The Concert

9

SIMON DERSHA KNOCKED, then put his head round the door, Linda and Silva exchanged glances.

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

He was wearing his navy-blue suit, as he had been a few days ago, when he came to phone before and couldn’t get any answer. As he dialled, Silva thought back to that day. How time flew!

“But you’ve only dialled three digits!” said Linda, who’d been watching him.

When he hung up and turned to look at them the two women were astonished at how haggard he looked.

“Just like me!” he said almost guiltily. “I can’t think why I'm so absent-minded!”

“You can always try again," suggested Linda.

“What? Oh yes, of course,… But…” And he waved his hand as if to say there was no point.

Linda looked at Silva again. Simon made as if to go out, then changed his mind and came back to the phone. He reached out for it cautiously, as if it were red hot, and was just about to dial when the door opened and in came the boss, Simon immediately put down the phone.

“Go on, go on,” said the boss jovially, sitting down,

“No, thank you,” stammered the other, “I was only bothering you because our phone’s out of order,”

“Please! Make yourself at home!” the boss insisted. “You can come here and phone as often as you like. We don’t hesitate to trouble our friends if our phone’s on the blink!”

“Of course! Thanks very much,” said Simon, still edging towards the door.

“But you haven’t made your call! And all because of me! Am I such an ogre?”

“No, on the contrary! It’s my fault… Bet it isn’t important…Î can phone later…It’s not urgent.”

“As you like,’ said the boss.

Simon Dersha quietly let himself out. Linda and Silva smiled.

“A bit touched,’ said Linda, putting a forefinger to her temple.

“Do you think so?” said the boss. “I thought it was me that put him off.”

“No, He’d been hovering around the phone for ages, not daring to call properly. He just dialled three digits and made up some excuse.”

“How odd!” said the boss. “People really are funny!”

“I’ve noticed he acts a bit barmy whenever he wears that blue seit,” said Linda,

The boss guffawed.

“You have some peculiar ideas too!” he said, surreptitiously checking on his own jacket, He was just going to say something else when the phone rang.

“Hallo?” Thee his voice grew cold, as it always did when the call was for Linda or Silva. “Yes, she’s here.”

And he held the phone out to Silva.

It was Beseik Struga. Suva’s face lit up, as did Linda’s when she knew who was calling. Besnik’s voice was warm, but a little deeper than usual Perhaps he had a slight cold. Anyway, it was very attractive. He told her he’d got back from abroad the night before, but wouldn’t be able to see her for two or three days because he had to write a very urgent report.

“It doesn’t matter,’ said Silva. “When you’ve finished the report and had a bit of a rest…”

“What’s been happening about that…business? No news? H’mm …” A pause. “Well talk about it when we meet.”

“Yes, of course,” she said.

“Silva, I do hope you understand…I really can’t…”

“I quite understand, Besnik,” she said.

But he kept on as if he wasn’t sure she did, especially now he knew her brother’s situation hadn’t changed.

“I’ve been longing to see you. I thought of you over there, and I can prove it!”

He’s brought me another little present, thought Silva, smiling to herself. He did this every time he went abroad, Silva had noticed there was no one to beat him for bringing back souvenirs for his friends, especially his women friends.

“Is he back from Paris?” asked Linda when Silva hung up.

Silva nodded. After she’d sat down again at her desk her conversation with Besnik remained suspended over her for a while like a small cloud. She could remember his every word, the barest inflections of his voice, including a certain guilt when he spoke of her brother. Finally, the rest faded and this was the only impression that was left. As for what had happened since Besnik left, that could be described in one word: nothing. Skënder Bermema’s delegation had been postponed four times and he was still in Tirana: he had phoned her several times to say he hadn’t been able to get any further information.

One day he’d come back from China too, and he’d phone her as Besnik had today, to ask if anything had happened while he was away. And she’d say no. Nothing. She sighed.

“What did he say?” asked Linda, “What did he tell you about his trip?”

Silva looked at her blankly for a few seconds.

“Nothing,” she said.

Linda felt herself blushing. She shouldn’t have been so indiscreet. After a while, seeing her friend’s cheeks were still pink, Silva was afraid she might have offended her with her brusque “Nothing,” Yet she didn’t feel like explaining, especially as that would have meant telling Linda all about Arian’s problems.

But not long afterwards the boss was called out of the room, and no sooner had the door closed behind him than Silva prepared to say something to show Linda she hadn’t taken any notice of her indiscreet inquiry. Linda, however, kept her eyes fixed on her desk, and Silva was still trying to think of a way of beginning when the door opened and Simon Dersha reappeared with his customary hangdog expression.

“Look who’s here!” Silva whispered. Then: “Come on in, Simon! What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he answered, with a grimace. “I’d just like to use the phone, if you don’t mind.”

“Haven’t you tried again anywhere else since you were here?” said Silva, winking at Linda, whose sulks now disappeared as if by magic.

“All the other phones are being used,” said Simon, “And then…”

“It looks to me as if you don’t really want to make that call,” observed Linda. “You were very hesitant the last time…”

“Oh…” he quavered.

“What’s the matter, Simon?” Silva asked again.

“Perhaps it’s private and you’d like us to leave you alone?” Linda suggested.

“I didn’t say that!” Simon protested.

“And I noticed that when you asked to use our phone the other day you were wearing the same suit as now!”

“Oh, you’re diabolical!” growled Simon, heading for the door. “Absolutely diabolical!”

The door closed. They laughed.

“I think he must be a bit deranged!” Linda exclaimed.

“Hush,” said Silva. “He might hear.”

As a matter of fact Simon heard quite clearly what Linda said, but though in other circumstances it would have made him furious, today it didn’t bother him. This was quite simply because he’d heard the same words applied to himself several times in the past twenty-four hours. He’d used them too, not only about other people but also about himself. “You must be off your rocker!” his wife had shouted yesterday after he’d broken the news that his sister-in-law (his brother’s wife) might be leaving Tirana to go and live with her husband, who’d been posted to another town a year ago. This meant that Simon’s mother, who had been living in the brother’s house in Tirana, would have to come and live with Simon and his wife. “You must be mad even to think of it!” said his wife. “We’re already squashed together like sardines in this apartment, and now you suggest adding one more?” “Where’s she supposed to live then? ln the street?” cried Simon. “Why in the street? Why can’t she go and join your brother with the others?” “Oh, that’s what you have in mind, is it?” “I don’t see why any of them has to move,” his wife went on. “It’s quite usual for a man who’s posted to have to leave his family behind.” “But it’s a serious matter now,” Simon objected. “Haven’t you read the article in The Voice of the People?“ It’s always serious! That doesn’t stop other people from leaving their families behind,” “No, no — this is different!” And heaven knows how long the argument would have gone on if Simon’s brother hadn’t suddenly turned up, accompanied by his wife. They both looked extremely downcast.

“What’s going to become of us?” moaned the sister-in-law, bursting into tears. Her husband sank into a chair and buried his head in his hands. Simon was taken aback. Only his wife was as energetic as ever. She stuck to the idea that Simon’s brother shouldn’t take his family to live with him, and the more blankly the others listened to her the more vigorously she sought new arguments and examples. She actually quoted the Constitution, not once but twice!

“Don’t go!” she adjured her sister-in-law, “I know it’s a question of one’s attitude to society and the socialist conscience and so on. But just admit your conscience isn’t very developed., and don’t go. It would be different if you were a member of the Party, but someone like you isn’t obliged to go. It’s not the same for Benjamin — he’s been posted and he has to obey. He’s got a duty to the State, it’s a question of administration — but taking wives too is another matter, a question of ideology, you might call it. Aren’t I right, Simon? Officials themselves may have to set an example by going and living among the grass roots, but their wives are not under any such obligation — it’s only a matter of individual conscience, And our consciences are not very developed — there’s nothing we can do about it, is there, Benjamin?”

She carried on like that, addressing now one and now the other, until finally she made them listen to her. As might have been expected, the first person she persuaded was Simon’s sister-in-law. After that, the two women had no difficulty in convincing Simon himself that the only solution, even if not an ideal one, was to leave his brother’s family where it was. It was imperative that, in this impasse, some issue should be found. Only Benjamin didn’t come round, and just sat miserably on the sofa with his head in his hands.

Simon’s wife made coffee, and as they drank it the previous arguments were gone over again, slightly more optimistically, Cases were quoted where families had been left behind but, what with reasonableness on the one hand and consideration on the other, instead of their lives being wrecked, things had gradually sorted themselves out.

“Yes, but it’s precisely such cases that the article in The Voice of the People was about the day before yesterday,” objected Simon’s brother. “All the reasons alleged for not taking your family with you — illnesses that can only be treated properly in Tirana, a mother who needs help, a paralytic father — all these things have been denounced!”

“What does that mean — ‘denounced’?” exclaimed Simon’s wife. “Are people supposed to change their attitudes just because a newspaper says so? If you ask me, it may produce the opposite effect, and people who never thought about it before may adopt the arguments the paper decries.”

“Yes, and make things worse for themselves,” said Benjamin. “If they act like that they may provoke even more drastic measures — we’ve seen it happen quite recently.”

“People will always do anything to get out of-being posted,” observed the sister-in-law.

Simon’s brother shrugged dejectedly. The fact that he’d withdrawn from the conversation enabled the argument to take a turn for the better. More happy endings were quoted, in which reason had prevailed and unhelpful administrators had been foiled,

“It’s a well-known fact that lots of people manage all right. The ones who get it in the neck are poor dopes without any friends or influence,” said Benjamin’s wife, nodding her chin at her spouse. Then, to Simon: “You’re the only one we can turn to.”

A tense silence followed. Simon still sat motionless and pensive in a chair facing that of his sister-in-law. He was the one who had spoken least, not because he was an introvert by nature, but because as a civil servant himself he didn’t want to get mixed up in recriminations against official regulations, however much he might disagree with the latter.

He was the most distinguished member of their comparatively modest family. It was him all the cousins came to with their problems: scholarships for their children, housing problems, jobs. He realized most of them exaggerated the importance of his post at the ministry, and he’d often been tempted to explain that he was merely a clerk and not some senior official. Had he done so, they would have been horribly disillusioned — if they’d believed him. More probably they’d have suspected him of trying to fob them off. The reason he hadn’t chosen this way out of all the trouble his family’s claims brought him was to spare them the truth. He preferred to be accused of indifference, caprice, uselessness and egoism rather than damage the fiction of his own importance.

And now, in the silence that followed his sister-in-law’s “You’re the only one we can turn to,” he felt the moment they had all been waiting for had come, the moment for which all the rest had been but a prelude. He gazed thoughtfully at his wedding ring. His wife finally caught his eye.

“Why don’t you do something, Simon?” she said. “I know it’s not easy, but after all this does concern your brother.”

Simon raised his eyebrows: the silence was so oppressive he was surprised those appendages didn’t make a noise, like the hands of a rusty clock.

“I suppose I'll have to have a try,” he said.

No one actually sighed, but the relief was almost tangible. For the first time, Simon’s brother looked a little more cheerful

“Perhaps you could speak to the minister who asked you to dinner,” Simon’s wife suggested. “A word from him would be enough …”

“Has he had dinner with a minister?” exclaimed the sister-in-law. “He didn’t tell us!”

“And not just any old minister!” said Simon’s wife, with a gesture that seemed to say, “If you only knew!”

As soon as Benjamin’s wife had heard the word minister her jaw had dropped, but her husband looked depressed.

“Don’t you want me to ask him, then?” Simon asked him.

“Yes, yes — I do,” was the answer. “But I just don’t know…Has he got enough influence …?”

“What?” Simon’s wife interrupted. “How can you say such a thing? A minister of his importance? I’d no idea you were so naive, Benjamin. What do you say, Simon?”

Everyone expected him to laugh or lose his temper at his brother’s foolishness, but he didn’t do either. His face clouded over.

“Did you want to say something?” he asked his brother, who sat with his head bowed, looking guilty.

“No,” answered the other at last. “Perhaps what I’ve said already was stupid.” He lowered his voice and leaned closer to Simon, as if he’d have liked the others not to hear. “They had some manoeuvres in our area not long ago, and there were some rumours about …I can’t tell you exactly what was said, but I did hear something about some of the soldiers rebelling against that minister of yours…Of course there may not have been anything in it…”

“No, they must have been just rumours. What else?” said Simon. “I’m surprised you listened to them. You know it’s not right to spread gossip…”

“Gossip? What gossip?” interrupted Simon’s wife.

“Nothing,” he answered. “Just foolishness.”

This was the second time he’d heard hints about the minister, but he went on looking reprovingly at his brother as if to say, “Other people may take an interest in such things, but what possesses you to poke your nose in — haven’t you got troubles enough already with this business of postings?”

A week earlier in the cafeteria, when Simon had overheard two people talking about the person he thought of as “his” minister, he’d nearly passed out. At first he hadn’t realized who they were referring to. He’d just caught the words, “It doesn’t matter if you’re a minister or not, if you do a thing like that you’ve had it.” But as he was standing beside the speakers in the coffee queue, he couldn’t help hearing more, though he wasn’t in the habit of eavesdropping. The other two kept on about the misdeed in question, expressing surprise that anyone in such a position as a minister could have been guilty of it. Simon concluded that at the worst the speakers own minister must have committed some impropriety. But as the queue moved slowly forward and he heard the words “manoeuvres” and “order” mentioned, he realized with horror that they were talking not about their own minister but about “his”…

Although he tried later to reassure himself with the thought that, if there was any criticism in the press or in the government about a minister, rumours of this kind might easily get spread around, a niggling doubt still remained. And this had something to do with the somewhat odd behaviour of the vice-minister who had taken him to dinner with the distinguished personage in question, and who, the first time they met again afterwards, had not only pretended to have forgotten that memorable evening, but had also given Simon the impression that he wished to avoid any reference to it or to the minister himself. At first Simon had interpreted this as the kind of affectation practised by those who try to minimize things that are important in order to show that they themselves are above them. But after overhearing the. conversation in the cafeteria, Simon saw it all differently. He remembered that the vice-minister hadn’t phoned him for several days after the dinner party. He remembered the doubt that had seized him not only during the dinner itself, during Enver Hoxha’s phone call, but also in the days beforehand, when he’d kept wondering why anyone as insignificant as himself had been invited. He’d asked his friend the vice-minister about it, quite straightforwardly and without any arrière-pensée, and accepted as quite plausible the reply that leaders sometimes need to make contact with the common people, with ordinary clerks from the ministries, and that this is often more useful to them than all the official reports. Bet after the conversation overheard in the cafeteria, and Simon’s own reflections thereafter this explanation seemed inadequate, not to say specious. He even recalled hearing it said that it is when they fall from favour that the mighty tend to be more gracious to the humble. He dismissed this line of thought by telling himself that if this were the case the minister could easily have found hundreds of subordinates to be gracious to. But the poison of doubt still lingered, and eventually grew ail the stronger precisely because it lacked foundation.

Who knows how far Simon would have pursued his investigations if he hadn’t seen his minister shown on the television news one Thursday, attending some official ceremony. He cursed the rumours for having frightened him for nothing. Then he cursed himself for a psychopath and a double-dyed idiot: why had he got so upset? It wasn’t as though the minister was a relation or friend, someone on whose career his own future depended. Of course, Simon might be sorry if anything unpleasant happened to him, because that would mean the end of certain dreams arising out of the memorable dinner. But that was all. There was no point in exaggerating — as he had done by worrying for days on end — just on the strength of some tittle-tattle put about by fools.

However no sooner had his brother mentioned rumours about the minister than Simon relapsed into all his former anxiety. What he’d heard in the cafeteria wasn’t just silly gossip: his owe brother, out in the back of beyond, had heard about it, Trae, it was a godforsaken spot — but it was near the place where the manoeuvres were held, and where the deed was done that couldn’t be overlooked…Only pride prevented Simon from asking his brother if he knew anything more.

“Do it, I beg you, Simon — do it for us,” implored Benjamin’s wife, interrupting her brother-in-law’s reflections, “We know It’s difficult, but think of the mess we’re in! And you’ve only got one brother, haven’t you?”

“All right, I’ll — see to it,” said Simon, surprised by his own resolution.

And he meant what he said. If the minister had lost some of his influence, that would only make Simon’s own task easier. Didn’t those in disgrace tend to be kinder? But this reasoning soon lost its cogency. Wasn’t seeking a favour from someone when he had worries of his own like asking for a light from a man whose beard has been set on fire? Not at all the thing to do. And yet… The worries of the great must be on an entirely different scale. Of course — it’s obvious, he told himself ten minutes later: everything is relative in this world, and even if the minister’s authority was temporarily diminished he could still solve by a mere phone call a problem that would require superhuman efforts on the part of minor functionaries. Simon recalled the words of an old protocol clerk on the subject of a department head who’d seen his position undermined twice, but who nevertheless remained one of the bosses: “A lion can tear you to pieces even if he’s got only one tooth,” So even if “his” lion had only one tooth left, why shouldn’t Simon take advantage of it? After all, he’d never asked anything of him before, and after this favour would never ask anything of him again,

“I’ll try to get in touch with him tomorrow,” he said, breaking the silence. Then, to his wife: “I’ll wear my blue suit.”

“It’s all ready,” she said, beaming round at the others as if to say, “You see, he finally made up his mind. Simon will see to it — you needn’t worry any more.”

“Yes, the blue suit’s ready,” she repeated. “I took it to the cleaner’s a week ago, as if I had a presentiment you’d be needing it.”

“Good,” said Simon, remembering he’d made a stain on the jacket during the famous dinner.

The little apartment had come to life again. The mention of the blue suit had made Simon’s intervention seem more real Made to measure from Polish cloth fifteen years before, that suit enabled them all to bask in the glory reflected from Simon himself. It made them think of official occasions, grand assemblies, stately halls where political meetings were held, examination results were read out, workers given medals. When Simon came home after such ceremonies, it was his suit as much as his face which brought back a reflection of the bright lights of the presidium or the exhibition, sometimes made brighter still by the presence of television cameras or important foreign delegates. This had become so well established that if Simon had worn his blue suit on an ordinary day, his wife and all the others around him would have said, “You’ve made a mistake, Simon — there’s nothing special about today.”

This episode came back to him in his office. It had happened only yesterday, but so painful was its effect on him he felt he’d been struggling with it for a week.

And now those infernal girls in the next room had noticed about his suit! But Simon was not to be deterred by that, or by overhearing them say he must be a bit deranged. His only concern at present was how to make his phone call On the evening of the dinner party the minister had given him both his office and his home number, but while, yesterday afternoon after Simon had promised his brother to intervene, it had seemed best to call the minister at the office, this morning it had struck him as preferable to phone him at home, Then he realized he might spend the whole day shilly-shallying, and end up not talking to the minister at either place. But having then resolved to take the plunge at once, he learned from a colleague — not without some relief — that their phone wasn’t working again. Simon would have given up at that point, but for the fact that all his people would be waiting eagerly back in the apartment to hear how he’d got on. He couldn’t expect them to swallow the excuse that his office phone was out of order. Better at least appease his conscience by gritting his teeth and getting the chore over. After that, let ‘em all come!

But in the next-door office, when he’d already started dialling the number, it struck him that it would be better for the two women not to hear, so he hung up. Quite rightly too, for those two wretches, so quick to notice his suit, would certainly have listened to every word he said, despite their assumed indifference, Yes, he’d been quite right not to phone from their office, but that was no reason for not phoning at all.

As the end of the working day got nearer, Simon began to panic, but he comforted himself with the thought that if he couldn’t reach the minister at the ministry he could certainly reach him at his residence. And he had every right to call him at either place.

When two o’clock arrived he still hadn’t made his call as he stood in the corridor watching the other employees go home. This was the most propitious moment, with everyone in a hurry to leave and the offices emptying. He could find a phone without attracting attention. Eh? What did he mean by “without attracting attention”? A few days ago he’d have been proud to call the minister in front of everyone, and now he was letting himself be intimidated like this! It was unpardonable! If others could read his thoughts he’d be exposed to public obloquy. “Look at him — obsessed by rumours and gossip, a spreader of doubt! There’s no place for people like him in our society, the lousy petty-bourgeois!”

He saw Silva and Linda locking their office door behind them, and was about to call out, “Hey, could you hold on a moment while I make a phone call?” But not only did he not speak — he shrank into a recess so that they shouldn’t see him. I really must be going off my head! he thought. All the offices were swiftly being shut up one after the other — his chances were lessening with every minute that passed. He kept telling himself it didn’t matter, but his anxiety increased. But why? — there was a phone down in the porter’s lodge that he could use whenever he liked — in a way, that was the best solution. It was a sort of public phone, anonymous, so that if …If what? Now what crazy ideas was he getting? How shameful! How had he sunk so low?

He was now at the top of the front steps, just by the porter’s lodge. He pushed the glass door open with a firm gesture.

“You want to use the phone?” said the porter. “Help yourself!”

Simon Dersha picked up the phone and dialled the first digits. One of the porter’s eyes looked rather odd: red-rimmed, but watchful. After he’d finished dialling, Simon let the dial revolve back into place. But before it had finished doing so he was struck by a thought: What if things really were going badly for the minister? And he, Simon, chose this moment to ring him up? And where? At home! Hardly had the ringing begun at the other end than Simon pressed down the springs on the receiver stand and replaced the phone.

“No answer?” said the porter. “Perhaps you should have let it ring a bit longer…”

“Sez you!” thought Simon, making off without more ado. The fresh air helped him see things more clearly. He wasn’t really sorry he’d given up on the porter’s lodge: it would have been better if he’d called the minister in his office — at home it was a different matter. And what about the porter’s bloodshot eye?… Still, not a bad idea to ring from a phone that didn’t belong to anyone in particular. He could ring from a public call-box — funny he hadn’t thought of it before!

When he came to a call-box he took a deep breath. He felt at bay. Never mind, let ‘em ail come! He put his hand in his pocket and got out a coin. All his movements were strangely rigid. It wasn’t until he heard a voice say “Hallo!” at the other end that he gave a start.

“Hallo — is that the residence of comrade —“

“Speaking,” said the minister.

“I’m sorry to bother you, comrade minister,” stammered Simon, “Especially at this hour…”

He let loose a flood of words he’d have been hard put to it to repeat afterwards. For a moment he felt he’d never manage to explain. But he must try to overcome the obstacles: first tell the minister who he was, and then…

But to Simon’s surprise the minister knew who he was straight away.

“You came to dinner at my place with…Yes, yes, I remember very well…Yes, of course …So what did you want to talk to me about?”

His voice sounded different — sharper, thinner.

Simon started to answer, but when the minister repeated the question he realized he hadn’t explained anything. He began again, but felt himself getting in a worse muddle still Two girls had appeared from somewhere, outside the call-box. That takes the biscuit! fumed Simon. Can’t even phone in peace from a public call-box now!

“Oh, you wanted to see me?” said the minister. “No problem, my dear fellow. Come whenever you like. Today if it suits you…”

“Today?” Simon wanted to exclaim. “What’s the hurry?” But the voice at the other end insisted.

“No point in putting it off. It so happens I’m free this afternoon, I’ll expect you at my place at six. All right?”

“I don’t know how to thank you, but…what shall I say? Just like that? Perhaps …”

“No point in complicating things! So that’s settled — I’ll be expecting you at six. See you then,”

Good Lord, thought Simon, hanging up. Anyone would think he’s dying for someone to go and see him…

As he made his way slowly home he couldn’t throw off the feeling that it might have been a mistake to phone. That thin voice, followed by the eagerness to see him …It left a bitter taste. Of course. that’s the state of mind you’d expect in someone who’s being ostracized. Could that really be the case? Had things gone so far? He tried to recall their conversation, but couldn’t. He kept thinking of the television programme the previous Thursday, but that didn’t help either. Why the devil did I have to come across that call-box? he grumbled.

“Well, what’s new?” said his wife as he came in, “But what’s the matter? You look quite drawn.”

“Nothing, nothing,” he said. “I spoke to the minister and I’m seeing him at six o’clock.”

“Really? But that’s wonderful!”

“Is there anyone here?”

“Of course — Benjamin and his wife. Who did you expect?”

“Oh, them,” he grunted.

“I don’t know why you take that tone.”

He gestured vaguely.

“At least don’t let them see you’re in a bad mood!” she whispered, “It isn’t polite!”

He took off his raincoat and hung it up.

“Simon’s spoken to the minister!” his wife announced when they’d gone into the room where the other two were waiting. “He’s going to see him today.”

“Really?” Benjamin and wife exclaimed in chorus.

Simon slumped down on the settee.

“He’s expecting me at six o’clock,” he said, not looking at anyone.

His brother and sister-in-law didn’t know what to do to show their gratitude. Their eyes shone, they babbled incoherently, Simon went on scowling. The sister-in-law signalled to Benjamin and they both stood up.

“We’d better be going,” she said. “I don’t know how to thank you, Simon. We’ll never forget what you’ve done for us.”

“It’s nothing, it’s nothing,” said Simon.

Simon’s wife thought her brother-in-law looked worried.

“Don’t go like that,” she said. “Stay for lunch, if you don’t mind taking pot luck.”

“No, thank you,” he answered faintly.

Simon’s wife looked at her husband reproachfully.

“Yes, stay,” he said, “Well manage.”

“We don’t want to inconvenience you,” stammered Benjamin’s wife.

“You won’t be inconveniencing es in the least,” said the hostess. “Stay for lunch, and then we can all wait together for Simon to come back. All right?”

Benjamin and his wife turned to Simon.

“Yes, good idea,” he said.

The sister-in-law whispered something to her husband. He nodded, then stood up and went out into the hall. They heard the front door open and shut.

“Where’s Benjamin gone to?” asked Simon’s wife.

“Just out… He’ll be back in a minute.”

The two women went into the kitchen to lay the table. A little while later Benjamin returned carrying some cans of beer.

“You’re being very rude,” his wife told Simon when she came to call him in to lunch. “Why are you glowering at them like that? Just because you’re doing them a favour? Don’t forget your brother’s had your mother on his hands all these years!”

“You don’t understand anything about it!” he muttered. Bet she didn’t hear.

During lunch Simon made an effort to be more relaxed, and the meal turned out to be quite cheerful But every now and then the guests would be overcome, not to say inarticulate, with emotion,

“How we racked our brains to find a solution!” said Benjamin’s wife, “We never breathed a word to anyone else, but we can talk to you, especially now …”

“She thinks it’s all settled,” thought Simon.

“We did think of one way out,” his sister-in-law went on, “A pretty far-fetched one, though I gather some people have resorted to it lately. The husband gets a divorce so as not to have to take his family with him, the wife stays on in their apartment in Tirana, and the husband comes to see her in secret, like a lover!” She laughed. “Have you ever heard of such a thing?”

“Someone did mention something like it,” said Simon gloomily, “but I thought it must be some vaudeville sketch.”

“Not at all!” said the sister-in-law. “People are driven to shifts like that out of necessity.”

“And did you decide to do that?” asked Simon’s wife.

“Why not?” came the reply, “What else could we do?”

Goodness, thought Simon. Sham divorees, and then clandestine meetings, like lovers and mistresses. What a splendid idea! And you get rid of the mother-in-law into the bargain, because she can’t go on living with a divorced daughter-in-law! it sounded ideal

“Yes,” said Simon’s wife. “People are at their wits’ end.”

The table fell silent again for a while,

“Coffee, everyone?” said the hostess, collecting up the empty beer cans.

“Not for me, thanks,’ said Simon,

“Perhaps Simon would like to have a little rest?” his sister-in-law suggested.

“Would you?” asked his wife.

“Don’t bother about us!” chorused the guests.

“Especially as you’ve got this meeting later on.” His wife again. “Go and have a lie-down, Simon.”

“AM right, just for a while,” he said. “That beer’s gone to my head a bit.”

“Yes, you have a little nap,” said his brother affectionately.

Simon went to his room, undressed and lay down. Bet despite the faint muzziness due to the beer, he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep. He ought to have had a coffee. Well, he could always have one when he got up. He could feel a weight on his stomach, and this grew heavier as scraps of the lunch-time conversation came back to him. So, he mused, that’s what they’ve been thinking of: a fake divorce, then rendezvous à la Romeo and Juliet, and to crown all, bye-bye mother-in-law! He wondered where he and his wife were going to put his mother if the other couple did leave the capital for good: the prospect made him shudder. The current arrangement suited him perfectly: he paid a thousand old leks a month for his mother’s keep (it was only five hundred to start with, but he’d had to double it when his brother was posted), and in return he was left in peace. And now all that family equilibrium was going to be destroyed. As his wife kept saying, to have one more person in the house, especially an old woman, was asking for trouble. Old ladies have special expenses, they like to have their cronies in to see them every day, it’ll cost about a thousand leks a month to keep her in coffee, not to mention all the rest. It was obvious that before long there’d be friction between his wife and his mother, and heaven knows where that would lead! He must solve this problem at all costs. It had been stupid to regret phoning the minister, I was quite right to do it, he concluded, burying his face in the pillow in the faint hope of getting some sleep. Yes, I was quite right. But he still couldn’t drop off.

At about half-past four he got up, dressed and went out into the hall. A pleasant aroma of coffee and the sound of whispered conversation came from the kitchen. They were probably waiting for him to wake up. When he appeared they all fidgeted on their chairs, eager to make a fuss of him.

“Did you manage to get some sleep?” asked his wife.

“Not much.”

“Would you like a cup of coffee?”

“Yes, please — I would now.”

Even though the minister would probably soon be offering him another.

The day was drawing to a close. The warmth of the room, the sound of the coffee grinder, the quiet, desultory conversation — made Simon feel sorry for his brother, He must have missed all this since he was posted to the provinces. I absolutely must get him out of that situation, he thought, I absolutely must.

Night had fallen by the time Simon left the house. The air was damp and it looked like rain. Come straight home, his wife had told him. Don’t forget we’ll be dying to hear.

As he went along he tried at first to concentrate on minor aspects of the affair. Sometimes he would polish up one of the phrases he’d prepared: “! have to think about my mother as well, comrade minister…” But then he set that aspect aside: it didn’t really present any difficulty. No, the problem was… What was it? said an inner voice more and more insistently as he approached the district where the minister lived. But he tried not to answer. Pretty dreary around here, he thought. The windows looked darker than they did elsewhere, the damp air froze you to the marrow. There were fewer and fewer people about. At last he reached the minister’s street. It was only a quarter to six, and he had to walk more slowly so as not to be too early. The street, lined on both sides with small villas, was feebly lit and almost deserted. Simon quailed. That thin voice, that eagerness to see him …He tried to dismiss his fears, but they kept swarming back. All he could do was swipe at them one at a time: his fear that this démarche was all a mistake; the rows there’d be if his mother came to live with them; the lion who could still bite even though he had only one tooth; coffee in the family kitchen; last Thursday’s television news…

He was now within a stone’s throw of the minister’s residence. The sentry on duty outside, muffled up in a black rain-cape, stood still as a statue. The front of the house was dark; a faint light was to be seen at the side windows. Simon slowed down as he approached the gate. The sentry’s rubber cape gleamed wetly.

Simon realized that the time for ordering his thoughts, however inefficiently, was over, and prepared to address the sentry, who seemed to be keeping an eye on him. But at the last moment he suddenly remembered the Chinese business…It was usually during this sort of crisis that the struggle inside the Party flared up…Why hadn’t he thought of it before? He’d wasted his time on all sorts of nonsense, not excluding coffee grounds, and overlooked this blinding truth!

He found himself walking straight past the sentry. What was he doing? Running away? Don’t worry, he told himself, if you want to turn back you can, there’s nothing to stop you. There are still two minutes to go till six o’clock. He went along by the railings for another twenty yards or so, then retraced his steps. But the thought of China persisted. Worse still, the closer he got to the gate the larger the idea loomed, until it seemed to be radiating out from inside the villa. It’s in situations like this…crises like this… that deviationists rear their ugly heads…like rats before an earthquake…He was now only a few feet from the sentry, but he still hadn’t decided whether to go in and see the minister or not. He slowed down and turned to look past the railings at the front of the house, which looked gloomier than ever through the dripping trees. He could feel the sentry’s eyes on him again. Then he heard the rustle of rubber and the sentry’s low voice:

“Do you want to see the minister?”

Simon swung round in amazement.s How did the man know? Could he possibly be aware of his intentions? Without answering, Simon started walking along by the railings again. After a while he slowed down again. But this time he didn’t turn back.

He must have been someone else, thought the sentry, who’d been told to expect a visitor. And he watched the retreating figure vanish in the distance.

Inside the villa, from the window of the main drawing room on the ground floor, the minister watched Simon Dersha disappear. He’s not coming, he observed. He’d been watching his to-ings and fro-ings through the slits in the shutters, and at one point had even reached out to ring a bell. Then he’d remembered the sentry had been warned to expect a visitor. When the figure outside finally walked away from the guard, the minister had almost exclaimed, “What’s that idiot up to? ^Why didn’t he let him in?” In other circumstances he’d have sent someone out at once to ask the man what had happened and why the visitor had gone away. Bet this evening he didn’t feel like it …In other circumstances…The minister gave a hollow laugh. In other circumstances, he told himself, you wouldn’t be lurking behind the shutters waiting for a wretched clerk whose name you can’t even remember to make up his mind whether to come in or not…

Meanwhile the figure had disappeared past the end of the railings. In other words, this wasn’t a matter of chance. For it was no accident, either, that phone calls and visitors had grown scarcer and scarcer during the past fortnight. Dozens of times he’d tried to dismiss his suspicions, but dozens of other times those suspicions had returned to the charge.

He’d spent all the previous week in this state, apart from Thursday evening, after the TV news. But the reassurance this had brought didn’t last long. It had been succeeded by more of those almost deaf and dumb days spent staring at all the telephones on his desk, at all those buttons and lights, at his secretary slinking in for instructions. He’d kept telling himself, “I’m still a minister, damn it!” Nothing had changed. The guards were still there in the ante-room, and then his aides, his assistants, and a whole lot of departmental heads all waiting to do his bidding, just as before…But he knew very well that it wasn’t really like that. Things were different…There’d been a change …He couldn’t have said exactly what it was, but he had the feeling nothing was as it had been.

He’d wondered more than once if he was suffering from some psychological illness, but realized he wasn’t being honest with himself. He’d have been only too glad if it were all the result of a disordered brain. Unfortunately he knew it wasn’t.

He was looking rather drawn, but that could happen to anyone. What he didn’t like was the sound of his voice — it sounded strained, and he was afraid this might give the game away to others. He had tried to disguise the change, to deepen his voice when he spoke, but he couldn’t keep it up for long. At the most it worked on the telephone. He really couldn’t reconcile himself to the change in his voice — it was as if that were the source of all his woes. In his attempts to improve matters he’d done things he’d never have dreamed of before: for instance, he drunk water straight out of the refrigerator in the hope that it would make him hoarse. But to his intense irritation, it didn’t work. His throat, once so sensitive to damp and cold, was unaffected.

His mood changed from frenzy to self-pity, then to a phase of comparative calm. He managed to convince himself nothing had happened, and even if it had, the trouble would soon be over. He’d been in this kind of mood when Simon Dersha rang up. He’d placed him at once, because he was connected with the evening of that other, that fateful phone call. The minister was ashamed of himself now — he even tried to hide from himself the fact that he, a member both of the government and of the Politbureau, had been glad to receive a phone call from so insignificant an individual But he’d enjoyed his lunch, afterwards, more than he had for a long time.

‘I’ll make you a coffee,” his wife had said when they’d finished.

Then he’d gone to his room to lie down, but he couldn’t sleep. However, he couldn’t help feeling slightly better — though only slightly, and the improvement was tinged with bitterness. He’d been put out at the previous lack of phone calls, and this one gave some cause for satisfaction. The man who’d made it was neither a bumpkin nor one of his own entourage. He worked in a ministry, and it was a well-known fact that people like that were good at sniffing out… the minister wouldn’t let himself think the word “changes”. Yes, when it came to…that sort of thing, that sort of man was the first to know.

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!

That cursed conversation! He’d never have dreamed a chat could cost so dear. Why on earth hadn’t he owned up to it at the time, directly after the break with Yugoslavia, when all members of the Party were asked to report what they’d talked to the Yugoslavs about? “One day, comrades, I too, fool that I was, impelled by jealousy, that survival from the world of the bourgeoisie, told them how frustrated I felt when X was appointed instead of me to post Y…” That would have done it…

“You seem very thoughtful,” said Zhou. “The play seems to have made a great impression on you. I see it’s not only Shakespeare who can set your head in a whirl!”

And they’d gone on talking about surrounding a Party committee, about the Party in general, and about how urgently necessary it was to overhaul it.

Later on, when he was back home from his trip to China, what Zhou had said still remained on his mind — though he didn’t know whether to call it a piece of advice, a suggestion or an order. He didn’t ha^e a word for it in Albanian. In his imagination it was like a snake coiled up inside him, which stirred whenever he got a phone call from the Central Committee, especially one that summoned him to a meeting. What did they think he was, a minister or a bus driver, ringing for him every time it suited them?

Even so, he would never have followed up his talk with Zhou, never have dared to do anything, symbolic or otherwise, if, some time later, the Chinese prime minister hadn’t sent him greetings through a member of a government delegation.

Relations with China were not so warm as they had been. One evening, at an official dinner at the Brigades Palace, the Chinaman sitting next to him, and to whom he’d so far paid no attention started to talk to him in broken Albanian.

“Comrade Zhou Enlai sends you his best wishes. Comrade Zhou Enlai still thinks of you. You went to the theatre, magnificent. wasn’t it?” said the Chinaman, with a high-pitched laugh that had nothing to do with what he was saying. He went on, more and more openly, his words sounding now like a message and now more like a menace.

“The moment comrade Zhou Enlai spoke about is coming. The test, hee-hee! Everyone must do somethings. Can’t just wait for it to fall in lap, hee-hee! Difficult times ahead, hee-hee!”

The minister’s fork was suspended in mid-air. He had lost his appetite. So nothing had been forgotten! The day of reckoning was apparently at hand, and they were explicitly letting him know what was expected of him. He looked round at the faces of the other guests, trying to guess which of them had been given a similar message. At one point he had the impression that all the tables were full of giggling Chinamen. I must act before it’s too late, he thought — do something, even if it’s only symbolic, to keep them quiet. A sort of consideration, the price of their silence about the Soviets and the Yugoslavs. Something symbolic: the Party secretary dragged across the stage, tanks surrounding a district Party committee…Afterwards, if there really was an upheaval, as Zhou Enlai had said…Bet for the moment, the symbolic act would do…They were on the eve of some manoeuvres…

“How is comrade Enver?” asked the Chinaman. “Not too well, eh?”

The minister’s mouth was full of dust and ashes. If only the blasted dinner would end! But his anxiety lasted several more weeks, until the cold afternoon when he finally gave the order to encircle the Party committee.

All the rest of that afternoon he’d felt completely disorientated, pacing back and forth in his tent, peering out now and then and scanning the plain for a messenger. The messenger arrived at nightfall The order hadn’t been carried out. He didn’t let anyone see how shocked he was, stepping back into the tent to conceal his dismay. He wouldn’t listen to any explanations of this act of disobedience — he just pretended not to understand, and kept shouting, “Arrest them! Arrest them!” As he did so he told himself the best thing would be to settle the matter there and then so that no one would know about it, so that the fact that the order was given would be forgotten, today, tomorrow and until the end of time. But it was too late. All he could do now was simulate an anger he didn’t feel, because fear left no room for wrath. So whenever anyone opened his mouth to try to offer some explanation of how the officers accounted for their behaviour, he cut them short, shouting, “I don’t want to know! I don’t want to know!”

And he didn’t want to know, either. His only desire was for the matter to be buried in oblivion as fast as possible. That blasted suggestion of Zhou’s! Why had he let him pour that poison in his ear? What he had done struck him sometimes as fatal, sometimes as merely premature. His days became full of chill terror. He realized the affair wasn’t going to die of its own accord. The officers themselves had talked to various people. If they weren’t punished they’d probably talk to some more. By some means or other they had to be silenced. One way of intimidating them was to have them expelled from the Party; and he managed that without any difficulty.’But apparently, after they were expelled, they wrote a letter to Enver Hoxha. That was what the phone call had been about, the evening of the dinner. The minister hadn’t slept a wink all that night. He was obviously going to have to explain himself to the Central Committee. But one of his staff convinced him that what the officers had said about him might easily be interpreted as subversion, as propaganda against authority. So in his report to the Committee he maintained that the officers’ behaviour infringed the laws of the Republic, A fortnight later, at the Central Committee, when someone asked what measures were going to be taken against the officers, the reply was brief: “If they’ve broken the law, let the usual measures be taken.” The minister rubbed his hands. So the Central Committee wouldn’t get drawn into details about the officers’ fate? Well, he knew very well what to do with them! He slept soundly that night, the first time for ages. Then he began to wonder: should he send the officers to prison, or leave them unpunished? To tell the truth, he would have swallowed his resentment and let the matter drop if he hadn’t been afraid they’d start talking again. No, prison was safest. His aides agreed with him. One of them suggested it would be best if they were dismissed from the army first, so that their arrest would seem purely political.

The minister had imagined that after the tank officers were arrested his peace of mind would be restored once and for all But on the contrary. It was then that he started to notice the long silences of the telephone and the lack of visitors. Sometimes he put all this down to the current cooling off of relations with China, which was a general preoccupation then. The very name of China sent a chill down his spine. Great’ changes were in the offing, though there was nothing definite yet. Perhaps it would start with economic retaliation?

The silences of the telephone seemed to get longer every day. What’s going on? he wondered. I’m still a minister. No one has criticized me. What have I got to worry about? He dismissed the situation as absurd, grotesque. But after a while the clouds of uncertainty gathered again. Rumour spreads by word of mouth, Zhou Enlai had said: it was as influential in a country’s affairs as the newspapers. If Zhou had encouraged the episode of the encirclement just in order to start such a rumour, it must be because he believed in it. And if he was right to do so, if rumour really was as strong as all that, the lack of phone calls and the absence of visitors was only too comprehensible. The rumour would have told how the minister had ordered the Party committee to be surrounded, how the tanks had refused to obey the order and been thrown in jail for insubordination — and would have ended by asking, Was the order justified? That was quite enough to make people shun him like the plague. No need to arrange for critical articles to appear in the papers, or to dismiss him from his post, and so on, Rumour — curse it! — was more powerful than all of these. He’d sent for the head of army intelligence and asked what he knew about the rumour. The answer took him aback. “We know nothing about anything of the kind, comrade minister.” He’d started to laugh with relief, there and thee, in front of the head of intelligence. Then his laughter changed to a grim smile at his own gullibility. No, what was causing his anxiety was not a rumour in the ordinary sense of the word, but something more subtle, nameless, and all the more pernicious because it was imperceptible. Something that seeped into everything, everywhere, like the air.

Where had it started? Whose mouths had uttered it first? And in what office, institution or mysterious ante-chamber? The most depressing possibilities occurred to him.

The minister had spent the last two months in this state. Meanwhile the Chinese had done nothing. Everything seemed to be paralysed, I did what I could, he explained in an imaginary conversation with Zhou Enlai. I tried to encircle a Party committee with tanks, but it turned out to be impossible. I was lucky to escape with my life. We don’t go in for that sort of thing here, you know. We don’t harm the Party even symbolically, as you suggested — so you can imagine how feasible it is in reality! They’d smash you to smithereens! Smithereens! Ask me to do the most horrible thing you can think of, but not that! Not that, ever!

The television- news on Thursday had reassured him somewhat. It’ll pass, he thought. The phones will ring again, the door-bell will be heard once more. That was what he was thinking when the phone actually rang. It was the clerk. No guest was ever awaited so eagerly. The minister had tried to take an afternoon nap, but he couldn’t sleep. As soon as he got up, his wife asked him:

“Would you like a cup of coffee?’’

At first he thought he’d wait and have one with the visitor, then he said yes please. If the visitor came, he could always have another with him…If the visitor came? How could he doubt it? It was unthinkable that he shouldn’t turn up.

The doubt lingered until Simon Dersha appeared. But then Simon Dersha vanished again beyond the railings.

The minister stood at one of the drawing-room windows. The trees stood outside — massive, dark, indifferent. Once or twice he imagined himself hastily ringing for his bodyguard and his chauffeur, diving into his car as it emerged from the garage, and hurtling along the street after his quarry. The man would try to get away, but he would stop him, clutch him by the sleeve and say tearfully, “What came over you, going away like that? Why are you tormenting me too, as if all my other troubles weren’t enough?”

That is what he imagined, staring out at the garden, with the drops of rain from this afternoon’s downpour still hanging from the branches and reflecting some invisible source of light. Thee he reached out and rang the bell, and did all the other things he’d imagined. But slowly.

As the car was driving out through the gate and the chauffeur asked where he was to go, the minister said:

“Just drive around."

They were soon in a main street where the pavements were crowded with people. To the minister they looked at once hostile and unpredictable. Who knew what was inside those heads? What thoughts did they emit? What terrifying rumours?

As he gazed at the anonymous faces he began to be afraid. They were probably thinking of China, and of him. What would become of him? What verdict would they pronounce?

Somewhere amongst them must be his guest. He wanted to find him and whisper, “Oh ghost, oh phantom, why did you disappear?”

He sighed and looked again at the passers-by. Some of them stared at his car with a grim expression that seemed to him tinged with irony. What if the Chinese had betrayed him? he thought suddenly. What if they’d sacrificed him to some temporary arrangement? But this thought was pushed aside by the crowds in the street: he felt somehow that they held his fate in their hands, and that if only the sound they made, the rumour they spread, were to stop, he would be saved. Otherwise it would gradually rise to the highest authorities, and that would be the end of him. So he was dependent on their silence. But was that asking too much? After all, what had he done wrong, for heaven’s sake? He’d tried to organize some manoeuvres, a mock military operation …A surge of hatred for this merciless mob swept over him, together with the self-pity and resentment generated by humiliation. He felt like getting out of the car, kneeling down in front of the crowd, beating his breast and crying: “Don’t be angry with me — I swear! wasn’t trying to do anything real! It was just an exercise, pure make-believe! Don’t soldiers themselves talk of the war game?”

At the same moment, Simon Dersha was walking along amid the crowds on the pavement. Now he’d left the district where the minister lived he felt calmer, though whenever he glimpsed a black limousine he dodged behind the nearest passers-by in case it had the minister inside, scanning the street to find him: “Hi, Simon — where are you off to? You’re supposed to be coming to see me — you phoned up yourself! Jump in and 111 drive you home with me!”

When Simon reached his flat he found the family as he had left them. Waiting to see how he’d got on. They could tell at once that he’d failed.

“Well,” said his wife, breaking the silence, “Wasn’t it any good?… What happened?”

He shrugged as if to say, That’s the way it is. If only they didn’t badger him for explanations

“Oh God, what a mess we’re in!” groaned his brother, burying his head in his hands.

Simon glanced at him. He felt like saying: You should talk — it was you who sowed this doubt in my mind!

“But what happened?” repeated his wife, “Didn’t he listen to you at all? isn’t there any hope?”

Simon shook his head,

“I never heard of such a thing!” his wife exclaimed angrily. “Everybody gets their friends to put in a good word — one hears of cases all the time — but when you try to do it it doesn’t work!”

“I couldn’t help it …It didn’t just depend on me!”

“It did depend partly on you! But you made a mess of it! You’re an idiot!”

“What?”

“Yes, an idiot! You always have been.”

“You have the nerve to say that!”

Simon had turned pale.

“Stop squabbling!” said his brother. “It’s bad enough without that…”

Simon had no desire to make things worse, and it took him only a few moments to forget the insult. It was all for the best, really. His wife’s wrath had got him out of having to give explanations.

“Could I have a cup of coffee, please?” he said, to show he hadn’t taken offence.

“Didn’t he even offer you a coffee?” exploded his wife. Bet her brother-in-law gave her a reproachful look, and she got up and put the coffee on,

“We’re sorry,”said Benjamin, “We’ve got you into trouble now. But it isn’t your fault — you can’t help it.”

“No, I can’t,” said Simon.

For a few minutes the room was silent, except for the sounds of coffee being prepared.

“So what are we going to do now?” sighed Benjamin’s wife.

“What are we going to do?” said her husband, “We’re going to try again.”

The conversation that followed was much the same as the discussion the day before. To Simon if felt like a mere continuation, as if his failed attempt to see the minister had been only a dream.

They talked about the various subterfuges people resorted to in order to get out of being posted, and how, if they were, they took care not to lease an apartment in the provinces for fear of losing the one they had in Tirana.

“When were these rales introduced?” asked Benjamin. “They’re so pernickety they might be Chinese…”

“Do you really think so?” said his wife,

“Don’t you?”

“No…Posting has always been common practice,’

“Not by rotation, like this.”

“You ought to be glad if the rules are Chinese,” said Simon’s wife. “At least that means they might be abolished after the Chinese themselves go,”

“I doubt it.”

“Why?”

“Weeds aren’t uprooted so easily.”

“You think not?”

Simon sipped his coffee and watched them. He took no part in the conversation. Their voices seemed to reach him faintly, as from far away. They were talking about sham separations between husbands and wives, and in their attitude to these subterfuges there was no trace of disapproval. In their view these people had no choice, so they couldn’t be called immoral. Anyhow, some of them got married to one another again, so what was all the fuss about? Even in the ordinary way, a lot of couples got divorced and then remarried — some of them three times! — and nobody threw up their hands. So why be more severe on people posted to the provinces? They were only human, just like everybody else. If there was a mother-in-law to complicate the situation, that didn’t make any difference. In a way it made it better, because then the husband could come home without any concealment, on the pretext of visiting his mother.

Yes, all this applied to their present situation, thought Simon. And as he’d foreseen, it wasn’t long till his brother and sister-in-law started talking about their own divorce. And to tell the truth, that wouldn’t be an irreparable misfortune, as he’d thought to begin with. Naturally, it would upset their friends and relations, but that was nothing compared with the possibility of his mother coming to live here! Ugh! That was to be avoided at all costs! Their mother only had to go on occupying a room in what would then be her daughter-in-law’s apartment, and, even if there were children, morals would be preserved. Apart from the fact that Benjamin would officially be separated from his wife, nothing would really have changed.

For the first time, Simon felt slightly relieved. But he was in no hurry to say he approved of this solution. The longer he put off doing so, the longer they’d remember that it wasn’t his idea, and that he’d only accepted it because there was no alternative. He remained silent. They kept looking at him. Finally his wife could bear it no longer.

“Well, Simon, what do you think?”

He frowned, looked thoughtfully out of the window, and said to no one in particular:

“Well, we must do something…We’ll have to see.”

This was vague indeed, but it was enough to convey to the others that he wouldn’t oppose their plan.