The Concert (25 page)

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.