other, empty office. Thee Simon finally hung up, thanked them, and left.

“He tried the same thing on in
our
office a quarter of an hour ago,” said Illyrian, who had shown no sign of moving.

“He has his own life to live,” said Silva.

“Yes - he has a perfect right… But what were we talking about? Oh yes — the Chinese. And a peaceful severing of relations with them…”

“Not like the rupture with the Soviets!”

“Why? Was that more dramatic?” asked Linda,

“No comparison!”

Iliyrian had gone over to the window and was looking outside.

“Come and have a look,” he said,

“What is there to see?”

“Chinamen in Skanderbeg Square!”

The other two got up and went over to the window. There were indeed groups of Chinese scattered all over the broad pavement of the square. Some were still arriving, while others were standing near the marble columns of the Palace of Culture or the Skanderbeg monument not far away.

“I've never seen so many Chinese all at once,” said Iliyrian.

“There are more of them still coming,” Linda observed. “Look, over by the main boulevard!”

“Perhaps there's a meeting at their embassy,” suggested Silva.

“Yes, that must be it.”

They stood for a while, gazing at the scene without speaking.

“The square's absolutely full of them,” said Linda. “What a peculiar sight!”

Silva looked uneasy. That sudden mysterious mass of humanity surging slowly around the square somehow filled her with deep misgivings.

“When they see the new Chinese Embassy starting to go up, people think history is repeating itself,” said Linda. “It was the same with Moscow — our relations with the Soviets worsened while they were building their new embassy.”

“True,” agreed Iliyrian.

“Just now you were saying this was a peaceful severing of relations, Silva,” said Linda. “How was it different before?”

“With the Soviets, you mean?…Oh, there was a sort of threat hanging over everything. A sort of anguish. It was another kettle of fish altogether,”

“And how was it in the case of Yugoslavia?” said Linda — and immediately could have kicked herself for asking. The break with Yugoslavia had happened a quarter of a century ago, and the question seemed to underline the difference in their ages. She felt herself flush slightly. “But maybe you don't remember?” she added, trying to cover up her blunder.

“Yes, I do,” Silva answered. “I remember quite well” An inward smile seemed to light up her face. “I was still in primary school It was a cold, rainy morning, and we were all standing in line in the playground waiting for the bell to ring. Then the headmaster came to the door and said, ‘Children, I have an announcement to make. Tito has betrayed us!'“

“It was the same when we broke with the Soviets,” said Illyrian. “When that happened I was still at school too.” Then, turning to Linda: “But I don't suppose you can remember either occasion?”

“No,” she said, sounding rather puzzled. “All I can remember is something about Krushchev…”

“You must still have been in kindergarten then,” said Silva with an attempt at a smile.

Linda admitted it, flushing guiltily.

“I suppose you two think I'm still just a kid,” she said. “I remember us taking down the portrait of Krushchev from the classroom wall. One of the other children wanted to trample on it, but the teacher said there was no need to exaggerate.”

“Do you really remember, or did you just read about it?” said Illyrian, teasing her.

“Don't be so horrid!” replied Linda sulkily, sounding as if she really was still just a kid.

“You couldn't have been more than seven in 1960,” Silva reckoned.

Linda shook her head.

“A bit older than that.”

“Well, I got married soon afterwards!”

“Really?” exclaimed Linda.

Silva gazed dreamily out of the window.

“It was just at the beginning of the blockade. And it was then that I gave up archaeology and went into construction.”

“If I remember rightly, lots of engineers were directed into construction about then, weren't they?” said Illyrian.

“Yes. Construction was the first sector to be affected.”

Silva went on looking through the window. The memory of the ancient theatre at Pacha Liman came back to her cold and clear, as if from another world. With it came the image of the deserted excavation site, and the thought of how jealous she had been of a good-looking Russian girl who'd suddenly fallen for one of the male archaeologists in the team. “There's nothing more awful than being jealous while you're working on a dig,” she'd told Ana, later. “You feel as if all the trenches are being carved in your own flesh.”

Her sister had listened rather absent-mindedly. Silva knew Ana didn't know the meaning of the word jealousy, and so was unaware of the suffering it could bring. Even so, she had tried to help. “The Soviets will go away now, so it'll be all right again,” Ana had said. But that was no consolation to Silva: she thought the sudden parting would only make the man love his Russian all the more. “I just don't understand you,” said Ana. “Well, go on suffering, then, if that's what you really want.” But she'd been glad later on, when Silva met Gjergj and forgot her anguish overnight. Ana herself had just met Besnik…But why, Silva wondered, was
she
thinking about Besnik more and more often these days?

“So it was all quite different then,” said Linda.

Silva nodded.

Steps now approached along the corridor, and the door opened to admit the boss. Though his attitude was still gloomy enough, he also looked somewhat relieved. The meeting must be over, and, thought Linda, he'd probably adopted the expression of some Party member who'd just been released and whom he'd passed in the corridor. He seemed to want to speak, but something was holding him back, Illyrian, who knew he was persona non grata, tiptoed out.