Everyone now linked these events with the deterioration of relations with China. Some went so far as to hint that although he had been literally reduced to ashes a long time ago, Zhou Enlai had given the conspirators their instructions by means of a tape recording. Most people, however, thought the plot was a domestic matter and that Zhou Enlai’s exhortations were merely ideological That seemed more probable: the Chinese certainly wanted a change in the Albanian Party line, as someone had said at an important high-level meeting, bet it wasn’t in their interests to overthrow the Albanian régime altogether.
One morning at the office, Silva looked out of the window and saw another crowd of Chinese in Government Square. Just as she’d done a few months before, she called to the others to come and see.
Next day, as if the crowd of Chinese in the square had been a sign, all the newspapers published the Peking government’s announcement that China was cutting off all aid to Albania and recalling all its experts.
Brief group meetings were called for nine o’clock, where everyone was informed of the gist of the Chinese declaration and of Albania’s reply. In the middle of the morning, everyone went down to the cafeteria as usual It was hard to believe they’d heard about the Chinese note only this morning. It seemed quite stale already, as if it had been sent months ago, even as if it had existed for ever.
Silva could scarcely help laughing when she thought of what Skender Bermema had said. She’d met him by chance near the National Theatre, and they’d walked together as far as the Street of the Barricades, He’d told her that the Chinese note had been accompanied by all kinds of weird documents, including an X-ray of a foot, which might have been the one Silva had mentioned to him some time ago.
“Of course/. he said, “it may be apocryphal — that sort of thing always flourishes in situations like the one we’re in now. But if they ever publish a white paper on Sino-Albanian relations in the past few years, they couldn’t find a more appropriate symbol to put on the cover than that Chink’s foot!”
Silva started to smile as she thought once again about Skënder’s suggestion, but her laughter died away on her lips. She’d just caught sight of Linda and Besnik Struga on the other side of the street. She stared incredulously. Bet yes, it really was them — it was even pretty obvious that they hadn’t met by chance. He had his hands in his pockets, and she was skipping along lightly by his side. She was smiling, too, but that was no ordinary smile: it radiated out over the world in general, and was clearly rooted in her whole being…Ah, thought Silva, now I see why she didn’t want to meet my eye.
The other two didn’t see her, and she felt a moment’s resentment as they disappeared along the street. But she soon realized that the feeling wasn’t directed against either of them. In fact, after a little, their being together seemed quite natural. They’d probably been seeing each other while she was away, and it was quite understandable that Linda hadn’t said anything about it. It would be mean not to see their point of view, especially as both of them would probably confide in her eventually, if they really…No, her sadness was because of Ana: because Ana wasn’t here any more, couldn’t walk lightly along the street as she used to do, and yet something of her…But was that possible? Could Linda, who had never met Ana, be acting like her in some way, as if under some influence from another world?… Perhaps, after all, that was why Besnik…
Silva quickened her pace to try to control her emotion.
“Mother,” Brikeea whispered as she went in, “Aunt Hasiyé’s here.” As she took off her coat, Silva saw signs of panic in her daughter’s face, but pretended not to notice. She’d told Brikena so often not to lose her head if a visitor turned up while she was alone in the apartment. As she’d told her the last time: it wasn’t as difficult as all that to give whoever it was a cup of coffee and make conversation for a while. But Brikena must have got Mustered again,
“What are you looking at me like that for?” said Silva. “It’s nothing out of the way for Aunt Hasiyé to drop in!”
“But, Mother, she started talking like…like the last time…”
“Oh, Brikena, you know she’s a bit strange ie the head now,” said Silva with a touch of annoyance. “People of her age can’t always remember…”
“But she keeps rambling on, saying ail sorts of odd things,” Brikena answered. “She’s asked me three times who I am — I was getting quite frightened.”
“AM right, all right/. said Silva shortly, making for the living room and putting on a welcoming expression. “How are you, Aunt Hasiyé? How’s everyone at home? Brikena, would you make Aunt Hasiyé a cup of coffee, please? And one for me too, if you will.”
As soon as the old woman started to speak, Silva realized that her state had got worse. She mixed up the living and the dead, and confused time, place and everything else. Brikena, making the coffee, turned round and looked at Silva as if to say, What did I tell you?
“How’s Ana? said Aunt Hasiyé. “I haven’t seen her for a long time.”
Silva bit her lip.
“But Ana’s passed on, Aeet Hasiyé,” she said gently. But the old lady either didn’t understand what she said, or else forgot it immediately.
“You hardly ever see your relations nowadays,’ she went on. “It used to be different in the old days. They used to come and see you of their own accord. But that’s all over now. Fortunately I still see them in my dreams…”
Silva smiled sadly.
“Everybody has such a lot to do now,” the old lady continued, “They’re all involved with politics, too. In my young days, people took an interest in politics, but not as much as now, I remember the time when the Chinese were here — but you’re too young to remember that! They had a very wicked sultan — a very, very wicked man with a name like a cat. Miao Zedong, he was called. But all the same he ended up breaking his neck!”
Brikena stifled a laugh.
“You two didn’t know the Chinese — you can afford to laugh! They had eyes like this…like slits. But Î can only just remember them myself. It’s a long time since they went away — a hundred years perhaps, maybe more, Î remember the day they went …A neighbour of ours, Lucas his name was, hanged himself with a luggage strap. Then the Germans came — I remember them very clearly. But they didn’t like the Russians…I remember the Italians as well — they wore perfume, like women …”
Silva and Brikena both burst out laughing. Brikena handed round the coffee.
“I listen to the radio,” said Aunt Hasiyé, “but I can’t understand a word the modern politicians say. Who was it, now, that they were insulting on the radio yesterday? The Turks?”
“No, Aunt Hasiyé — the Chinese.”
“No, no — not the Chinese, That was in my day. They took themselves off more than a century ago. No one can remember them. Now we’re at daggers drawn with the Turks. You don’t know what the Chinese are like — you’ve only dreamed about them!”
Aunt Hasiyé meandered on for some time, but Silva gradually stopped laughing. The way. the old woman mixed up times and tenses might seem very funny, but if you thought about it, other people’s attitude to time was no less absurd. There was something artistic about Aunt Hasiyé’s way of talking: not only in her mixing up of time, but also in her abolition of the frontiers between reality, dream and imagination. She asked again about Ana, insisting that she’d met her last month in the street, carrying a string bag full of oranges. Silva decided there was no point in trying to explain. Hadn’t she herself remembered her sister today? And was there really ail that difference between the old lady’s account of her meeting with Ana in the street and the description she herself might give of her impressions when she saw Besnik Struga and Linda an hour or so ago, and thought the dead woman had some how lent her colleague her light step?