The Concert by Ismaíl Kadaré

couldn’t have left much of a bruise…”
    Victor lowered his eyes and smiled into his beard.
    â€œThat’s the trouble,” he said. “I did it on purpose.”
    Linda’s peal of mirth made two or three people tern round.
    Victor knocked back his glass of brandy.
    â€œWhat else could I do?” he said, glowering. “For a whole month he’d been driving me up the wall, the swine, keeping me waiting for some papers I needed. Every day he had some new excuse for putting it off. ‘I didn’t have time yesterday,’ he’d say. I was busy reading the works of Chairman Mao… And today 'I have to think over what I read yesterday…' I don’t know how I kept myself from strangling him! That’s right — laugh! It’s obvious you two have never had to deal with a Chinaman!”
    As they laughed, Linda kept her eyes on his drawn, ill-shaven face.
    â€œPing -- that’s the bastard’s name,” said Victor, “comes and walks round the factory every morning with his foot done up in a bandage or a plaster or some Chinese old wives’ concoction. Can’t you just see him, pacing up and down for everyone to see? Perhaps he expects someone to put up a statue to Ping the hero, victim of Victor Hila, the Albanian bandit? You think that’s funny? Well, it leaves me suspended — do you hear? - suspended! Neither on earth nor in heaven. And no one will answer my questions!… Still,” he sighed, “perhaps it’s not the government’s fault. I suppose the Chinese keep pestering them about what they’ve done to punish me. A few days ago my boss said, ‘What got into you, Victor? A nice mess we’re in because of what you did …”
    The women, finally said goodbye and left the cafeteria.
    â€œA nice chap, isn’t he?” said Linda as they went upstairs. Silva nodded.
    â€œHe’s been like that all the time I’ve known him. He’s hardly changed at all.”
    Silva’s face wore a hesitant smile.
    â€œReally nice,” she murmured, as if to herself.
    Back in the office, the boss still hadn’t returned. Linda collected some papers and took them along to the typists. Silva sat for a moment with her elbows on her desk. She didn’t feel like working. She got up and went over to the window, looking out at the square with its surrounding ministries and the grey, rainy day. She moved across to the radiator. It felt only lukewarm. “I only hope there won’t be any shortages…” Why had that phrase come back to her? From what recess of her consciousness had it arisen, the hope that Ana had so often expressed at the beginning of that inauspicious period when the future had seemed so unpredictable? It was a hope doomed to remain unfulfilled, for shortages were to become part of their way of life…And if history were to repeat itself, thee they might expect more of the same gloomy medicine…But still, it couldn’t have happened as fast as all that! And it was common knowledge that the boiler responsible for the central heating was unreliable — there’d been talk once or twice of replacing it. No, she was letting her imagination run away with her, she decided, going back to her desk. This time everything’s different. It’s all so quiet.
    The door opened and the boss came in, followed by Linda. Strangely enough, the boss looked quite cheerful now, and when Linda asked Silva something, he volunteered the answer himself — a tacit sign of reconciliation. He started to talk about the Chinese, and Linda told him about Victor Hila. He was still roaring with laughter at the story, his mirth punctuated with his characteristic yelps, when there was a knock at the door and Simon Dersha reappeared.
    â€œMay I use your telephone for a moment, please?” he asked.
    Still laughing, the boss nodded towards the phone, and Dersha went over and dialled a