The Concert

7

THAT NIGHT SILVA tossed and turned, her sleep broken by dreams of which, in the morning, she could remember nothing. When she got up, her face looked drawn. Gjergj was up already — the hum of his electric razor could be heard through the half-open bathroom door.

In the kitchen, Silva automatically turned on the tap, then remembered she’d done the washing-up the night before, and turned it off again. The growing brightness in the dark-blue sky, which she could see through the window, made her feel a bit calmer. Things are bound to sort themselves out, she thought dimly — she still wasn’t properly awake. It’ll all come right in the end.

It seemed to her Gjergj had never taken so long to shave. But finally the sound of the razor stopped, and Gjergj appeared in the doorway.

“Good morning,” he said. “Did you sleep well?”

She shrugged.

“So-so.”

‘Don’t worry. I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding.”

“There’s nothing worse than waking up in the morning with a worry like that on your mind.”

“He was the first thing I thought about, too.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

Silva felt relieved, somehow.

“It’s especially awful when you wake up…”

“Yes,” he agreed. “Particularly the first morning.”

She was on the point of asking him when he’d been in a situation like this before, but restrained herself. He might be referring to quite a different kind of ordeal. She’d felt something similar herself during a youthful love affair.

Silva’s hands opened and closed the doors and drawers of the dresser without even thinking about it. As she was cutting the bread she realized Brikena was still asleep, and went to wake her.

The three of them breakfasted in silence. It wasn’t until Brikena had gone off to school that her parents began to talk. But all they could find to say to one another was more or less the same as what they’d said the night before. As she drank her coffee, Silva reflected that people under stress feel a need to keep repeating themselves, like children.

Gjergj walked with her to the ministry. It was very cold. People were flocking round the newsstands as usual to buy their morning paper. Nonsensical as it was, it always seemed to Silva they bought more of them when the weather was cold. Gjergj bought a paper too, folded it twice and put it in the outside pocket of his raincoat. Silva suddenly felt she couldn’t bear to start discussing China again, though lately this had been one of her favourite subjects of conversation. As if he guessed this, Gjergj had avoided the topic since the day before. Had Arian’s arrest got anything to do with these events? Though they’d asked themselves this question several times, and every time answered it in the negative, they both still harboured a slight doubt. But be that as it might, Silva didn’t want to hear China so much as mentioned any more.

After she’d left Gjergj, she went up the steps into the ministry, calling out her usual greeting to the porter as she passed by his lodge. But inside the hall she couldn’t help turning back to check up on his expression: had it been colder than usual, or had she just imagined it? This is getting to be an obsession! she exclaimed, and ran up the stairs.

Her boss and Linda had just arrived in the office. Silva said good morning, took off her raincoat, and sat down at her desk. But she didn’t do all this in her usual manner. She told herself this odd feeling would soon pass. This misfortune of hers was connected with society, and her first encounter with other people after it had happened was bound to be difficult. But she couldn’t imagine how she was going to get through all these hours at the office without unburdening herself to someone, Gjergj had advised her not to talk to anyone about it for the moment, but she could tell it was going to be hard for her not to. Suddenly people seemed to be divided into two groups — those she could confide in and those she couldn’t. It wasn’t a question of trust, but of something else which even she couldn’t define. ln any case, she couldn’t make up her mind for two minutes together whether she wanted to talk to anybody or not.

She tried to concentrate on her work, but it was too much for her — what had happened was so much a part of her, she couldn’t get it out of her mind for more than a moment. How painful this first stage was, when no one else knew about her trouble yet, and she had to speed hour upon hour alone with it. No, it would be better for the others to find out, whatever the consequences. Gradually she persuaded herself that she ought to speak out somehow, but she didn’t know how or to whom. It was easier for Gjergj: the Party had definite rules for such situations. A Party member had to report such a thing right away to the secretary of his cell.

But ordinary citizens had no such guidance.

What Silva feared most was the beginning of the mysterious and inexorable process which took a person out of the category of ordinary people and put him into the category of those whose life is tainted. It was a process which began with the individual concerned, but as other people saw that individual withdraw into him-self, so their own attitude changed, provoking another retreat in him; and so on until he became unrecognizable, no longer having anything in common with what he used to be.

Though she didn’t make a show of it, Silva took a pride in her family’s past. She’d always been conscious of it, and it had acted as a foil to the image of themselves she and her sister — especially her sister — had created in their palmy days: the freedom of their ways, their poise, the clothes they wore…She could foresee how much she would miss it if it were lost, I shall grow ugly I she thought. Then she reproached herself: “Selfish brute that I am! My brother’s in prison, perhaps being interrogated at this very minute, and I…” But she couldn’t quite suppress the thought that from now on she wouldn’t be able to wear her most elegant clothes.

“What’s the matter, Silva? Have you got a headache?” Linda whispered.

“No.” Silva smiled gratefully. “Well, yes, a bit.”

“Would you like an aspirin?”

“No, thanks, Linda. Later on, perhaps,”

Heaven knows what she was going to have to face later on! It would almost certainly include the sarcasm, perhaps even the vengefuleess, of people who didn’t like her: “Oh, here’s the Biografibukura!” (God, why had she said that instead of Sybukura}).

Silva shook her head as if to get rid of these thoughts. She knew that if even a fraction of what she’d been imagining came to pass, she’d go out of her mind. But she wouldn’t let it get that far! She’d fight, she’d leave no stone unturned, she’d explain to everyone, beginning with herself, that she…But what? What? She nearly asked it aloud…Her thoughts were in utter confusion.

“Linda,” she croaked feebly. “I’ll have that aspirin now, please.”

At any rate, she must do something before this mental turmoil got the better of her. Right. She’d tell Linda what had happened, straight from the shoulder. Then she’d see what attitude to adopt. She might even discuss things with her. But first their boss would have to clear off and leave them by themselves.

The prospect of talking to Linda calmed Silva down somewhat, but just as she thought the boss was about to go out of the room, it was Linda who walked over to the door.

Silva, taken aback, watched the door shut. Then she was thrown into a state of agitation again by the thought that she was now alone with someone she could talk to, even if it wasn’t the person she’d have chosen. An opportunity had occurred which might not present itself again that day and which she’d better take advantage of before it was too late.

“Comrade Defrim!” she found herself saying.

God, how could his parents inflict such a name on him? She and Linda hardly ever used it, and she now realized for the first time how inhibiting it was.

“Yes,” said the boss, raising his eyebrows but not looking up from his papers.

“I’d like to talk to you,” said Silva, in such a faint voice that now he did glance across at her. “My brother was arrested yesterday.”

She felt him subside with all his weight on to his desk, and even thought she heard his body give out a groan as if he’d become a block of wood himself. She kept her eyes on his face, as if it might reflect the gravity of her brother’s situation. After a moment of stupefaction, the boss broke out into a sweat. He didn’t know where to look. His whole being seemed to be groaning, “What have I done to deserve this?” He obviously wished she’d never opened her mouth.

“But your husband’s a member of the Party, isn’t he?”

“Yes, of course,” she said. But why was he suddenly addressing her with the formal second person plural? And what had her husband got to do with it?

She watched him, waiting for him to go on. It didn’t matter what he said so long as he said something!

“So how did it happen? I mean, what was the reason?”

He spoke reluctantly, as if to convey that he didn’t want to discuss the matter: she could think what she liked about him, but after all she belonged to an iniuential family, and had a husband who worked at the foreign ministry and was sent on secret missions…And so on …So why didn’t they just sort it out for themselves and leave him alone? — he didn’t have a Party card or the advantages that went with it, and there was no reason why he should share the disadvantages.

“The reason?” Silva repeated. “It just happened — we don’t know the reason.”

So much the worse! said the boss’s expression. Worse for the individual concerned, and worse for him too — having to listen to this rubbish, and so early in the day! He would probably have got up and left the room to avoid being left alone with her, but at that moment the door opened and Linda walked in. The boss felt reassured: Silva thought she heard his desk creak again as it was relieved of his weight.

It could have been worse, she thought. He might have lectured her or told her to disavow her brother, even though she still didn’t know what he was accused of.

What had Arian really done?… How many times had she asked herself that? And what if he’d merely been detained for questioning as Gjergj had suggested, and all this anguish turned out to be unnecessary? That was what she’d wanted to talk about to someone, but she’d applied to the most unsuitable person. From now on she’d be able to tell the sheep from the goats.

She got up and went over to the telephone. Her boss watched her furtively as she dialled the number, as if trying to make out what unfortunate wretch was being drawn in now. He wouldn’t be in his shoes for anything! A private conversation in the office was one thing, but the phone was a completely different matter. Other people might be listening in, and might even pass on a distorted version of what was said.

“Hallo? Is that the switchboard?” said Silva. “I’d like to speak to Besnik Struga, please. Extension four-four-five, if I remember rightly…” She was standing there with the phone resting against her cheek, staring into space, when she met Linda’s inquisitive eye. It suddenly struck Silva that her colleague might be interested in her own former brother-in-law. “Hallo, is that you, Besnik? This is Silva.”

Linda listened with a mixture of envy and resentment to her colleague making an appointment with the man she herself so longed to meet. Then suddenly she caught her boss’s eye. What was the matter with him} She was tempted to laugh. Did the silly idiot think there was something immoral going on? She herself believed more than anything in the world in the integrity of the people who gravitated around Silva. Even Victor Hila, for whom, out of pity, she’d had a moment of weakness, had behaved very correctly, and far from trying to take advantage of her lapse he’d never made the slightest allusion to it since. Just once, a few days later, he’d phoned her up, apologizing over and over again for disturbing her, to stammer that he was calling to explain that he was on the point of leaving Tirana because of the business of the Chinaman’s foot. Not that he had any right to bother her with all that, but just to tell her he thought she was wonderful, and that he felt the greatest respect for her — really, the greatest respect imaginable — and that she was absolutely peerless and unique. She’d been genuinely touched by his decency and selflessness, and had thanked him. But what was this Silva was saying? Besnik Struga was going to drop in here? Yes, sure enough — Silva was repeating: “All right, I’ll be waiting for you in the office when you’ve left your meeting…” Now she had rung off.

“Is Besnik Struga coming here?” asked Linda, not trying to conceal her agitation. “Will you introduce me?”

“Of course,” said Silva. “He’s just leaving home to attend a meeting at the Ministry of Education, and when that’s over he'll come on here.”

Linda’s hands reached out of their own accord for her handbag and mirror, then something held her back. The wave of pleasure which had swept over her at the thought of actually encountering Besnik Struga, the man she’d dreamed of meeting for so long, seemed to call for some dissimulation, like everything else one holds dear.

Although it was Silva who kept looking at her watch, Linda waited just as eagerly as her friend for Struga to appear. At one point Linda almost asked her colleague why she seemed so anxious, but she was afraid this might reveal her owe nervousness.

Besnik Struga arrived just after midday. Silva introduced him both to the boss and to Linda as “a friend of mine”. The boss looked at him with a mixture of astonishment, contrition and irony. As for Linda, she didn’t try to hide the warmth of her feelings. “I’ve heard a lot about you,” she said as she held out her hand. “I’m very glad to meet you.”

“Me too,” said Besnik, looking at her with interest.

They immediately struck up an animated, even sparkling conversation, as often happens when two people take an instant liking to one another. She told him what she knew about him; it wasn’t much. His trip to Moscow with Enver Hoxha, to attend the great congress of communist parties which she had had to write about in her history exam,…He interrupted to point out how this underlined the distance between them — he meant the difference in their ages. Blushing a little, she hastened to explain that this hadn’t even occurred to her. On the contrary, he looked very young (at this she reddened again, but luckily this was partly camouflaged by her permanent smile). So young, in fact, that she found it hard to believe he’d met Krushchev. And since he’d taken part in that confrontation, it wouldn’t be surprising, would it, if the present situation brought him face to face one day with Mao Zedong? Besnik laughed. As she must know, dialectical materialism — perhaps she’d sat for an examination in that too? — said that situations never repeated themselves in exactly the same form. As a matter of fact, according to Marx, what occurred first as tragedy was very likely to recur as farce.

“Do you think this business with China might be regarded as a comedy, thee?” she asked. “Oh no, not at all. I was only referring to my owe role.”

Linda couldn’t help noticing that Silva was following this repartee with a cold, almost constrained smile, as though, its vivacity displeased her. This deflated Linda at once: her previous flow of words ended as suddenly as a spring shower.

“Shall we be on our way, then, Silva?” said Besnik, holding his hand out first to Linda and then to the boss.

The office seemed lifeless after they’d gone. But Linda’s face still wore a smile.

“Funny to think he was at that historic conference, isn’t it?” she said to her boss as if to justify herself. She felt she ought to try to explain the warmth of her welcome to their unexpected visitor. But the boss wore an expression of complete detachment. He was obviously thinking of something else, Linda felt reassured, and let her mind wander back to Besnik Struga. It was the first and most beautiful moment of an attraction between two people — the moment when nothing’s yet settled, no decision taken, no habit formed, no timetable established…there isn’t any hurry… Everything was as new as the creation of the world; time was eternal, free of the servitude of hours; all was vague, unconstrained by any material calculation.

Linda gazed thoughtfully at the faint gleams projected here and there by a meagre sun. The impression Besnik had made on her was no mere passing fancy. She’d felt attracted to him even before she met him, a month ago, in the corridors of the ministry. He was associated in her mind with a period for which she felt a strange fascination: he was that period personified. She opened her bag, and, seeing that the boss was buried in his papers again, got out her mirror and looked into it for a moment, trying to see her face through Besnik’s eyes. But she couldn’t.

Even before they’d reached the nearest café, Silva had told Besnik what had happened to her brother. They sat down in a corner of the Riviera, and Silva scanned her companion’s face. He looked thoughtful

“Strange!” he said at last. “Very strange indeed!” She began to recount in detail her conversation with her brother, when she heard for the first time that he was probably going to be expelled from the Party. But Besnik, instead of asking for further explanations, just exclaimed again, “Very strange!” Nor did he comment on Gjergj’s hope that the arrest was nothing more than an ordinary detention following some disciplinary offence. But he did convey that he didn’t really agree with this interpretation. Silva felt despondent, almost offended. Besnik’s mind seemed to be on something else. She was almost sorry she’d phoned him. But she didn’t say anything — just looked at him curiously. Was he taking the same sort of line as her boss? She began thinking of how she would apologize for bothering him: she’d adopt an extremely sardonic tone, implying that this was the last time she’d ask him any favours…Meanwhile he spoke, in a low voice, as if to himself.

“A group of tank officers…I think I did hear something about that…”

“Really?” Silva almost shouted.

She was ready to burst out: “In that case, what are you waiting for? What was it you heard, and what are they going to do to them?” But she restrained herself.

“Yes, I did hear about it,” Besnik went on, “but I didn’t think Arian was involved. And anyway …”

She didn’t want to interrupt, but the pause grew so long she was afraid he’d forgotten what he was going to say. Unless he’d deliberately decided not to go on…

“Anyway…?” she prompted.

Besnik swallowed.

“Anyway, it’s a very complicated affair,” he said, “No one knows much about it, really.”

Always the same! she thought. Incorrigible. The flash of exasperation in her eye didn’t escape him.

“Silva, I’m not trying to hide anything from you,” he said. “I did hear something by chance, but I don’t know anything definite. It’s a very mysterious affair.”

“Mysterious?”

“I might have been able to find out more, but unfortunately I’m due to go abroad on a mission. As you can imagine, what’s happening in China is turning the international communist movement upside down.”

He looked at Silva for a moment.

“When are you leaving?” she asked.

“In three days’ time. Not long enough to find anything out — you can imagine all the things I have to do before I go,”

“Yes.”

“But as soon as I get back — and I shouldn’t think I’ll be away long — 111 do all I can.”

“Thank you,” said Silva.

“It’s really incredible,’ he went on, still rather abstractedly. “Especially to think that Arian might be mixed up in it…”

“That’s what we all thought.”

“As I said, I did hear of something of the sort And at the time, without dreaming Arian might be invoked, I thought…But just in passing, as you might about anything you heard about by chance …If I’d known he was mixed up in it, of course I’d have tried to find out more…”

The more Silva tried to puzzle it out, the more she felt she was missing the drift of what Besnik was saying. She was right: he’d just finished a long sentence, and she realized with horror that its meaning had entirely escaped her.

“Look, Silva,” he said earnestly. “I’m not saying this just to reassure you, but I have a feeling — well, it’s more than a feeling, but… forgive me …I can’t tell you any more about it now — a feeling that it’s all a misunderstanding and that it’ll eventually be cleared up.”

Silva suddenly felt as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. The look in his eye told her she could believe him.

“Thank you, Besnik. To tell you the truth, knowing Arian as I do, I find his imprisonment so inconceivable I expect him to be released at any moment, in a few days’ time at the worst…But meanwhile he’s there, and you can imagine how painful it is for all of us.”

“I do understand, Silva,” he said. “I understand perfectly.”

After a little while they stood up, and he saw her back to her ministry. On the way there she felt reassured, but as soon as he left her, anguish closed in on her again. She seemed to have every reason to worry rather than to calm down. All Besnik had really told her was what anyone with the least consideration would say to a friend: he was sure it would all turn out all right, he had a feeling…But what else could he say, after all? The opposite?

Silva opened the door into the office. Linda and the boss were both there. They watched her as she went and sat down, the boss with a rather shifty eye, Linda inquiringly, but quite ready to smile. Silva, pretending not to notice, opened her drawer and took out a file. Neither of the others addressed a word to her for the rest of the morning.

When Silva got home, neither Gjergj nor Brikena were back yet. She put the lunch on to cook and got vegetables out of the refrigerator, but just as she was about to start preparing a salad she put the knife down and went over to the phone. Luckily, Skënder Bermema was at home. She said she needed to see him urgently.

“Whenever you want,” he said. “Now, if you like.”

“This afternoon would be better. Are you free?”

“Yes, of course. What time would you like to come?”

Silva hesitated.

“You want me to come to your place?” she said.

She could hear him breathing at the other end of the line. He knew she was avoiding his wife because of the business with Ana.

“As you like,” he said. “We could just as easily go somewhere else, but I’ll be on my own here this afternoon."

“I’ll come at five, then.”

She put the receiver down slowly, as if she were afraid it might break.

As soon as she entered Skënder’s study, Silva was submerged in a wave of nostalgia. How many years was it since she’d set foot here? How long since the days when she and Ana used to come and see him? The curtains were different, and so were some of the books on the shelves, but the chair where Ana liked to sit leafing through a book or a magazine was still in its old place, and the pictures on the walls were the same. Silva stood there for a moment, forgetting why she was there. Skënder too seemed absent, perhaps for the same reason: the memories they had in common.

“Sit down, Silva,” he said at last. He sounded tired.

She took a chair. She’d hesitated about coming, even after she’d phoned. Should she really go to his place or not? Two or three times she decided to do nothing, to avoid giving the impression that it was only when she had problems that she thought of him. She wasn’t the kind to go round begging favours. But, apart from Gjergj, Besnik Struga and Skënder Bermema were the people closest to her. If she didn’t unburden herself to them, to whom could she speak? She’d said this to herself over and over again. Yet when she left her own apartment at a quarter to five, she didn’t tell Gjergj where she was going.

“What’s it all about?” Skënder asked eventually. “You sounded rather upset when you rang.”

She felt her eyes starting to fill with tears.

“To tell you the truth, I am upset.”

She set about telling him what had happened, and to her own astonishment — perhaps because he was listening to her so quietly — managed to express herself quite calmly. As she spoke he kept glancing impatiently, and more and more frequently, at the telephone.

“Very strange.” he said as soon as she’d finished.

And this brief epilogue convinced her that her story must indeed be out of the ordinary.

He bounded up and pounced on the phone as if it might try to escape. He grabbed the receiver with one hand and dialled feverishly with the other. The ringing at the other end of the line seemed to reverberate in Suva’s heart. No one answered.

Skënder hung up, then lifted the receiver and dialled again — whether the same number as before or another, Silva had no means of knowing. Then there was a click, and he said, “Hallo — Skënder Bermema here.”

She’d have liked to shut her eyes and have a rest after all that tension. At first she didn’t take in what was being said over the phone. It was comfort enough to know that someone was taking an interest in her brother, and someone else again was supplying relevant information. At least the general silence, the shrugs, the inability of anyone to explain anything, were over! How right she’d been to come here! She watched his lips gratefully as he spoke.

The conversation continued. Now she wanted to know what they were saying. Her agitation returned stronger than ever. How could she be so thoughtless as to be lulled by a mere exchange of words? What mattered was what was being said.

Chewing her lip, she tried to piece together the conversation, guessing at the part she couldn’t hear.

“What?” Skënder almost yelled down the phone. He seemed as frantic as she was. “What?”

“What’s up?” she wondered. He was frowning more and more heavily. The person at the other end must be telling him something terrible. She seemed to feel her pulse slacken.

“What?” he bellowed again, waving his free hand impatiently. “Frankly, I don’t understand…No, really …If you’re supposed to be in charge…What? …No! …No offence meant, but I’m sorry I bothered you…”

Silva felt a bit better again. If Skënder was ready to lose his temper the situation couldn’t be all that bad. He was now holding the receiver away from his ear. And soon he hung up, looking at Silva with a distant smile.

“Very odd,” he said. “This chap starts by giving me an earful of tittle-tattle, then tries to tell me we have to approach the matter theoretically! And to think he’s an old friend of mine!”

“Didn’t he know anything?”

Skënder shrugged.

“Who knows? I couldn’t make him out any better than you could, and you didn’t even hear what he said! He wriggled like an eel!”

Silva would have liked to ask him who it was, but by now he was flicking nervously through the telephone directory. Eventually he found the number he was looking for.

Silva didn’t understand any more of the second phone conversation than she had of the first. Then Skënder rang someone else, who was out, but the person who answered gave him another number.

“Hallo — is that the Political Office?”

Silva felt she would never escape from this maelstrom of calls. Was she going to have to listen to them for hours without being any the wiser?

“How are you?” he was now asking someone. “You know why I’m calling…”

Silva held her breath as she listened to his brief preamble. The silence that followed at the other end was almost tangible. Then the other person spoke. Skënder listened, gazing abstractedly at the little table on which the phone stood.

“Why get into a state about them?” he said, obviously echoing what he’d just heard. “I don’t know about anyone else, but I’m interested in him because he’s a friend of mine. A very close friend, do you get me? These things happen in the army? What do you mean by that?…We civilians attach too much importance to them?…No, I don’t think that’s true…Anyhow, I get the message. You don’t know much about it either…No, no — don’t bother…Goodbye!”

He put the phone down and smiled at Silva as before.

“Funny they’re all so vague,” he said, as if to himself. “I’d almost say they’re worried. Why are we civilians taking such an interest? …Yes, very odd … One can’t help thinking …It’s almost as if…”

“Perhaps it’s got something to do with China?” Silva said gently, to help him finish his sentence.

“China? No, no …I was thinking of something else…Ah well,… Just theories…maybe they’re all nonsense.”

He lit a cigarette and started pacing round the studio. He seemed to be staring into space. The same as ever, thought Silva. But perhaps it was because they never changed, he and Besnik Struga, that they were still her friends.

As she watched him going over to the bookcase, his back now turned, she suddenly felt that an exactly similar scene had probably taken place before, here in this studio, in the silent dusk — between him and Ana.

Forgetting a Woman … She knew that story of his almost by heart. Frédéric had asked for it to be read out during the divorce proceedings. Everyone said Skënder had dedicated it to Ana. Although it was set in a hotel room, Silva was convinced the scene it depicted had taken place here in this studio.

Skënder turned and walked over to his desk as if looking for something, but gave up and came and stood in front of Silva with his hands in his pockets.

“What a pity I’ve got to go abroad, I’m sere I’d have been able to solve the mystery.”

“You’re going away?” she said, not sure she’d heard right, “Where to?”

He smiled almost guiltily.

“Can’t you guess? To China?”

“China!” exclaimed Silva. “Really?”

“Really and truly. Apparently this is the last delegation. The last swallow of summer.”

Silva stared at the fringe on the rug at her feet. The last swallow of summer, she repeated to herself as he went on about the make-up of the delegation. They’re all flying away, she thought sadly. And heaved a sigh.

Almost as soon as she got to the office next morning, her boss told her she had to go on a mission to the north of the country. She concluded at once that this was the first act of reprisal against her, after the business about her brother. With a haste she was ashamed of whenever she thought of it later, she assumed it was the prelude to a transfer, or else to out-and-out dismissal.

“Me?… I’ve got to go to the north?” she stammered, frowning, as if to say, Why, what have I done?

Her boss looked back at her in surprise,

“Eh?” he exclaimed, “if you can’t manage it …if you’ve got some good reason …”

“No,” she replied coldly. Her tone implied that it was quite possible for her to go, but she’d like to know why she was being sent.

It was as if a huge mass had suddenly formed in her head, preventing all normal thought. But after a few seconds, something inside her struggled fiercely to escape from that lethargy. It wasn’t the first time she’d been sent on a mission…No, it wasn’t the first time,… Perhaps that was why…

“If you’ve got some reason for not going, you can stay,” her boss was saying. She’d have liked to interrupt: “You know the reason perfectly well!” But what would be the point? She herself would never have claimed that the business about her brother was a valid excuse for not going. A few seconds ago she’d been imagining just the opposite…

“As you wish,” the boss went on, “It was Linda I was thinking of, mainly — she’ll be lonesome all on her own…”

It was only then that Silva noticed her colleague’s expression, Linda was gazing fixedly at her: it was plain she couldn’t understand her friend’s attitude, and was upset by it. How awful of me! thought Silva, If the others hadn’t been there she’d have buried her face in her hands. Why had she flared up like that? The more she thought about it, the more ashamed she was. The boss had told her about the mission in a perfectly natural manner — why had she let her nerves get the better of her and dreamed up all that nonsense? Yet as the same time she did feel rather sorry for herself. At this rate she was going to end up with a nervous breakdown…

“I’m sorry — please forgive me,” she said to her boss, without looking at him. “Of course I can go! I could go today! There’s no reason why not.”

The boss waved his hands. He seemed embarrassed, too.

“You needn’t go if you don’t want to. In fact, maybe …I hadn’t really thought of that, to tell the truth…”

“No,” she said firmly. “That’s no reason not to go. Perhaps the opposite. Especially as Linda will still be here…”

She turned to her friend, who smiled for the first time, though apparently she had no inkling of what lay behind these exchanges.

“As you like,” said the boss. “Personally I’ve always enjoyed these trips to the hydro-electric power stations ie the north. You see a new world, you learn about new things. You’ll have two comrades with you from the planning office, and an expert on seismology,’

Linda, her eyes still reflecting the hint of a smile, looked from Silva to their boss as if afraid their conversation might relapse into unpleasantness. But Suva’s expression was peaceful again, and Linda could breathe freely.

Back home that afternoon, Silva thought over her brief set-to with her boss. She was ironing some sheets, but this usually soothing occupation, instead of driving away her worries, only made her feel more tense. It might have been more relaxing to do some crochet or embroidery.

“Brikena!” she called. “Will you check the phone? It isn’t out of order, is it?”

First she heard her daughter’s footsteps, then her voice.

“No, Mother. It’s working.”

I’ll start believing in ghosts next, thought Silva. The phone hadn’t rung much since the previous Sunday, but it was silly to think this was because of the Arian affair…

She glanced for some reason at the calendar. Tuesday the 17th. Then she looked at her watch. Five-thirty. Gjergj ought to have been home by now. She imagined him ringing at the door, taking off his raincoat, asking, “Any news?”

She shrugged. None.

Next day Silva felt disoriented. Her boss seemed to be doing his best to avoid being left alone with her. On the two occasions that Linda went out of the office, he found an excuse to absent himself too.

“Let him do as he likes,” she thought. “I don’t want to think about it any more.”

After she left the office she took a bus to the cemetery. Gjergj’s bunch of iowers, almost withered now, was still there on Ana’s grave, Silva could scarcely believe only three days had gone by since the previous Sunday.

She didn’t stay long by her sister’s grave, but when she got home she felt better.

On Saturday, just as she was resigning herself to spending a tedious afternoon alone (Gjergj was at a meeting, Brikena at a friend’s birthday party), there was a ring at the door. A visitor, she wondered, then was doubtfull. It was her nature: the more she wanted something, the less she believed it would happen. It must be the woman who cleaned the stairs, asking, as she’d done the day before, to be allowed to fill her bucket with water. Or maybe a stranger inquiring after one of the other tenants…

She threw the door open with some impatience, as one does when about to tell an intruder they might have made proper inquiries before just knocking on doors at random. Her exasperation vanished when she saw she really did have visitors. But the relief was short-lived.

How on earth? And why? — the question was sharp and cold as the edge of an axe. Why had they come to see her after all these years?

As if reading her thoughts, the newcomers apologized for turning up without warning. “We said to one another, let’s go and see her — it’s ages since we met — people shouldn’t just lose touch like that… Anyhow, here we are…”

“Do come in,” said Silva half-heartedly.

She still felt stunned. As they took their coats off they chatted away airily (God, how could they be so self-satisfied?): How was Gjergj?…And their daughter? — she must be quite big now…They hadn’t any other children, had they?…Sorry again for coming without letting them know…Perhaps she and Gjergj had arranged to do something this afternoon?…After all, it was Saturday…

“No, it’s all right…” murmured Silva.

But in fact they’d just provided her with the best possible excuse for turfing them out: “Thanks so much for coming, but as a matter of fact a friend of my husband’s is due in about twenty minutes.” It still wasn’t too late for her to say that. But wait. You could always find a way of getting rid of unwanted guests; the important thing was to find out why they’d come.

“‘You can guess why! We’re all in the same boat now, so we can afford to go and see one another!’ Can that be it?” she asked herself. Could that really be it?

Her brain was gradually emerging from its lethargy. She would do her best to find out if that was why they were here. Or if, worse still, they’d come to gloat over her unhappiness, to avenge themself for the long years of indifference and neglect which she’d inflicted on them…She could still get rid of them if she wanted to by remarking, “It is Saturday, as you say, and unfortunately Gjergj and I have an appointment.”

Some years ago one of Suva’s two aunts had scandalized her nearest and dearest by marrying a member of the old guard, and thenceforward no excuse had been needed for steering clear of her, She had apparently found her husband’s circle quite sufficient, and hardly saw her own family at all except at the occasional funeral.

“This way,” said Silva, leading the way into the living room.

It was the first time she’d seen her aunt’s husband close to. She examined him surreptitiously to see what her aunt could have seen in him. He had a very ordinary face, but with curious wrinkles which instead of making him look older than he was seemed rather to fix him at one age for ever. Silva vaguely remembered hearing that he’d worked for an ltalo-Albanian bank during the Occupation, that he’d inherited money from Italy, and spent a few years in prison after the Liberation. But she could recall very clearly the uproar caused in the family by her aunt’s escapade. There’d been endless comings and goings, after-dinner councils, plans to intervene, telephone calls, and harassing interviews with the prodigal daughter. You’ve covered us in shame for the rest of our lives — how shall we be able to look other people in the face? And, never mind about tarnishing our reputation — have you so much as thought about the memory of your sister? How could you trample it underfoot like this? Suva’s other aunt, who’d died in the war, had never been invoked so often. She’d been extraordinarily beautiful (Ana took after her), and apparently it was because of her looks that the resistance group she belonged to entrusted her with an especially dangerous mission: she was to get herself up as an upper-middle-class young woman and infiltrate circles to which her colleagues had otherwise no access. She had carried out her task brilliantly (it was said she’d learned to make herself up more skilfully than the models who occasionally showed up from Rome), until one day, in circumstances that had never been clarified, she was unmasked at an officers’ ball at the Hotel Dajti. Although she was seriously wounded as she was trying to escape along an alley near the main boulevard, she managed to reach the safe house where her friends were waiting for her. She was still wearing her jewellery, though it was spattered with blood, and while her comrades were treating her injuries she kept making signs. But the others, trying to save her life, paid no attention to these gestures, which might well have referred to her brooches and necklaces, to her painted lips and eyes, or to the elegant gown which she would have liked them to remove. When she died, an hour later, they buried her in all her finery.

You have trampled your sister’s memory underfoot… How often Silva had heard that phrase! One day, after the scandalous marriage had taken place which was never referred to except with horror, Aunt Hasiyé, an elderly relative, had said: “God moves in a mysterious way. As soon as Marie started dolling herself up and doing her hair like a hussy, I had a premonition. All this bodes no good, I told myself. That’s why when I heard of her goings-on I realized all those frills and flounces were omens. Like those you see in dreams…”

One of her grand-nephews had protested at this ridiculous fatalism, but Aunt Hasiyé wasn’t to be moved: “I don’t know anything about fatalism or revisionism — that’s your business. But I can read the signs of the Lord!”

Silva now covertly examined this aunt’s profile. Her striking facial resemblance to the dead woman was emphasized by the way her hair was done, smoothed back stiffly as in a stained-glass window. The same style as that of the war heroine herself, in a photograph that had shown her dressed in the bourgeois fashion of the day.

Silva, suddenly remembering she ought to offer the visitors some refreshment, stood up. She mused on them all out in the kitchen, as she poured brandy into glasses. There were four visitors in all: her aunt, her aunt’s husband, their daughter, and another woman, whom Silva had never met before and who must be the husband’s sister.

When Silva came back into the living room the sister-in-law had lit a cigarette and was talking. Her voice was at once raucous and cooing, with little bursts like laughter. You could tell she got on very well with Suva’s aunt.

She was the first to drink.

“Your health!” she said, raising her glass.

“And yours!” said Silva.

Her aunt looked at her placidly. It was three years, perhaps four, since they’d seen one another. The last time, they’d met by chance in the street. Silva thought she’d never seen her aunt looking so gaunt, but when she asked if she was worried about something the older woman had replied tartly: “As if you were interested in my worries! My dear niece, you have your owe life with your husband. Everything goes smoothly for you two. And why not? Your day has come…”

Silva tried to interrupt and say, “But you wanted it this way…You were the one who insisted…”

“I know, I know what you’re going to say, but I’ve had enough of being criticized! And I don’t intend to listen to any more of it today!”

It had taken Silva some time to find out why her aunt was so sour: her son had been refused permission to go to the University. The reason was obvious: his father’s past.

Your day has come…Silva repeated to herself. But now times had changed again: instead of belonging to one or other party, she now had a foot in both camps. So she and her aunt could now visit one another… Especially as none of your owe folk come and see you any more. Haven’t you spent all your time listening for the door-bell and the telephone this last week? But never mind — if they don’t come, we shall. We shall come quite freely now there’s no barrier between us any more. We’re all marked men, but your mark is more painful than ours because it’s more recent…

Silva’s mouth was dry. Why didn’t Gjergj come home? Or even Brikena?

The sister-in-law contributed most to the conversation. It suited her nicely. They’d probably brought her along for that very reason. Silva heard only scraps of what was said. They’d jest collected a motorbike from the customs for their nephew, but it wasn’t the make he wanted: what should they do?… Benedetto Croce? When she was a student they all had his books by their beds… In fashionable restaurants people sometimes ate chicken with their fingers…

The coeversation was like something out of the Ark. Allusions to Hondas and Vestas only made matters worse, and the word “genetic”, through some absurd association of ideas, made Silva think of Greta Garbo’s profile.

They went over all the little dinner parties they’d invited one another to, together with trivial events quite free of any of the more serious emotions. Behind the veil of old-fashionedness one divined a completely self-contained and self-satisfied world.

Brikena arrived just as Silva was making coffee.

“What a big girl she is now!” exclaimed the sister-in-law, kissing her. Then, turning to her niece: “Vilma, come and say hallo to your cousin. Have you really never met before?”

Brikena blushed and looked inquiringly at her mother. Then the two girls awkwardly kissed.

Silva felt a weight at the pit of her stomach again. Now she understood why they’d brought their daughter with them. They wanted to get their claws on the younger generation too.

“Come and sit down next to Vilma,” said the sister-in-law to Brikena, enjoying herself hugely.

The girls stared at one another like strangers. Brikena turned to her mother again. Why isn’t Gjergj back yet, Silva groaned to herself.

She got up and handed round the coffee. She had meant to wait for her husband, but perhaps it was better if he wasn’t there.

“I’m going to read the coffee grounds in my cup,” said the sister-in-law, laughing noisily. “I’m very good at it,” she told Silva. “Would you like me to read yours?”

Silva longed inwardly to put an end to this farce. But something forced her to do nothing, to see how far they would go. She secretly hoped the woman would snatch her cup, solemnly turn it round and round, and utter the ritual formula: “Someone near to you will soon be going on a long journey…” (Gjergj, obviously. Was he going to be sent abroad again?) “You see that dark patch at the very bottom of the cup? That’s an illness or a great misfortune — probably a misfortune. But look at this V — that means the sorrow is starting to lessen…”

Meanwhile the sister-in-law was commenting half-seriously, half-jokiegly, on what she saw in her own cup, while the others listened, smiling.

“She’s always been like that,” the aunt’s husband told Silva. He sounded apologetic. “She likes to look on the bright side!”

They’ve talked about everything except Arian, Silva noticed. It’s as if he didn’t exist. And yet, she said to herself as they were putting on their coats in the hall, hide it as they might, it was because of him that they’d come!

“Goodbye, Silva,’ said her aunt, kissing her.

“Goodbye, my dear,” said the sister-in-law, doing the same.

When the door closed behind them, Silva collapsed on to the settee. She felt exhausted.

“Don’t you feel well, Mother?” asked Brikena.

Silva didn’t answer. She just looked at the cups and glasses on the coffee table, as if trying decipher, through them, the motives of her visitors. It was easier to think about it now that they’d gone. They didn’t really seem to have come out of resentment or in search of revenge. Nor for the malicious pleasure of seeing her down and out. But neither had they come out of sympathy. At best, what they felt was closer to half-hearted tolerance than to pity. But then if they had felt sorry for her she wouldn’t have been able to bear it! She had to hold back her tears. There was something repulsive even about their goodwill: welcome to our cosy little world, we’ve been expecting you, so just calm down and relax…

And that’s how Gjergj found her — sitting with her face buried in her hands. Brikena, who had let him in, had evidently told him about the visitors. He looked for a moment at the cups, one sinisterly upside down in the middle, and without saying anything, not even his usual “Anything wrong?”, he came over and stroked her hair.

As if she’d only been waiting for this sign of affection, which seemed to rise up from the happiest times in their lives, Silva burst into tears.

He let her give vent to her feelings for a while, then drew her close and whispered, “There, there, that’ll do now. Won’t you make me a cup of coffee too?”