The Concert (60 page)

For the last week he'd been writing his own autocritique. No one had asked him to, and he hadn't even asked himself where and to whom he was going to read it. Was he going to deliver it in court, or send it through the post? He hadn't bothered with any of that. The main thing for him was to write it. Whether he would read it to the minister, the union, in court, at a fair, or anywhere else, was neither here nor there.

That was why the style in which it was written kept changing. One part was very academic, with digressions on general, ideological and sociological problems; another took the form of a psychological analysis; yet another section was in dialogue form, with questions and answers as in a police interrogation. He had also peppered his text with quotations, especially in a kind of profession of faith where he described his origins and social status: here he quoted twice on one page from Engels's
Origins of the Family, Private Property and the State
. Further on, in a passage describing how he came to meet the vice-minister responsible for ail his woes (every time he re-read this section he wondered what woes he meant — but he didn't know the answer), the autocritique became a kind of detailed narrative, relating all their conversations and telephone calls, and dwelling particularly on the invitation to the fateful dinner. But even this section strayed into digressions on general principles: in one he considered the significance of banquets and dinners, relating them to tradition and popular philosophy…And so on.

The evening at Minister D—'s was described in exhaustive detail, starting with his meeting with the vice-minister who was to take him there, and who turned up five minutes late, going on to their walk to the minister's residence, and thence to the dinner itself. The guests were described, together with their conversation, which was much less weighty and interesting than he had expected. Then, in the middle of the evening, came the phone call from the leader of the Party, and the perturbation, he thought he saw on the minister's face after he had hung up.

"And what about the rest of you? And you yourself — weren't you at all affected?"

"Well Yes, to start with.
He
was, certainly. He had Enver Hoxha at the other end of the line. That was no joke! We all ought to have been thrilled."

"Ought to have been? Weren't you all really thrilled?"

That's what I was just going to explain. As I said, the minister himself, despite all his efforts to disguise it, was terribly downcast. It was only natural that his anxiety should communicate itself to us. Everything suddenly wilted away, and everybody, beginning with our host himself, wanted the dinner to come to an end as soon as possible.

Oh, so you wanted the dinner to end as soon as possible, just after a phone call that would have added life and zest to any other gathering? But you lot…! Delve into your conscience, Simon Dersha, and dig out the real reason for your anxiety. Well? Or is your mind full of foreign propaganda, and the calumnies our enemies perpetrate against our leader? While all of you were banqueting, he was going without sleep to work for the people. And instead of being happy to hear his voice, you were all terrified. I suppose you all told yourselves: “He's going to put me in jail, liquidate me.” Isn't that the truth?

I don't know what to say. Yes, I'm a miserable wretch.

Did you discuss it amongst yourselves?

No.

Not even when you first started hearing rumours about minister D—?

No, not then either. I tried to get in touch with the vice-minister, but I couldn't reach him on the telephone…

In spite of its exhaustiveness, this part of the autocritique was shorter than that devoted to Simon's second visit to the minister or rather his abortive attempt to go and see him about his brother's posting. Like the previous section, this one digressed: there were remarks on the principles of postings in general, based on quotations from the decisions handed down by two plenums; this led to consideration of a popular misconception on the matter — a misconception apparently shared by his brother and sister-in-law, and by himself. Before giving a detailed account of his route to the minister's villa (not forgetting the coldness of the weather and the emptiness of the streets), he spent a few lines expatiating on his own petty-bourgeois psychology, his bourgeois-revisionist views on personal happiness, and other old-fashioned survivals due to his lack of contact with social reality.

When I got to the entrance to the minister's house my conscience started to reproach me, and I felt a sort of compunction about what I was intending to do.

Compunction? Or fear?

Well, both, I suppose. Yes, it must have been both.

But which predominated?

Fear, I suppose.

Perhaps fear was really the
only
thing you felt?

Yes, I expect you're right.

“I don't feel well, I don't feel well at all,” Simon Dersha kept muttering as he re-read his autocritique. He felt caught between the pages, as if he were in the jaws of a trap. It didn't cross his mind that it was a trap of his own making, and that, to break free, all he had to do was screw the whole thing up into a ball and burn it, or throw it in the wastepaper basket. But even if it had occurred to him, he wouldn't really have been able to do it. For days these pages had been the reflection of his entire existence — his image, his identity card, his medical record, everything that made up the truth about him.

What sort of thing did you hear people say about Minister D—?

Delicate things. Very…tricky.

Are you sure you heard them? Couldn't they have been figments of your guilty conscience?

I don't know …It could have been both.

Both, eh? Of course it was you and your brother, your whole typically petty-bourgeois family, who made them all up. All very well for them, but you — an official in a government office - how could you indulge in such vile slander? But let's get down to the rumours themselves. You say they were about delicate matters. What sort of delicate matters?

Well…Some complicated affair about tanks. They were supposed to encircle some kind of committee…

A Party committee?

That's right!

Was there anything about the Chinese?

In connection with the minister? No, never.

Delve into your memory. Dig deeper.

What?

Despite her self-reproaches after Simon Dersha's departure, Linda soon found herself staring round at the empty room and the silent telephone, and beginning to fall back into her former state. She would have relapsed completely but for the fact that it was nearly the end of the working day, and there wasn't time for her to sink into what she now didn't scruple to think of as pain,

At half-past two, partly with relief, partly with regret at the end of another of the few bitter-sweet days when she would be alone with the telephone, she locked up the office and made her way slowly down the broad staircase.

All that afternoon and evening she kept herself busy with trivial things, so that she almost forget the agitations of the morning. If she did think of them, she put them down to a passing weakness induced by spending so much time all alone in the office. But as soon as she got in to work the next day, she was overcome by exactly the same feelings as before. Could one really be affected like this, all of a sudden, without even being able to see the object of one's obsession? Was this love? If so, what kind of love? Her second, or the first real one in her life? In any case, how
could
it come out of nowhere?

But the more she thought of it the more she realized that it had been coming on for a long time, slowly, invisibly, like a stream flowing secretly under snow. Everything remotely to do with him had become engraved on her mind - not only all Silva had told her, but all aspects of public events, past and present, that he was connected with. Anything relating to the Soviets or the Chinese had become associated for her with something about his looks or words or gestures. Even before she met him she had longed to know the mystery man whose life had included both Moscow and Ana Krasniqi. And after she'd met him, she longed more and more to meet him again. Whenever the television news showed an international conference, or she read something in a book or paper about the Moscow Congress, she thought of him: he became a kind of myth. The person she had actually met was merely one facet, a superficial^ everyday aspect of an infinitely complex and inaccessible personality. He'd become so closely identified with the age he lived in that she'd failed to notice that she herself belonged to another era. Only now did she realize that there was something rather cold and artificial in her feeling for him so far.

She had made inquiries about his former fiancée: the reason why he had broken off the engagement — like many other things about him — had never been clear. Linda had heard that a month ago, at some engagement party where the conversation turned to the break with China, Besnik's ex-fiancée had stopped her ears and shouted almost hysterically, practically in tears, “Stop it! I can't bear to hear any more about it! Please, please, stop!” The person who told Linda about this incident treated it a§ a mere anecdote,. but Linda guessed at once what lay behind it. The mention of the Chinese must have reminded the young woman of the break with the Soviets, and the days when her hoped-for happiness had been destroyed.

Now that, as she though^ she was seeing things more clearly, Linda decided to let matters take their course. He was bound to ring up one of these days. She imagined some variations on the ensuing conversation. “Hallo — is that you, Silva?” “No, if s her colleague, Linda.” “Oh yes - haven't we met?” “Yes.” “How are you?…is Silva there?” “I'm afraid not.” - Linda pulled a face at her owe hypocrisy — “She's away on a mission.” “Oh.” This was the critical moment. The pause that seemed to cut the world in two. “Can I be of any use?'' “Well…I wanted to speak to her…I don't know if…” “I'm at your service!” “Well, could I see you,thee?”

Oh no! That wasn't it at all! Far too banal Neither of them could be so tedious as that. They
mustn't
be! And that awful, coy “At your service!” Absolutely not!

As if winding back a tape recorder, she made a fresh start. “Suva's away on a mission.“ “Oh,” A pause. Fragile; precarious; they could hear one another's breathing. “So how are you managing, all alone in the office?” “Oh, working as best I can. Getting bored,” Yes, that was much better. “And what do you get up to in the afternoon?” “What?” “I asked what you did in the afternoon.” “I heard what you said, bet I don't quite know what to answer.”

Linda's imagination then leaped forward a few hours, and saw them sitting opposite one another having tea in the Café Flora. “To tell you the truth, I'd been wanting to meet you for a long time. I thought you were so interesting…” Ugh! That wouldn't do at all! Much too direct. It might be better to talk about Silva to begin with. “Silva told me about you — we've been working in the same office for a long time, Silva and I…” No — that sounded as if she was one of those timid souls who dragged her friend along to a date to give her courage. “Whenever the break with China comes up, Silva and I talk about you…” That wasn't too bad, either. It gave him a chance to say something interesting about current events, like a character in a modern novel.

Suddenly it occurred to Linda that the phone hadn't rung all the morning. Perhaps it was out of order! She flew over and picked up the receiver. No, it was all right — she could hear the dialling tone, She didn't know whether to be glad or sorry.

Four days went by like this. The team that had gone to the steel complex might be back at any moment. Linda felt she would look back with regret on all these lonely, fruitless but in a way thrilling hours. On the fifth day, just before two o'clock, when she had already given up hope, the phone rang. Superstitiously, she let it ring three times, thinking that would turn any call into a call from “him”. When she picked up the receiver she was almost sure of it. Yet strangely enough her hand was quite steady, and her face showed no emotion even after she recognized his voice, But the phone felt as if it weighed a ton, and everything else in the world seemed grey and monotonous.

They exchanged a few words: Silva … I remember meeting you…afternoon…Nothing of what she'd imagined.

She put down the phone as calmly as she had picked it up, thee stood there for a while by the empty desk. It looked preternaterally bare, like something on the eve of great changes.

The hotel lift was out of order, and Silva, late already, ran down the stairs. Her colleagues were waiting for her by the minibus. They looked glum.

“Good morning,” said Silva. “Anything new?”.

“The Chinese have gone,” said Illyrian.

The rest of them just went on smoking. From their expressions they might have been at a funeral.

“When?” Silva asked.

“Perhaps during the night. Perhaps just before dawn. Well soon know,' said the boss, climbing into the bus.

As it drove along, Silva looked out at the frozen plain. A few sombre-coloured birds swooped low over the landscape. In the distance she was somewhat reassured to see smoke still pouring from the furnaces. Bet one of these days it won't be there any more, she thought. It'll be like when someone holds a mirror to a dead man's lips.

The comings and going at the complex seemed different today, but perhaps that was just because everyone knew what had happened. The Chinese had vanished without warning, like ghosts. Albanian technicians had already taken their places. Everyone seemed to have gone deaf and dumb. But all eyes asked the same question: What are we going to do now? In the head office, a group of engineers gazed blankly at shelves full of files containing the complex's production plans. They were all in Chinese. The shriek of a passing locomotive expressed the engineers' anguish better than any human voice could have done.