A Girl in Exile

by Ismail Kadare

  He fumbled nervously in his jacket’s right-hand pocket for the letter that she had placed on the pillow before she left their last meeting but one. ‘There’s a letter for you on the bed,’ she had whispered in his ear, before fleeing downstairs as if scared he might follow her. Who are you? Are you really my prince? These words had been scrawled in red ballpoint in the semi-darkness after their lovemaking. The question Who are you? was repeated at the end, with another question: And me, who am I?

  He longed not only to fold her in his arms, in the usual way of men throughout the world, whether in socialist republics, confederations, kingdoms or prince-bishoprics. He wanted to howl again and again as he had done by his bookshelves, among the streams, crags and chasms with those treacherous names.

  ‘Revolutionary Cuban theatre, under the teaching of Fidel Castro, is advancing towards new developments . . .’ What was that? He turned his head towards the now empty table where the Cuban cultural delegation had been sitting, astonished to hear their conversation again. Before he suspected himself of losing his wits, he saw the barman fiddle with the radio and turn down the volume.

  He motioned to the passing waiter and asked if this was still the radio programme about Cuban theatre. The waiter nodded. It was the same one. Day four.

  His mind returned to the girl.

  If she could ask him who he was, how had it not occurred to him to find out more about her? He had started on enigmas and anagrams but it struck him that he didn’t even know her surname. He had learned nothing from her but a little about her first sexual experience.

  ‘It was our gym teacher, as so often in schools. Two or three of us girls had been together since the third form. We thought we couldn’t say no because he was the only man who had seen us in our underwear . . . Only one of us, your Linda.’ ‘Who?’ ‘I told you once, that’s what her friends called her . . . So my girlfriend stood up to him. Not that she was a prude, not at all, but because she was different, in every way . . .’

  Idiot, he snorted to himself. What an idiot to listen to this sort of thing without caring. He reproached himself again but with less conviction, realising that without the summons to the Party Committee and all that followed he would have known nothing about this girl.

  He ordered another coffee and thought that the waiter was looking at him with increased respect. New customers had entered the bar. He tried to forget everything, at least for the duration of his second coffee. But this made matters worse. As he tried to forget the Artistic Board of the theatre, his mind still turned back to the girl.

  If I could just see her once more . . .

  What a cheap, superficial, semi-articulate idea without depth or mystery, not worthy of respect. He knew this and yet he repeated it: If I could just see her once more. Only once. He wasn’t sure if he would wail at her – Who are you? – or lovingly embrace her as he had in a time that now seemed so distant.

  Abruptly he stood up and went to the counter.

  ‘May I use the phone?’

  ‘Of course,’ the barman replied with unconcealed surprise.

  Rudian Stefa was surprised at himself. All Tirana knew that the phones in the Dajti were tapped, but this didn’t deter him. He dialled the investigator’s number carefully, pausing to ask himself what he was doing only when he had nearly finished. But this question, far from restraining him, had the opposite effect. ‘Hello, this is Rudian Stefa.’

  The voice down the wire sounded friendly. Distracted, Rudian imagined rather than listened to the investigator’s polite words, and tried to make it clear that he was not phoning to report anything. Perhaps this might be a disappointment, but he was phoning for no reason at all, just to extend an invitation for coffee.

  The investigator understood even before Rudian had said half of this and was quicker off the mark with his own invitation. Would he have time for a coffee?

  ‘I’d be delighted,’ Rudian replied. In some confusion he heard the man mention a place he didn’t call the cake shop, but ‘Café Flora’, as it had once been known before the ideological campaign against cafés.

  Rudian was struck less by the investigator’s friendly manner than by his total lack of professional inquisitiveness. He hadn’t expressed the slightest disappointment at Rudian’s ‘for no reason’. In fact he had almost welcomed it with relief.

  What am I letting myself in for? he asked himself as he passed the marble colonnade of the Palace of Culture, his mind dogged by the thought that he was going like a lamb to the slaughter. Passing the National Museum, he had even wondered aloud, ‘What are you doing?’ Was he attracted to a game that he liked to think was dangerous, but wasn’t really? He knew that none of this was for no reason, as he had tried to deceive himself a short time ago at the crossroads of Dibra Street from where Skanderbeg’s bronze horse loomed so grim in the distance. His mind was hazy, but he was aware what lay behind this mist: Migena. From afar, the red sign of Café Flora glinted perilously. Nobody in the world would find out what he might do to this girl. Protect her, or the contrary: hand her in. Even if he wanted to do one of these things, neither was possible. No doubt they knew everything about her. He was totally uninvolved in the case. That was why he was in no hurry and the investigator was so courteously indifferent.

  The windows of the café drew closer, and soon he would see his own wavering reflection in them. Perhaps everything was simpler than it seemed. He dimly remembered a story by Chekhov or Gogol in which a man stroked the neck of a horse and talked to it because he could not find a single human being with whom he could share his sorrow.

  It is like that, he thought as he pushed open the glass door. In this desert, he had found the only person who knew something about his infinite grief, and who might tell him something, or could perhaps help him find the girl again . . .

  Surely that was it, nothing else. He wanted her back with him, to rest his head on her lovely breasts and then on her stomach, and on the edge of that dark abyss where he might still find out things about her he was yet to discover.

  5

  THE INVESTIGATOR SAT waiting in the far right corner of the café, at what had been Rudian’s favourite table for years. Rudian stretched out his hand and was about to remark on the coincidence, but it occurred to him that it might be nothing of the sort. The investigator would know as well as he did where he liked to sit. As all Tirana knew, the Flora came second after the Dajti for microphones under the tables.

  The investigator’s smile provided a natural backdrop to their polite exchanges: how nice to see you, it’s my pleasure, perhaps I’m taking up your time, on the contrary, how delightful, particularly now that . . . Cuban theatre, under the teachings of Fidel Castro, has been very successful, especially when . . . why is that radio so loud . . . we need to take a break from routine sometimes . . . revoluthion, only revoluthion . . . excuse me, could you turn down that radio . . . ‘Would you like a coffee?’

  Instead of saying he had just drunk two, Rudian asked a question that he knew immediately was a mistake: ‘Are you busy these days?’

  ‘You might say so,’ the investigator replied quite naturally, discounting any possibility of having misinterpreted the question. ‘We’ve plenty to do,’ meaning waves of arrests, conspiracies. Watch out . . .

  Perhaps now the investigator would retaliate with his own irritating enquiry: How’s the writing going? Followed by that other fatal question: What are you working on at the moment?

  Rudian imagined his reply, that the Artistic Board was considering a play of his. He could add without flattery: I would rather it were in your hands than theirs. At least the investigators would give it their expert attention, looking for hostile catchphrases, counting the number of lines given to negative characters as against positive ones, looking at the fingerprints on the manuscript to find out if anyone suspicious had read it. All this would be preferable to the assessment by the Artistic Board, where for the third time the sticking point was an appearance of the partisan’s ghost at the end of
Act Two. Rudian had heard that the majority of the Board had not only insisted that socialist realism didn’t allow ghosts, but that the matter went deeper and had to do with some dangerous influences recently evident. Ugh . . .

  ‘There are problems in the theatre, like everywhere,’ Rudian said. ‘We heard just now on the radio about revolutionary theatre in Cuba.’

  ‘Really? I wasn’t listening,’ the investigator responded. ‘I was merely thinking of how the radio was bothering us.’

  ‘I know. Our theatre has invited a Cuban delegation on an official visit. These Cuban comrades told us that Fidel Castro spoke for six hours about issues in the Havana theatre.’

  ‘Really?’ the investigator said.

  ‘Can you imagine, six hours? Setting aside all the affairs of state. This business must be so complicated that . . .’

  The investigator looked at him blankly. ‘I go to the theatre and read as much as I can, but to tell the truth I’m not very clued up,’ he said slowly.

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘You are one of the few people from the arts whom I’ve had a chance to meet. On this occasion, unfortunately, for other reasons.’

  ‘I understand,’ Rudian said again, while thinking: Now, at last. The investigator was getting close to what Rudian had been waiting for with such impatience.

  Neither spoke a word for a long time. They sipped their coffees and Rudian was ready for a fourth, or even a fifth, until his temples thudded from caffeine, if only this man would speak.

  The investigator’s silence cut into Rudian’s very soul. They must learn these tricks at those academies of theirs, just as students at Migena’s art college picked up the techniques of the stage: long pauses, yawns that simulate indifference, coughs.

  ‘Some new play?’ he said at last, in that special bright tone reserved for hope for the future, and often used with visibly pregnant women you met in the street . . . Expecting a little one, are we?

  ‘Not yet,’ Rudian replied doubtfully. ‘In fact I have a play ready, but it’s still with the Artistic Board.’ It was hard to resist asking: Do you know why? You have forensic expertise, you deal in facts. You might not credit that it’s stuck there because of a ghost.

  ‘As I said, I’m fond of the theatre, especially – as you may imagine – when plays deal with subjects close to our work: investigations, conundrums . . .’

  Rudian barely contained a sigh. This was all he needed, after a six-hour speech by Fidel Castro: more wittering about the theatre. Apparently the investigator was not feigning ignorance, but this realisation, instead of reassuring him, merely drove him to despair. If the investigator had been pretending, he could be expected to open up, but now there was no hope he would talk frankly.

  Well, if the investigator was not going to start, Rudian himself would have to speak up first. He couldn’t care less if it was interpreted as impatience, or worse.

  He looked the man straight in the eye and said, ‘Thinking of what we talked about at the Party Committee . . . I haven’t found out anything new. Perhaps I’ve disappointed you—’

  ‘Not at all,’ the investigator butted in. ‘You made that quite clear on the phone. You said we would meet for no reason at all.’ There was amusement in his expression. ‘I wanted to say what a pleasure it is for me to have coffee with you. An unusual opportunity. My colleagues will be jealous.’

  Rudian kicked himself. You idiot. You got yourself into this mess. Let’s meet for coffee, for no reason. Then you complain when this man doesn’t open up.

  Now his temples were beating. He’d never drunk such strong coffee. Instead of listening to the investigator, his mind wandered to Caligula and the horse that he made consul. The emperor would whisper state secrets into the horse’s ear, about the affairs of Rome and conspiracies soon to be exposed, telling the animal which senators would be given orders to cut their veins on Tuesday night, and which on Wednesday, like that irritating dramatist Seneca. Let them be a lesson to everybody . . .

  ‘While we’re on the subject, how did that business go?’ Rudian asked, keeping his gaze steady.

  The investigator calmly returned his stare, but with a look of surprise, and asked what business he had in mind.

  ‘What we talked about at the Party Committee. The girl who killed herself.’

  ‘Ah, I see,’ the investigator said.

  ‘She came from an old bourgeois family close to the former royal court, if I’m not mistaken. You said that suicides of this sort are always treated with suspicion.’

  ‘Of course,’ the investigator said. ‘You’re quite right.’

  Quite right, Rudian repeated to himself. Then why the hell doesn’t he say something?

  ‘Investigations are still ongoing?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Investigations . . . of course. But nothing about Migena, her close friend, who went to and from Tirana for her, carrying books and messages, perhaps in code.

  Rudian looked sidelong at the investigator’s face. Clearly he didn’t like this turn in the conversation. Incredibly, their roles were now reversed. Any other investigator, pursuing a clue about a conspiracy or rebellion, about an Albanian Jan Palach, would have risen in the middle of the night from his bed, whether marital or solitary, to answer a witness’s phone call, and would have run through snow and rain, brimming over with gratitude, to fall to his knees in front of his informant. But this one was as silent as a mummy.

  His answers came slowly. He had no desire to pry. What a strange kind of investigator – nervous, even terrified of discovering anything.

  Rudian Stefa thrust his hands in his pockets to stop himself fidgeting. As always, this made him feel confident.

  ‘Please don’t get me wrong,’ he said in an icy voice. ‘I’m asking about this because it’s connected to one of my books, if you follow me. You summoned me to the Party Committee about this problem. I have a right to know. I’m not sure if you understand me.’

  ‘I see what you mean,’ the investigator replied.

  ‘And so?’

  Rudian wanted to ask why the other man had kept so silent and caused him such anxiety.

  The investigator studied him thoughtfully, unprepared for this sudden turn in the conversation. Rudian waited for an explanation before giving in to annoyance.

  He tried to think back to Caligula’s horse, or more precisely to the emperor himself, snorting as he remembered Seneca. He had tolerated that wayward playwright for long enough, with his irritating Greek influences. And now this writer was putting ghosts on the stage again. This was all Rome needed. It would be the ruin of the city. Caligula was not the sort to make six-hour speeches about the problems of the theatre. He would settle matters quickly. A centurion would knock that very night on the writer’s door. Seneca would not live to see the dawn.

  ‘You’re right to be worried,’ the investigator said quietly. ‘This case is still under investigation.’

  Dead before dawn, thought Rudian. What was that in Latin?

  Rudian watched the investigator attentively. Had his expression relaxed a little? Twice in the last year Rudian had been forced to stand up and make self-criticism for his hot temper, and he had no desire to do it again.

  ‘As for the suicide, we looked at the files and it turns out it had nothing to do with politics. The reasons were private and personal.’

  So the reasons were personal, thought Rudian. But strong enough to break the mainspring of her life.

  ‘I see,’ he said.

  ‘As for your book, it’s true that it was a striking piece of evidence. I don’t know if I told you that the girl also made notes about you in her diary.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Admiring comments and rather more than that. One might say she had tender feelings towards you.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘So there’s your answer.’ The investigator spread his arms and gave Rudian a curious look.

  ‘Strange . . .’ Rudian said in an uncertain voice.

>   ‘What do you mean, strange?’ the investigator asked. ‘You know better than I do that girls often have these feelings.’

  ‘It’s true, they often do. But a girl who is interned, from a family of this kind. I don’t think this happens often.’

  They fell silent, and both toyed nervously with their coffee cups.

  The appearance at the end of Act Two of the ghost of the partisan shot in the back by the edge of the marsh came again to his mind. For the last few days, Rudian had been brooding about him, considering him from different angles – favourable or not – trying to work out what impression he would create on the members of the Board as they read the script.

  ‘We still don’t know each other well,’ Rudian said. ‘But may I ask you a question that is, how shall I put it, direct – that is . . . awkward?’ The investigator’s eyes froze as he listened. ‘Am I under surveillance?’

  The investigator shivered.

  ‘No,’ he said curtly. ‘On my word of honour, although perhaps you won’t believe that someone in my profession has such a thing. On my word of honour, you’re not being watched in any way.’

  The investigator’s look was indecipherable, strangely downcast, and not at all triumphant. ‘I will try to explain,’ he said slowly. ‘I think you will understand me.’

  6

  AN HOUR LATER they were both still there. Each of them glanced repeatedly at his watch but neither wanted to go. As if honouring a pact, they had reverted to small talk, but the words the investigator had said a short time ago still ran through Rudian’s mind. This short discussion had confirmed certain things that he had long suspected. The investigators knew what he thought about Stalin, about the theatre and the ban on religion. They knew his acid jokes at the expense of Politburo members. He had no reason to be surprised at this or to think that the Party was going soft. His situation was unchanged, because, although it was never made explicit, there were two different yardsticks for the measurement of offences. An army officer or loyal communist would be sentenced to prison, if not shot, for the least criticism of Stalin, the ban on religion, or the Politburo. But for people like him, such opinions were not considered dangerous. A specific office analysed these matters over the years, like a laboratory comparing blood samples or X-rays. The office would ask: What do people think of Stalin? And the data would come in, showing the same reservations as two years ago. Religion: stable. Politburo: deteriorating. We’ve added the name of B.B. to our list. We thought he was above board because he’s an engineer, but he’s turned out to be just like the other idiots. In education, primary schools are doing rather better. There has been no criticism of the big chief.