“Would you like a cup of coffee?’’
At first he thought he’d wait and have one with the visitor, then he said yes please. If the visitor came, he could always have another with him…If the visitor came? How could he doubt it? It was unthinkable that he shouldn’t turn up.
The doubt lingered until Simon Dersha appeared. But then Simon Dersha vanished again beyond the railings.
The minister stood at one of the drawing-room windows. The trees stood outside — massive, dark, indifferent. Once or twice he imagined himself hastily ringing for his bodyguard and his chauffeur, diving into his car as it emerged from the garage, and hurtling along the street after his quarry. The man would try to get away, but he would stop him, clutch him by the sleeve and say tearfully, “What came over you, going away like that? Why are you tormenting me too, as if all my other troubles weren’t enough?”
That is what he imagined, staring out at the garden, with the drops of rain from this afternoon’s downpour still hanging from the branches and reflecting some invisible source of light. Thee he reached out and rang the bell, and did all the other things he’d imagined. But slowly.
As the car was driving out through the gate and the chauffeur asked where he was to go, the minister said:
“Just drive around."
They were soon in a main street where the pavements were crowded with people. To the minister they looked at once hostile and unpredictable. Who knew what was inside those heads? What thoughts did they emit? What terrifying rumours?
As he gazed at the anonymous faces he began to be afraid. They were probably thinking of China, and of him. What would become of him? What verdict would they pronounce?
Somewhere amongst them must be his guest. He wanted to find him and whisper, “Oh ghost, oh phantom, why did you disappear?”
He sighed and looked again at the passers-by. Some of them stared at his car with a grim expression that seemed to him tinged with irony. What if the Chinese had betrayed him? he thought suddenly. What if they’d sacrificed him to some temporary arrangement? But this thought was pushed aside by the crowds in the street: he felt somehow that they held his fate in their hands, and that if only the sound they made, the rumour they spread, were to stop, he would be saved. Otherwise it would gradually rise to the highest authorities, and that would be the end of him. So he was dependent on their silence. But was that asking too much? After all, what had he done wrong, for heaven’s sake? He’d tried to organize some manoeuvres, a mock military operation …A surge of hatred for this merciless mob swept over him, together with the self-pity and resentment generated by humiliation. He felt like getting out of the car, kneeling down in front of the crowd, beating his breast and crying: “Don’t be angry with me — I swear! wasn’t trying to do anything real! It was just an exercise, pure make-believe! Don’t soldiers themselves talk of the war game?”
At the same moment, Simon Dersha was walking along amid the crowds on the pavement. Now he’d left the district where the minister lived he felt calmer, though whenever he glimpsed a black limousine he dodged behind the nearest passers-by in case it had the minister inside, scanning the street to find him: “Hi, Simon — where are you off to? You’re supposed to be coming to see me — you phoned up yourself! Jump in and 111 drive you home with me!”
When Simon reached his flat he found the family as he had left them. Waiting to see how he’d got on. They could tell at once that he’d failed.
“Well,” said his wife, breaking the silence, “Wasn’t it any good?… What happened?”
He shrugged as if to say, That’s the way it is. If only they didn’t badger him for explanations
“Oh God, what a mess we’re in!” groaned his brother, burying his head in his hands.
Simon glanced at him. He felt like saying: You should talk — it was you who sowed this doubt in my mind!
“But what happened?” repeated his wife, “Didn’t he listen to you at all? isn’t there any hope?”
Simon shook his head,
“I never heard of such a thing!” his wife exclaimed angrily. “Everybody gets their friends to put in a good word — one hears of cases all the time — but when you try to do it it doesn’t work!”
“I couldn’t help it …It didn’t just depend on me!”
“It did depend partly on you! But you made a mess of it! You’re an idiot!”
“What?”
“Yes, an idiot! You always have been.”
“You have the nerve to say that!”
Simon had turned pale.
“Stop squabbling!” said his brother. “It’s bad enough without that…”
Simon had no desire to make things worse, and it took him only a few moments to forget the insult. It was all for the best, really. His wife’s wrath had got him out of having to give explanations.
“Could I have a cup of coffee, please?” he said, to show he hadn’t taken offence.
“Didn’t he even offer you a coffee?” exploded his wife. Bet her brother-in-law gave her a reproachful look, and she got up and put the coffee on,
“We’re sorry,”said Benjamin, “We’ve got you into trouble now. But it isn’t your fault — you can’t help it.”
“No, I can’t,” said Simon.
For a few minutes the room was silent, except for the sounds of coffee being prepared.
“So what are we going to do now?” sighed Benjamin’s wife.
“What are we going to do?” said her husband, “We’re going to try again.”
The conversation that followed was much the same as the discussion the day before. To Simon if felt like a mere continuation, as if his failed attempt to see the minister had been only a dream.
They talked about the various subterfuges people resorted to in order to get out of being posted, and how, if they were, they took care not to lease an apartment in the provinces for fear of losing the one they had in Tirana.
“When were these rales introduced?” asked Benjamin. “They’re so pernickety they might be Chinese…”
“Do you really think so?” said his wife,
“Don’t you?”
“No…Posting has always been common practice,’
“Not by rotation, like this.”
“You ought to be glad if the rules are Chinese,” said Simon’s wife. “At least that means they might be abolished after the Chinese themselves go,”
“I doubt it.”
“Why?”
“Weeds aren’t uprooted so easily.”
“You think not?”
Simon sipped his coffee and watched them. He took no part in the conversation. Their voices seemed to reach him faintly, as from far away. They were talking about sham separations between husbands and wives, and in their attitude to these subterfuges there was no trace of disapproval. In their view these people had no choice, so they couldn’t be called immoral. Anyhow, some of them got married to one another again, so what was all the fuss about? Even in the ordinary way, a lot of couples got divorced and then remarried — some of them three times! — and nobody threw up their hands. So why be more severe on people posted to the provinces? They were only human, just like everybody else. If there was a mother-in-law to complicate the situation, that didn’t make any difference. In a way it made it better, because then the husband could come home without any concealment, on the pretext of visiting his mother.
Yes, all this applied to their present situation, thought Simon. And as he’d foreseen, it wasn’t long till his brother and sister-in-law started talking about their own divorce. And to tell the truth, that wouldn’t be an irreparable misfortune, as he’d thought to begin with. Naturally, it would upset their friends and relations, but that was nothing compared with the possibility of his mother coming to live here! Ugh! That was to be avoided at all costs! Their mother only had to go on occupying a room in what would then be her daughter-in-law’s apartment, and, even if there were children, morals would be preserved. Apart from the fact that Benjamin would officially be separated from his wife, nothing would really have changed.