The Concert Read Online Free Page A

Revolution!
    Silva remembered it very well It was a winter afternoon: it looked as if it was going to snow. All Tirana was in a high state of excitement; no one could talk about anything except the play. People were feverishly getting ready to go to the theatre; telephones kept ringing. Was the opening really going to take place this evening? - there was talk of cancellation… Then the theatre itself, and more discussions with friends in the cloakrooms. It was rumoured that the Chinese had tried to have the production suspended (Chekhov, like Shakespeare, was banned in China), and some officials at the Ministry of Education and Culture were on their side. Nevertheless, to the satisfaction of everyone there, the performance did take place…
    But ever since thee, Sonia herself had pointed out last eight, it had been evident that our ideas were diverging from those of the Chinese, If I had my way, Gjergj’s youngest sister had put in, we’d break with them altogether — I can’t stand the sight of them! It’s not as simple as that, answered one of the men; and what they look like has got nothing to do with it…I agree, said another: I think it’s shocking the way so many people have started looking down on them. There’s no denying they’re a great people with a marvellous culture…Yes, indeed! was the reply, but, say what you like, China will always be an enigma. Zhou Enlai once said that if you want to understand Chinese politics you should go and see the Peking Theatre…But that’s full of incomprehensible symbols, monkeys and snakes and dragons …!
    Silva started to clear the table, as if she were trying to get rid of the remains of the argument too. She soon disposed of part of the débris, but when she came to Arian’s plate she felt another qualm at the sight of his helping of roast meat, with scarcely a mouthful missing. “Oh, I do hope he manages to get out of this scrape all right!” she thought.
    The familiar sound of water running into the kitchen sink cheered her up a bit. She had started automatically on the washing up. Then it struck her this was an idiotic thing to do at half-past four in the morning, and she left it.
    By now she was feeling cold again. She buttoned up her cardigan. The kitchen windows too were covered with frost. It must be well below zero, she thought. Thee she suddenly remembered the lemon tree that had been delivered the previous afternoon, and what the man from the nursery had said: If there’s a frost you must cover it up, otherwise it can shrivel up in a single night, It seemed crazy to think of going out on the balcony in this temperature, yet as she switched the hall light off and made to enter her bedroom, she paused. After all, why not? It wouldn’t take long to go and cover up a little plant. She went on into the bedroom, opened the cupboard over the wardrobe, and felt around for a big cellophane bag she’d stowed away there at the end of the summer. Here we are, she exclaimed, tugging at it. Then she remembered that it was full of clothes, the kind of thing you probably won’t ever wear again but can’t bring yourself to throw away. With some annoyance she started to pull the things out of the bag. There were frocks and blouses that Brikena had grown out of; a loose jersey dress that Silva herself had worn when she was pregnant; bits of lace; skeins of embroidery thread; different-coloured balls of wool; scraps of knitted sweaters started and left unfinished; and various half-forgotten frills and flounces made of materials pleasant to the touch and triggering off vague memories.
    Silva tipped them all out on to the carpet, meaning to put them away later in the day, then, throwing a coat round her shoulders, went out through the French window on to the balcony.
    It really was very cold, and the pale yellow light of the moon, together with the utter silence, made it seem colder still The wan