What a relief! This torture would soon be over. He was sure that as soon as the plane had touched down he would be free of all these chaotic obsessions. But the landing was taking a very long time. The mauve lights of the airport building vanished to the right, as if they’d fallen into an abyss. Was he still going to have to keep churning up the same old jumble of thoughts in his skull, when after all the whole affair could be reduced to the story of a dead body being thrown over the Chinese frontier?
Yes, that’s it, he thought, his temples throbbing as the air in the cabin was depressurized. The story of a dead body being dumped. In the old days, bandits used to leave the bodies of their victims at their enemies’ door. Mao dumped them at the door of the nearest super-power. Tossing corpses into forts and citadels in order to terrorize the defenders was a custom as old as time. He remembered, too, how the ashes of the false Dmitri of Russia were shot over the Polish border in a cannonball. All quite typical of such countries. And hadn’t Mao threatened them in exactly those terms when he said, “I'll scatter your corpses in the air?”
The body of the plane creaked loudly as it descended through the semi-darkness. Gjergj was still holding his briefcase on his lap. The metal buckles gleamed faintly. The Soviets had been just as mysterious over Beria. He’d vanished more than twenty years ago, and his disappearance was still an enigma. People said there wasn’t even any trial or firing squad — he was just killed at a meeting of the Politbureau. One version said somebody had strangled him with his bare hands. Then the body was hastily buried. Whereas he, the amazing Mao, airily tossed corpses from one country to another as if with a catapult.
Why can’t I get these images out of my mind, thought Gjergj. Again he peered out of the window, but all he could see was the damp impenetrable darkness. Where had the earth gone? How much longer were they going to have to wander around in space? He leaned his head against the cool glass, feeling the plane’s vibration run right through him. Then suddenly, a long way in front of him, he saw a multitude of little lights, not only mauve but also red and green and blue, winking and flickering in the darkness. He felt his heart grow warmer, he was filled with a delightful languor. The plane’s wing blotted out the lights on the ground for a moment, but he sat on with his forehead pressed to the glass as if he could still see them. His thoughts had drifted home again to his loved ones. Their faces, wreathed in smiles, succeeded one another in his memory until for some reason or other it came to a halt on ae episode he hadn’t remembered for a long time. What he recalled was his first moment of real closeness to Silva, in an avenue strewn with dead leaves — he still didn’t know its name. It lay between the main boulevard and Elbasan Street, and they’d just come away from an evening party — they hardly knew one another as yet. Under the streetlights the yellow leaves stretched out like a sumptuous expanse of gilding glowing with the patina of time. They noticed a scrap of paper amongst the leaves — a piece from a musical score, with the notes still legible. He pointed at it. “Look, some Mozart!” he said. She laughed. He glanced at the dark buildings bordering the avenue: “I think this is quite near the hostel for music students.”
The memory of this interlude was almost painful. Gjergj thought of the moment just before they made love, when her eyes were about to cast off sight just as her body was about to strip itself of clothes. Then came the moment when he was bending over her white belly and that which was waiting, unbearably intense, below…
The heavy fuselage jolted when the plane touched down on the landing strip. The engines shrieked as the pilot throttled back. Multicoloured lights quivered frenziedly on either side. “How wonderful to be going back!” he exclaimed. In three days’ time he would be in Tirana. The plane slowed down, panting heavily. What airport was this, then? He looked around in the hope of seeing some name among the lights, but they still jigged about drunkenly and were dumb. Anyhow, what did it matter? The main thing was that he would soon have left ail this behind. Then he remembered that he hadn’t even sent his family a telegram. How could he have forgotten? But never mind, it still wasn’t too late. He peered out of the window again in search of a name. The stewardesses had just announced something…But how did one write a wire in these parts — in Latin characters or Arabic?
The plane came to a stop at last, and the passengers got ready to disembark.
Gjergj smiled to himself as he stood up. He was going to send that telegram anyhow, even if it had to be written in Egyptian hieroglyphics. Silva got the telegram the next day. It was growing dark and she was tidying up the refrigerator when there was a ring at the door. Then she heard Brikena calling from the halclass="underline"
“A telegram, Mother! I think it’s from Father…”
After a moment’s surprise she straightened up and ran out into the hall. Brikena had already opened the envelope and they both pored over the wire, reading it out almost in unison: “Arrive Thursday German plane. Fondest fondest love.”
“How lovely!” cried Brikena, clapping her hands.
At first they could think only of the message, reading it over and over and scrutinizing the date-stamps which said when it had been dispatched and when received. Then they rushed to consult Brikena’s atlas to find the town it had been sent from.
“He’s still miles away!” said Brikena when they’d located it.
A few moments later their apartment, which had been so quiet lately, suddenly came to life again. The lights were on in all the rooms. Silva went from refrigerator to stove and then to the cupboard in which she kept the crockery, where she promptly forgot what she’d come for. “What sort of cake shall we make?” Brikena asked. Of course, that was what Silva had gone to the cupboard for! But it was still too soon — he wouldn’t be home for another couple of days. They had plenty of time for everything. But if Brikena wanted to they could make the cake today. Silva was so happy she didn’t know what to do with herself. At one point she found herself wandering aimlessly around the apartment. Then, rather than starting on something that needed to be done and then putting it down again unfinished, she just picked up the telegram and went through it again slowly, as if to trying to read something between the lines. Her smile froze when she came to the words, “Fondest fondest love”, wondering why they made her feel vaguely anxious. What does it mean? she thought — and found herself crying out to something deep inside herself: “What’s the matter with me?” Nothing, replied the gulf within, But the uneasiness remained, distant, vague. Anyhow, that fit of sentiment wasn’t a good sign.
In the end, the gulf within delivered its answer. Silva hadn’t been able to repress the memory of a very distressing funeral. The man being buried had died in a plane crash on the way back from China, and the man’s wife had said to Silva: “I don’t know — his last letter was so emotional I was quite disturbed …”
Nonsense, Silva told herself — the post-office people often duplicate words in a telegram. She knew this wasn’t really true — they only repeated dates or figures. But why was she letting herself get upset like this?
“What’s the matter, Mother?” asked Brikena.
Silva took herself in hand.
“Nothing, dear. I was just trying to think of something special we could cook for your father."
And she started bustling around the apartment again.
On Thursday morning Silva asked her boss to let her leave the office at eleven, though the plane wasn’t due until three in the afternoon. In any case, she couldn’t concentrate on any work. Linda kept glancing at her with a curious look in her eyes.