A Girl in Exile. Ismail Kadare

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 . . . of course. But nothing about Migena, her close friend, who went to and from Tirana for her, carrying books and messages, perhaps in code.

      Rudian looked sidelong at the investigator’s face. Clearly he didn’t like this turn in the conversation. Incredibly, their roles were now reversed. Any other investigator, pursuing a clue about a conspiracy or rebellion, about an Albanian Jan Palach, would have risen in the middle of the night from his bed, whether marital or solitary, to answer a witness’s phone call, and would have run through snow and rain, brimming over with gratitude, to fall to his knees in front of his informant. But this one was as silent as a mummy.

      His answers came slowly. He had no desire to pry. What a strange kind of investigator—nervous, even terrified of discovering anything.

      Rudian Stefa thrust his hands into his pockets to stop himself fidgeting. As always, this made him feel confident.

      “Please don’t get me wrong,” he said in an icy voice. “I’m asking about this because it’s connected to one of my books, if you follow me. You summoned me to the Party Committee about this problem. I have a right to know. I’m not sure if you understand me.”

      “I see what you mean,” the investigator replied.

      “And so?”

      Rudian wanted to ask why the other man had kept so silent and caused him such anxiety.

      The investigator studied him thoughtfully, unprepared for this sudden turn in the conversation. Rudian waited for an explanation before giving in to annoyance.

      He tried to think back to Caligula’s horse, or more precisely to the emperor himself, snorting as he remembered Seneca. He had tolerated that wayward playwright for long enough, with his irritating Greek influences. And now this writer was putting ghosts on the stage again. This was all Rome needed. It would be the ruin of the city. Caligula was not the sort to make six-hour speeches about the problems of the theater. He would settle matters quickly. A centurion would knock that very night on the writer’s door. Seneca would not live to see the dawn.

      “You’re right to be worried,” the investigator said quietly. “This case is still under investigation.”

      Dead before dawn, thought Rudian. What was that in Latin?

      Rudian watched the investigator attentively. Had his expression relaxed a little? Twice in the last year Rudian had been forced to stand up and make self-criticism for his hot temper, and he had no desire to do it again.

      “As for the suicide, we looked at the files and it turns out it had nothing to do with politics. The reasons were private and personal.”

      So the reasons were personal, thought Rudian. But strong enough to break the mainspring of her life.

      “I see,” he said.

      “As for your book, it’s true that it was a striking piece of evidence. I don’t know if I told you that the girl also made notes about you in her diary.”

      “Really?”

      “Admiring comments and rather more than that. One might say she had tender feelings toward you.”

      “I see.”

      “So there’s your answer.” The investigator spread his arms and gave Rudian a curious look.

      “Strange . . .” Rudian said in an uncertain voice.

      “What do you mean, strange?” the investigator asked. “You know better than I do that girls often have these feelings.”

      “It’s true, they often do. But a girl who is interned, from a family of this kind. I don’t think this happens often.”

      They fell silent, and both toyed nervously with their coffee cups.

      The appearance at the end of Act Two of the ghost of the partisan shot in the back by the edge of the marsh came again to his mind. For the last few days, Rudian had been brooding about him, considering him from different angles—favorable or not—trying to work out what impression he would create on the members of the board as they read the script.

      “We still don’t know each other well,” Rudian said. “But may I ask you a question that is, how shall I put it, direct—that is . . . awkward?” The investigator’s eyes froze as he listened. “Am I under surveillance?”

      The investigator shivered.

      “No,” he said curtly. “On my word of honor, although perhaps you won’t believe that someone in my profession has such a thing. On my word of honor, you’re not being watched in any way.”

      The investigator’s look was indecipherable, strangely downcast, and not at all triumphant. “I will try to explain,” he said slowly. “I think you will understand me.”