“You mean he might have sided with the Chinese?” Silva exclaimed. “Never — you can be sure of that! The idea never even crossed my mind. I’m sure it must be something else — probably nothing whatsoever to do with the Chinese.”
“Maybe,” he said.
“I’m sorry, Gjergj — I probably shouldn’t have mentioned it, especially this evening. But I’ve been so worried …for days and days …”
“No, no,” he interrupted. “You were quite right to tell me.”
A clock they’d never heard before chimed somewhere nearby. All those clocks, in apartments full of human memories, thought Gjergj.
After a moment he said:
“No, I’m sure it’s nothing to do with the Chinese.”
6
EKREM FORTUZI DREW BACK the curtain and looked outside. It was a damp, grey day. I’d better wear my galoshes, he thought. He pondered for a while before a heap of shoes that he kept in a cupboard beside the bathroom door, then bent down and rummaged among a mass of sandals, slippers and boots, most of them with holes in the sole, broken straps or missing heels. Eveetually he found his galoshes, dropped them on the floor, and was about to put them on when he heard his wife’s voice calling from the bedroom.
“Ekrem — where are you going to so early?”
“It’s not early, Hava — it’s nearly ten o’clock. I’m going round to the ministries to see if there’s any work.”
“You still haven’t given up hope?”
He didn’t answer.
“I’ve lit the stove,” he said after a moment. “And the milk has been boiled. So I’ll see you later, my pet.”
“All right, my love.”
A feeling of relief came over him as he went out into the street. The shutters of the house opposite, warped and weatherbeaten by the rain, were still shut. Sunday, he thought — people are having a lie-in. But he had to do the rounds of government departments to see if anyone had left any translation jobs for him to do. So that his employers wouldn’t need to seek him out, he’d got into the habit of calling at the various offices after working hours or on Sundays to pick up files containing documents to be translated from Chinese. They’d be left at the door for him to collect, usually with a note attached saying when the job was to be finished — in most cases far sooner than was reasonable. Nor did he go in and receive his fees personally: he waited for them to be sent by post. For his friend Musabelli had given him some useful advice when he first started to translate from Russian, in the days of the Soviets: “Be careful not to be seen too much around government offices — the communists don’t like falling over us ex-members of the bourgeoisie every time they go out into the corridor.”
Ekrem had stuck to this rule. Whenever he came upon a crowd of people outside a ministry or other government building at the end of the day, he would turn away and not come back until everyone else was gone. Sunday was usually the best day. Not only could he pick up the files then without any bother, but he could even exchange a few words with the man on duty. They all knew him now. Most were ex-servicemen, and though Ekrem felt rather shy with them, he was grateful for their friendliness. Some even seemed to admire him. One day the man at Albimpex said, “You must be pretty clever, eh? How did you get to be so good at Chinese?” “Somebody had to, I suppose,” he’d answered. “You’re right there,” said the man, gazing at him respectfully. “Good for you, comrade!” Ekrem blushed, but any kind of display embarrassed him and he hurried away.
It was almost with affection that he thought back now to those afternoons, those snatches of conversation by the porters’ lodges and the smell of the chestnuts the inmates roasted over their little electric stoves. Work had grown scarcer and scarcer lately. And now the demand for translations had almost completely dried up.
Ekrem had reached Government Square. The wide grey pavements, more sombre than ever in the rain, were deeply depressing. The lofty portals of the Ministry of Construction, with their heavy bronze door-knobs, stood ajar. He peered through the opening at part of the cold, empty, dimly lit hall, then slipped inside. The man on duty was in his usual cubby-hole, warming his hands over a stove. “Good morning,” said Ekrem. “Chilly, isn’t it?”
“Good morning,” answered the man. “Yes — it’s the time of year. Is it raining?”
“Just spitting.”
“There isn’t anything for you, I’m afraid.” Ekrem felt his heart miss a beat. “I’ll have a look in the drawer to make sure, but I don’t think there’s anything.”
For a few seconds Ekrem looked on dully as the man fumbled in the drawer among a few odd papers.
“No, nothing,’ said the man.
“Right, then. Goodbye,” said Ekrem.
“Goodbye, Better luck next time.”
“Next time…” Ekrem thought to himself as he went out into the square, He trudged on for a while without thinking. Where should he go next? To Agroexport or to the Ministry of Trade? But wait a minute! If he went to both those places, mightn’t that be seen as a kind of investigation, as if he were checking up on things? He had a sudden vision, a memory of the prison yard on the day parcels were handed out, together with, for some reason or other, the dirge-like singing of a common law prisoner convicted of incest. But the next moment: how ridiculous, he thought. Why should anyone need to be checking up? For days people had been talking about it almost openly. To hell with precautions! Not only would he go and ask if there was any work for him at the two places he’d jest thought of, but he’d also present himself at Makina Import and Aibimpex, and even the Planning Commission. He’d go the whole hog. He realized he’d started to walk faster …He began to calm down. Perhaps he wouldn’t go to the Planning Commission for another couple of days, he thought, but he’d certainly go to the other places.
Isn’t all this just my luck! he said to himself as he made his way towards the Agroexport building. He felt very down, though he did try to tell himself all wasn’t yet quite lost. But in fact he was sure he was the unluckiest person in the world. He’d just arranged to do a new translation — from the original, this time — of the libretto of Tricked by Tiger Mountain when the first rumours of disaster had started to spread around. It had been the same with Russian: just as things had seemed to be going better than ever, the catastrophe had happened. But it was much more annoying to see his Chinese going to waste: thousands of people had known Russian, but he was one of the few Albanians who knew Chinese, and he’d gradually emerged as the best. That opera translation would have opened up new possibilities for him. But now everything was collapsing. When he’d told Hava about the first hints of a break with China, she’d said casually, “Don’t pay any attention to such gossip! Weren’t you disillusioned enough after the break with the Russians?” “That’s not what bothers me," he’d replied. “I'm not crazy enough to have any hopes about politics! What I'm worried about is my knowledge of Chinese — it won’t be any use any more!”
The Agroexport offices, with their hermetically sealed shutters, looked far from inviting. Ekrem went and stood just inside the great door.
“No, nothing for you,” called the man behind the little window brightly,
“I thought I’d just take a stroll, to see,” said Ekrem, almost apologetically.
“No, not a thing.”
“Of course not,” said Ekrem, cursing himself for not being able to shut up. What a fool he must look. “I didn’t really expect to find anything, but I just dropped by in case. You can easily call in for nothing, but then again, sometimes a translation’s needed just when no one shows up to do it!”
He forced a laugh. The man seemed surprised. Ekrem tried to look unconcerned.