that was it, nothing else. He wanted her back with him, to rest his head on her lovely breasts and then on her stomach, and on the edge of that dark abyss where he might still find out things about her he was yet to discover.
5
The investigator sat waiting in the far right corner of the café, at what had been Rudian’s favorite table for years. Rudian stretched out his hand and was about to remark on the coincidence, but it occurred to him that it might be nothing of the sort. The investigator would know as well as he did where he liked to sit. As all Tirana knew, the Flora came second after the Dajti for microphones under the tables.
The investigator’s smile provided a natural backdrop to their polite exchanges: how nice to see you, it’s my pleasure, perhaps I’m taking up your time, on the contrary, how delightful, particularly now that . . . Cuban theater, under the teachings of Fidel Castro, has been very successful, especially when . . . why is that radio so loud . . . we need to take a break from routine sometimes . . . revoluthion, only revoluthion . . . excuse me, could you turn down that radio . . . “Would you like a coffee?”
Instead of saying he had just drunk two, Rudian asked a question that he knew immediately was a mistake: “Are you busy these days?”
“You might say so,” the investigator replied quite naturally, discounting any possibility of having misinterpreted the question. “We’ve plenty to do,” meaning waves of arrests, conspiracies. Watch out . . .
Perhaps now the investigator would retaliate with his own irritating enquiry: How’s the writing going? Followed by that other fatal question: What are you working on at the moment?
Rudian imagined his reply, that the Artistic Board was considering a play of his. He could add without flattery: I would rather it were in your hands than theirs. At least the investigators would give it their expert attention, looking for hostile catchphrases, counting the number of lines given to negative characters as against positive ones, looking at the fingerprints on the manuscript to find out if anyone suspicious had read it. All this would be preferable to the assessment by the Artistic Board, where for the third time the sticking point was an appearance of the partisan’s ghost at the end of Act Two. Rudian had heard that the majority of the board had not only insisted that socialist realism didn’t allow ghosts, but that the matter went deeper and had to do with some dangerous influences recently evident. Ugh . . .
“There are problems in the theater, like everywhere,” Rudian said. “We heard just now on the radio about revolutionary theater in Cuba.”
“Really? I wasn’t listening,” the investigator responded. “I was merely thinking of how the radio was bothering us.”
“I know. Our theater has invited a Cuban delegation on an official visit. These Cuban comrades told us that Fidel Castro spoke for six hours about issues in the Havana theater.”
“Really?” the investigator said.
“Can you imagine, six hours? Setting aside all the affairs of state. This business must be so complicated that . . .”
The investigator looked at him blankly. “I go to the theater and read as much as I can, but to tell the truth I’m not very clued in,” he said slowly.
“I understand.”
“You are one of the few people from the arts whom I’ve had a chance to meet. On this occasion, unfortunately, for other reasons.”
“I understand,” Rudian said again, while thinking: Now, at last. The investigator was getting close to what Rudian had been waiting for with such impatience.
Neither spoke a word for a long time. They sipped their coffee and Rudian was ready for a fourth, or even a fifth, until his temples thudded from caffeine, if only this man would speak.
The investigator’s silence cut into Rudian’s very soul. They must learn these tricks at those academies of theirs, just as students at Migena’s art college picked up the techniques of the stage: long pauses, yawns that simulate indifference, coughs.
“Some new play?” he said at last, in that special bright tone reserved for hope for the future, and often used with visibly pregnant women you met in the street . . . Expecting a little one, are we?
“Not yet,” Rudian replied doubtfully. “In fact I have a play ready, but it’s still with the Artistic Board.” It was hard to resist asking: Do you know why? You have forensic expertise, you deal in facts. You might not credit that it’s stuck there because of a ghost.
“As I said, I’m fond of the theater, especially—as you may imagine—when plays deal with subjects close to our work: investigations, conundrums . . .”
Rudian barely contained a sigh. This was all he needed, after a six-hour speech by Fidel Castro: more wittering about the theater. Apparently the investigator was not feigning ignorance, but this realization, instead of reassuring him, merely drove him to despair. If the investigator had been pretending, he could be expected to open up, but now there was no hope he would talk frankly.
Well, if the investigator was not going to start, Rudian himself would have to speak up first. He couldn’t care less if it was interpreted as impatience, or worse.
He looked the man straight in the eye and said, “Thinking of what we talked about at the Party Committee . . . I haven’t found out anything new. Perhaps I’ve disappointed you—”
“Not at all,” the investigator butted in. “You made that quite clear on the phone. You said we would meet for no reason at all.” There was amusement in his expression. “I wanted to say what a pleasure it is for me to have coffee with you. An unusual opportunity. My colleagues will be jealous.”
Rudian kicked himself. You idiot. You got yourself into this mess. Let’s meet for coffee, for no reason. Then you complain when this man doesn’t open up.
Now his temples were beating. He’d never drunk such strong coffee. Instead of listening to the investigator, his mind wandered to Caligula and the horse that he made consul. The emperor would whisper state secrets into the horse’s ear, about the affairs of Rome and conspiracies soon to be exposed, telling the animal which senators would be given orders to cut their veins on Tuesday night, and which on Wednesday, such as that irritating dramatist Seneca. Let them be a lesson to everybody . . .
“While we’re on the subject, how did that business go?” Rudian asked, keeping his gaze steady.
The investigator calmly returned his stare, but with a look of surprise, and asked what business he had in mind.
“What we talked about at the Party Committee. The girl who killed herself.”
“Ah, I see,” the investigator said.
“She came from an old bourgeois family close to the former royal court, if I’m not mistaken. You said that suicides of this sort are always treated with suspicion.”
“Of course,” the investigator said. “You’re quite right.”
Quite right, Rudian repeated to himself. Then why the hell doesn’t he say something?
“Investigations are still ongoing?”
“Of course.”
Investigations
