It was not a soothing thought, and Gjergj relapsed once more into a morass of conjecture. If ever there was a gleam of light, it vanished before he could examine it… Had there been a miscalculation? Had the plan been thrown off course by the marshal’s question about where they were going? He must have looked anxiously at his watch. Recent anxieties and suspicions must have played their part. His nerves were bound to have been on edge. He must have asked himself a dozen times why he’d been summoned so urgently. And so, when there was no sign of Peking…
Or maybe none of all that happened at alclass="underline" he neither looked at his watch nor asked any questions. They could have just shot him as he drowsed in his seat. “If anything unforeseen happens, kill him on the plane…” But, to be on the safe side, the killers didn’t wait for any hitch. So it was all over sooner than expected, and inside the plane all was deathly silent. The murderers were now escorting the cooling corpse of their master, little knowing that they, as well as it, would soon be burned to ashes.
But you just said…What would have happened if…All right, all right, I know what you’re going to say. It’s a very curious scenario. So many complications. The most sensible approach was put forward by a senior official who suggested simply shooting the plane down with rockets. That would have dealt with the matter nicely. But according to official spokesmen the suggestion was made by one of the marshal’s own accomplices, in order to “destroy the evidence”! Evidence of what, if you please?…Oh, that’s enough! Gjergj imagined himself saying to Skënder Bermema as they sat in the Café Riviera.
Gjergj struggled to stay there. He saw in his mind’s eye the low seats by the misty plate-glass windows, the rain on the pavement outside, the slim figure of the waitress, who’d seemed even frailer to him after he heard she was living with a wrestler. Ever since he’d met Skënder Bermema they’d gone to the Riviera every so often to have a coffee together, usually sitting in the corner overlooking the airline offices. An anonymous letter had brought about the beginning of their relationship, several years ago. Gjergj had received the letter just after he and Silva got engaged. It was the usual sort of thing: Silva was a capricious young woman, pleasant enough as a mistress, no doubt, but most unsuitable as a wife. Both the Krasniqi sisters, the unknown writer went on, were very free in their ways (it was clear that, on second thoughts, the writer had used the word “free” instead of “loose” throughout). There were all sorts of rumours — some of them might be unfounded — about them: they were supposed to swap lovers, or else be fiendishly jealous of one another, and so on, though all this was probably exaggerated. But what was true and common knowledge was that one of the sisters was having an affair with the famous writer S,B…. It was no secret that his novel, Forgetting a Woman,was dedicated to her.
There the letter ended. What perturbed Gjergj was that its author didn’t say anything precise. He’d turned the letter over in a rage to see what was written on the back, as if he expected to find some accusation about Silva there — for example that she’d had an affair with an archaeologist on the site at Pasha Liman. She’d told him about that herself. But the writer of the letter didn’t mention it, and Gjergj was more upset by what he hadn’t said than by what he’d set down in black and white. The swine, he felt like yelling why doesn’t he mention what everybody knows? The answer was clear. The writer of the letter had foreseen that if he referred to that well-known liaison, Gjergj would have read the allusion with a sigh of relief. As it was, the “well-wisher” gave the impression of scorning gossip, turning a deaf ear to some of it, thus making the contents of his own letter more plausible. Similarly, having made the allegation about lover-swapping, and spoken of the affair between Ana and Skënder Bermema, he could leave Gjergj to think: if Ana and Skënder Bermema, why not Silva and Skënder Bermema?
Gjergj had let some time go by before mentioning any of this to his fiancée. But one day he did ask her if she knew Skënder Bermema, He’d prepared himself for a painful moment in order to see her reaction. But her reply, instead of reassuring him, left him more troubled than before. “Yes, I know him,” she said. “We both do, Ana and I.” “Both of you?” There hadn’t been the slightest indication, either of guilt or of innocence, in her expression. Just something vague that was neither one nor the other. Then he showed her the anonymous letter. Silva read it calmly. Her cheeks did flush a little when she came to the part about exchanging lovers, but she didn’t flinch. She thought for a moment, then looked up at him and said: “What do you expect me to say? That it’s all just slander and tittle-tattle?” Gjergj was lost for words. “Of course it’s meant to be malicious,” she said. “Still, there is a grain of truth in it.”
Gjergj’s mouth went dry.
“But even if the letter’s right about Ana,” she continued, “do you think what it refers to is so shameful and immoral that it reiects on me…?”
“What are you saying, Silva?” he broke in. “I didn’t mean that at all! I just showed you a letter. A horrible anonymous letter.”
She told him she herself had questioned Ana about Skënder Bermema, but the answer had been so evasive she hadn’t raised the subject again. That was the only time Ana hadn’t confided in her. But it hadn’t changed Suva’s opinion about her sister in the least, she insisted. And Gjergj had replied that it wouldn’t change his either.
One evening later on — at the theatre, during the interval — Silva had introduced him to Skënder Bermema…She was with Ana …After that the two men had come across one another on several occasions. But it wasn’t until after Ana’s funeral that they had their first coffee together …It was strange, Silva had said. Her sister, with her great beauty, seemed to have been sent on earth to stir men up one against the other. But strangely enough she had had the opposite effect. As if in accordance with some mysterious pact, those who’d desired her had always avoided anything that might embitter their relations.
Gjergj tried to linger on these reminiscences, but it wasn’t long before they were swept away and replaced by the sinister affair of Lin Biao. Gjergj groaned, clutched his brow, and longed for the journey to end.
As soon as he’d landed in Tirana he would meet Skënder Bermema and unload this agitation on to him. Transferring it to someone else was the only way to get rid of it.
But for the moment he had to cope with it alone.
His nervous tension seemed to have given him a temperature, which was made worse by the sound of the engines…One of the marshal’s accomplices had suggested shooting the plane down with missiles…God, it’s started up again! he whispered. But there was no resisting it. So…One of the marshal’s accomplices, as yet unidentified, had suggested shooting the plane down. To do away with the evidence, the Chinese spokesmen had said. But that didn’t make sense! What evidence did the accomplice mean, the one who had remained on the ground? Whether the marshal managed to escape or got shot down, his plot would be exposed. And in either case the conspirators would be unmasked. The marshal’s supporters would be arrested one after the other, and those interrogating them would only have to tug on one thread for the whole skein to unravel. No one could save anyone else. So the idea of shooting the plane down, and for the reason alleged, was nonsensical if attributed to one of the marshal’s accomplices.