The Concert

by Ismail Kadare

  “Don’t take what I say too hard, Lin Hen. I can’t help it either. My nerves are in shreds.”

  “Do you think mine are any better?”

  “Perhaps not…But still…” — one hand was unbuttoning his shirt — “… you haven’t got marks like these on your body. Do you see these scars?” He was almost shouting now. “I’ve had them since the days when ‘a hundred flowers were blooming,' when like a fool I thought the hour of the right had come. And do you see this other mark, under my breast? That’s a souvenir of the next hour that came, the hour of the left, when in order to wipe out the memory of the hour of the right I tried to be more to the left than necessary, and went to a meeting and stuck a picture of Mao into my own chest.”

  He drank a few sips of tea, then went on more slowly and thoughtfully.

  “I got blood-poisoning,, and barely escaped with my life. Because the infection itself was nothing compared to the suffering I had to endure in hospital. My wound became a bone of contention. The staff was divided in two, one group maintaining my wound was an ordinary injury that required normal treatment, their opponents claiming that Mao’s picture could be a source of infection, and that I’d injured myself deliberately so as to discredit him. These arguments took place across my bed, where they kept putting on and taking off my bandages according to which party was in charge, and needless to say the debaters soon came to blows. The hospital became a battlefield. I had a raging fever and long periods of delirium, but what I saw in my lucid intervals was even worse than the scenes in my nightmares. Each of the two competing sides got the upper hand alternately. When the right were in the ascendant, the barefoot doctors were beaten to a jelly and their popular remedies trampled underfoot or thrown out of the window. Bet not for long. When everyone least expected it, the tide of battle would turn and the left be on top again. Thee - I still shudder at the thought of it - they would tear off my bandages and call a meeting to examine the prescriptions of their predecessors for detecting implications hostile to Chairman Mao. The following week there would be another reversal, and the doctors of the right, whom their opponents, after giving them a suitable thrashing, had set to cleaning the toilets, emerged once more in their white coats. And so on…And all the time I was getting worse …I shall never forget it as long as I live! That’s why even now my hair stands on end whenever I hear the words 'left’ and ‘right’. You see, Lin Hen, I have seen hell with my own eyes, and that’s why I don’t, why I won’t…!”

  His friend looked at him sympathetically, but with eyes still cool and severe.

  “I understand all that. Nevertheless, the hour of the right has come, Vun Fu. In fact, the things you’ve just told me about are so many warning signs.”

  “How can you still believe that?” said the other, buttoning his shirt up slowly, as if wanting his scars to be seen one last time.

  “They’re going to allow private shops and reopen the churches,’ said the other.

  Autumn in Peking

  A flock of wild geese rises into the sky.

  The last golds of autumn are dimmed for ever.

  Winter approaches bearing cold and frost.

  Its dreary greys, and a plenum to liven it up…

  The datsibaos in Peking on a rainy day. The long wall covered with dozens of posters fluttering in the wind. Dreariness by the mile. Bits of rain-soaked paper full of thousands, millions of horrible insults. Genuine anti-autumn!

  AND YET…I have to write this in capital letters. And not just once, but over and over, three, three hundred times. And yet. And yet. And yet…

  And yet, yes, they’re a great people, and it would be small-minded not to bear witness to that in these notes. Though they make up only a quarter of the human race, the Chinese have probably endured half of all its sufferings. If anyone ever wrote a History of Hunger, the Chinese would be the main characters. The immense poverty, the immense hunger, the immense backwardness of an old world. The strength that could change all that must have been immense too.

  The Chinese have had that strength. You’d have to be insane or reactionary not to admit it. They demolished that old world, and the dust from its ruins now floats over their country. On the one hand are the ravings of the Cultural Revolution, on the other the ancient ghosts, in what immemorial archives did they find the model for their current relations with us? From what imperial chancelleries did they derive these factional struggles for power, the icy guides and officials who separate us like a wall from the ordinary people?

  And yet. And yet. And yet…Strange — I think I’m going to miss this country.

  12

  SKENDER BERMEMA PUSHED his notes aside and rubbed his aching forehead. He found it hard to turn away from one last manuscript, though. Should he read it or not?

  He’d dashed it off in three nights in a dreary hotel in Chang Ha, on the basis of an incident he’d been told about. Now he was as curious to see what he’d made of the story as if someone else had written it.

  And his eyes had started to read it without waiting for him to make up his mind:

  SPIRITUALIST SESSION IN THE TOWN OF N —.

  SYNOPSIS FOE STORY.

  1

  The little boat dropped anchor in the river port at N—, just to unload a few crates marked “Insecticide” in black letters. It was late on a cold September afternoon, and by the time the boat had plunged back into the mist, the crates, together with the two men who seemed to be guarding them, were on a Xin Fu track driving hell-for-leather towards the town centre. Later, when a lot of people claimed they could dimly remember that distant afternoon, they found it difficult to specify any details. As a matter of fact, apart from the man in charge of the little port and his two clerks, no one had witnessed the unloading of the crates from the boat or their swift loading on to the lorry. And not even the men in the port had been in a position to notice the strange fact that the Xin Fu truck, instead of pulling up outside some farm commune or municipal office or depot for hotel supplies, had disappeared into the yard at the back of the Department of Public Safety.

  It seemed to be expected. No sooner had they seen the door of the truck fly open than Tchan, the director, and his assistants rushed over. From the way they all bowed, it was clear that the men guarding the crates were extremely important.

  “We would have come to the port to meet you, but we were instructed …by wire…”

  “I know,” interrupted one of the new arrivals coldly, “Is everyone here who ought to be here?”

  “Yes, indeed.”

  “Let’s get them all together, then,” said the other, leading the way to the entrance. “I have a few words to say.”

  Sitting round the table in the director’s office, the local officials gazed at the stern-faced envoys from the capital with a mixture of respect, uncertainty and terror.

  “As you may imagine, we’ve been sent here by the Zhongnamhai, the General Bureau - in other words, directly by Chairman Mao,”

  “As you may know,” said the other envoy, “the Zhongmanhai,despite its unpretentious name, occupies a special place: outside the Party, outside the state, outside the army, and outside yourselves. And in this context, ‘outside’ means ‘above’. The Zhongmanbai is above everyone because it’s the instrument of Chairman Mao, an extension of his hand and mind.”

  He paused for a moment, half-closing his eyes, as if not wanting anyone to meet his gaze and distract his thoughts.

  “More than once,” he went on gravely, “our enemies have tried to infiltrate the Bureau in order to encourage hostile tendencies. They’ve tried to draw our people into foreign plots, they’ve slandered us, asked for the Zhongnanbai to be abolished, but the Chairman has always defended us. He has defended us because we are blood of his blood, flesh of his flesh.”

  He suddenly banged his fist on the table, making the others jump.

  “Now Chairman Mao, our great helmsman, wishes to have at his disposal direct and accurate information from all over our great country, unmodif
ied by any intermediary. And that’s why, from today on, he’s going to sow, to distribute these…”

  He gestured at the crates, which he’d had deposited at their feet.

  “These microphones, which we’ve brought here today in those crates, are his ears…”

  There was a pause.

  “Do you see?” he went on. “So long as these ears hear properly, China will have nothing to fear. But if they get stopped up, China will be lost. That is the message we are bringing you today.”

  The others were still stunned by what they’d just heard. Ever since they’d been told that mysterious envoys from the capital would be coming to see them, bringing crates containing secret equipment, they’d imagined this would be something very out-of-the-way, and they were dying to know what it was. Though the crates were marked “Insecticide”, they’d expected them to contain special weapons - explosives, new kinds of hand-guns, tear-gas or electric truncheons. The idea of microphones had never entered their heads.

  “Qietingqi, qietingqi” they muttered to themselves, as if repeating the name of the things would make them seem more real. Now they understood why some electrical engineers had been told to come here today too. Up till a few minutes ago they’d been looking down their noses at these eggheads. Now they began to treat them more affably.

  So the boxes were full of mikes. The ears of Chairman Mao. Hundreds of thousands of them. God alone knew how many, installed all over China …They felt the first faint stirrings of delight.

  The other envoy then described the workings of these devices, and how they were to be installed. He spoke very quietly, as if through one of the microphones he’d been working with so long.

  As he spoke, the two electrical engineers made notes. The visitor first told them the crates contained various kinds of microphones: fixed ones, portable ones, and very small ones for attaching secretly to a suspect’s clothes. Then he instructed them in the various ways of setting them all up, in connecting and disconnecting them (the envoy used the words “sowing” and “harvesting”), in remote control, in the treatment and editing of tapes.

  While the engineers scribbled feverishly, Tchan and the others listened open-mouthed. No one noticed that, outside, night had fallen long ago. A dismal night, wet and windy.

  2

  The same night, Van Mey, a citizen of N—, hobbled along the Street of the Red East on the way to see some friends. The street lanterns were few and far between, and blowing about in the wind and rain. But if he was worried it wasn’t only because of the weather, or because, in the mist, the light from the lamps was dimmer and gloomier than usual The same thought kept going round and round in his head: it was incredible that on this night in late September, in the town of N—, in the People’s Socialist Republic of China, in the middle of the Cultural Revolution, he, citizen Van Mey, chemist in the laboratory at Factory No.4, member of the unions, praised for his zeal in studying the thoughts of Chairman Mao and his speeches at meetings held to denounce Liu Shaoshi, the liberalism of Deng Xiaoping, the idealism of Confucius, the four mysticisms, the seven demons of the country, and so on - that he of all people should have left home and gone out in order to take part in a spiritualist séance.

  And on a night like this into the bargain! It might have been specially ordered!

  A week or so ago a couple of his friends had given him a great surprise. For years they’d all been moaning and groaning about the boring life they led - a life without one heart-warming element, without restaurants, without traditional customs, without even the chance to flirt with a pretty woman; a life of chaff without wheat, insipid as canteen rice without salt or garnish; a life in which even fear was ugly, and anguish dry and calculated, nothing like the good old terror that used to be inspired by ghosts and spirits…Well, a couple of weeks ago these two pals of his had told him they’d organized a spiritualist séance.

  Were they making fun of him? Could such a relic really still be found on Chinese soil? Even when they swore it was true, and said the medium they’d managed to find was only waiting to be told when they wanted to meet, Van Mey still couldn’t bring himself to believe them. Were they sure this man was to be trusted? That he wasn’t an agent provocateur, trying to lure them into disaster? Heavens, no, said Van Mey’s friends. Safe as houses.

  And now here he was on his way to throw down the biggest possible challenge to that existence made up of meetings, slogans, quotations, empty phrases, hate and sterility. He was ready to swap the whole lot for a twinge of genuine old-fashioned terror.

  He was drenched by the time he got to his friend’s house. He knocked at the door and went in. Both his pals were waiting for him. As was the medium. He was pasty-faced, with a flaccid skin, hair plastered down on his skull, and big bags under his eyes. Well, he doesn’t look like an agent provocateur thought Van Mey. He’s the old China all over.

  The room was small and sparsely furnished: a plain wooden table, a few glasses, a thermos flask, and the inevitable anthology of quotations from Mao. The medium’s eyes seemed to be looking inward, not seeing anything in the external world. Nobody said much. The host poured tea from the thermos flask into the glasses.

  “Well, Tchai Chang,” he said, smiling rather guiltily at the medium, “we’ve arranged this gathering…and we’re eternally grateful to you for making such a thing possible in this day and age…”

  The medium listened impassively. Perhaps he had his doubts too: might they be pro-Pocateurs trying to lure him into a trap?

  “I’ve got some candles — you said we’d need them,” said the host. “I don’t know if you want anything else…”

  The medium glanced at the uncurtained windows.

  “Oh, I get you… someone might see …And we’d need some reason for using candles instead of electric light. I thought about that. We’ll take the fuses out of the box, so that even if someone comes and knocks on the door…But I shouldn’t think they will It’s late, and in this weather…”

  “No, there’s no danger,” said Van Mey’s other friend. “Even if some nosey parker did look in, he’d only see four people talking in the light of a couple of candles because there’s been a power failure.”

  “And the windows are streaming with rain,” added their host. “It would be practically impossible to see in…What should we do now, Tchai Chang? You only have to say. We’re at your service.”

  The medium nodded towards the naked light bulb hanging from the ceiling, and spoke for the first time.

  “Take out the fuses, as you said.”

  His voice was normal, and less mysterious than Van Mey had expected.

  Their host got two candles from the sideboard, lit them, and went out into the hall A few seconds later the whole apartment went black, until people’s eyes got used to the candlelight.

  As they all looked at one another. Van Mey felt as if the iickering of the candle flames was communicating itself to his whole being.

  “You are going to concentrate, concentrate very hard, and think about the person whose spirit you want to summon here tonight,” said the medium, looking round at them all “I can only make him come back with your help.”

  “What?” said the host. “We hadn’t actually thought of anybody in particular…”

  “You mean yoe haven’t chosen the dead person you want to speak to?”

  They looked at one another,

  “Well, I suppose…I suppose we could choose someone now …Sorry, Tchaï Chang — we were so excited we didn’t think about details …Does it matter if we decide now? Is it allowed?”

  “Yes. It’s quite possible,” said the medium.

  “No problem then. There are several dead people whose voice we’d like to hear. But the one we’d probably all choose first is Qan Shen, our dear Qan Shen, whose death caused us such sorrow and left such a void. What do you think, Van Mey?”

  Van Mey had nodded in agreement even while their host was still speaking. Who else should it be but Qan Shen, with whom they’d had s
o many quiet chats until his sudden death the previous year? Van Mey’s grief was still quite evident.

  “Especially as he died…in such suspicious circumstances…”

  Van Mey wondered if they’d be able to question Qan Shen about his death. Brr — a chill ran down his spine at the mere thought.

  “And hell really come, and we’ll be able to communicate with him?”

  “I think so,’ replied the medium, “It depends on you. And on me too, of course.”

  “Forgive our ignorance, Tchaï Chang,” said the host, “but may I ask you if it’s true, as I’ve heard, that sometimes one can not only hear the dead person’s voice but also see something of them? Excuse me if that’s a silly question.”

  “Yes, it is possible to see the dead person,” the medium answered. “But not usually at the very first séance, and of course not completely. What you might see is a sort of ghost of his hand or face or some other part of his body — a vague image, rather like an X-ray photograph…”

  “Of course,’ said the host in a quavering voice. “Of course…That’s a great deal, anyway… And what are we going to do now?”

  “We’re going to begin,” said the medium.

  What happened next Van Mey could never remember as a whole, but only in fragments that didn’t seem to belong in the same space and time. Perhaps this was due to the flickering light of the candles, or the rain streaming down outside, or the silence into which they poured their unspoken appeal to the dead man. “Qan Shen, it’s we, your bereaved friends, who are calling you from the depths of our grief. We can’t forget yoe…” Perhaps it was all those things together that blurred the outlines of everything so much at the time that Van Mey’s memory couldn’t join them together later.

  His eyes were riveted on the medium’s face: the life seemed to drain out of it, leaving a mere mask. But as his face froze, his chest rose and fell in ever greater agitation until his breath came in one long groan, punctuated every now and then by a sort of stifled death rattle. He had entered into a trance. You could tell that all his strength was being beet to the task of summoning the spirit. It obviously wasn’t easy. Heaven knew what heights and depths his call had to travel through, not to mention the dark and the wind.