Perlmann's Silence (50 page)

On the way back to the hotel Perlmann had imagined Leskov working out the whole truth in an instant. But, he thought now, that was not the obvious thing to assume. Since Perlmann’s name was not on the text, for a moment Leskov would not suspect him of plagiarism. Instead he would assume that Perlmann had arranged the perfect surprise for him: first telling him on the way there that the Russian text had been still far too difficult for him, then handing him, without further comment, the translation that he had, in fact, produced. Leskov could not help but feel flattered – almost overwhelmed, in fact, by the idea that someone like Philipp Perlmann might take all that time to translate such a long text. He would find the work significant, outstanding; there was no other possible explanation. Excited and filled with gratitude, Leskov would pick up the phone or come up to his room. Perlmann could almost hear him knocking at the door already. On the other hand it might have occurred to him what a shame it was that it wasn’t a translation of the second, far superior version. He would reach into the outside pocket of his suitcase, and freeze. He would be flummoxed, then rummage around in the whole case, again and again. But he wouldn’t suspect anything. On the contrary, once again he would be extravagantly grateful for Perlmann’s gift, because now he would at least be able to present this version. And again Perlmann felt as if he could already hear Leskov’s footsteps in the corridor.

He couldn’t stay there. He would have to pretend to be deaf and let each individual ring, every individual knock wash over him. And Leskov would try it for a long time, and again and again, because according to Signora Morelli’s information Perlmann hadn’t left his room. Perlmann got up and, without really noticing, he was glad that for the time being he had a goal, even if only a vague one.

He took off his shoes, and only now, when the pressure eased, did he become aware that his toes had been hurting for many hours, and that the dull pain had turned them into a single, unfeeling lump. But there was no time to rub them. He was quickly slipping into his other trousers when he noticed that they were the ones with the torn leg. Now the only pair he had were the pale trousers, far too light for a November night, even in the south. No time to put on a belt, Leskov was on the way, pullover and jacket – luckily he hadn’t changed the combination lock on the suitcase that morning: money, travellers’ checks and credit cards, the cigarettes, a splash of cold water on his face, the pack of sleeping pills – he slipped them into his trouser pocket without a thought; it was like a reflex. It was only in the doorway that he looked at his watch: eight thirty-two. He closed the door. He would have to wait for at least five minutes, otherwise he risked bumping into the others.

So Leskov hadn’t read it yet. Or else he planned to thank him for the translation over dinner, loudly, impossible for the others to ignore. When Perlmann walked to the window he saw the piece of paper with Kirsten’s address on the desk. It had been moved. And the red lighter was in a different position on the round table from earlier that morning. The chambermaid.

By now they would all be sitting at the table. Leskov would be uneasy and, in spite of his gratitude, a little annoyed that his host hadn’t come down to introduce him to everyone. Millar would be furious at Perlmann’s repeated social solecisms – he could have been punctual today of all days. Millar would have no hesitation in acting as substitute host – Perlmann could hear him using the English word, self-righteous and accusatory. But perhaps Angelini would have anticipated him and taken control of things with all his skill and charm.

Perlmann shifted Kirsten’s lighter slightly, and straightened the piece of paper with her address on it. He had just opened the door when it occurred to him:
the text
. He had to get rid of the text, which he had put under the telephone book that morning. The thought was not the result of a reflection. It wasn’t deduced from something else. It was just there all of a sudden, and it involved an irresistible need to get rid of that stack of papers. He took the pile out of the desk drawer. His breathing quickened. Where can it go? He couldn’t carry it through the hotel, exposed like that. His suitcase was still in the car. At last he jammed it between the covers of the big hotel folder with the menu, the prospectuses and the writing paper. With his hand on the door handle, he turned round. Whatever happened now, he would never step inside this room again. He had no idea what would become of his things, his clothes, books and papers – where they would be taken to and by whom. He just knew this one thing: here, in this hotel, no one would ever see him again.

When the door shut, the telephone rang inside the room.
They’ve started looking for me.
Unseen, he made it to the rear entrance.

39

It would soon be very dark behind the rocky outcrop from which the reflection of the city lights could no longer be seen, and the calm, black surface of the water struck Perlmann as quietly menacing. Over by Sestri Levante there flowed an endless stream of light, and far in the distance a ship was just visible, a light blinking rhythmically in its bow. In the long pauses between the cars he listened to the quiet rush of the little waves, and the exhaustion that numbed him helped him to think of nothing. At one point he gave a start, when a young couple walked in a close embrace. And only now, when the hotel folder nearly slipped over the balustrade, did be become aware of how absurd, how utterly nonsensical it had been to smuggle his copy of Leskov’s text out of the hotel, when all the others had a copy already. ‘Now I’m losing my grip on the simplest things,’ he said into the night, and he felt the weird sensation creeping over him that his thoughts were going off the rails and his ability to think was silently disintegrating.

He started shivering. Heading on towards Portofino was out of the question; the cat with the divided face was there, and the landlord in suspenders, knocking at the door. And that way it was dark, dark and cold. Perlmann walked hesitantly back to the rocky outcrop, the folder under his arm, his hands in his pockets. He looked across to the hotels and on to the city and its lights like someone standing on the threshold of a forbidden world.

The Miramare looked like something out of an advertising prospectus, very elegant, the illumination of the porch and the floodlights in the pines made it look mysterious, enticing, seductive, and then there were the white neon letters against a royal blue background – film images, dream images. From here, the front windows of the dining room were concealed by the columns, but through the furthest one back he thought he could make out a chandelier.

He could neither go forwards into that glittering world nor back into the dark. He felt as if he could no longer take a single step in his life, as if he were damned to stand for ever in that one place.

Outside the Regina Elena Hotel a taxi stopped, and the driver helped an old woman out. Perlmann ran as if he had to catch the last taxi in the world. The folder was cumbersome, the covers forced apart by the thickness of the text, he waved and called, and by the time he breathlessly reached it, the driver had already turned on the engine. He got into the back and gave his destination as the Hotel Imperiale. As they drove past the Miramare, he shielded his head with the hotel folder, feeling as if he were in a cheap thriller full of kitsch and clichés. On the hill leading up to the Imperiale it occurred to him that he couldn’t enter the hotel with the folder, on which the word
miramare
was engraved in big gold letters. He took out the text and quietly slid the folder under the passenger seat.

The chairs by the window, where he had sat with Kirsten, were occupied by a group of elegantly dressed people who were celebrating something, drinking champagne and laughing loudly as Perlmann came in. He sat down in the dark corner, where the light seemed to be broken, and ordered a whisky and a mineral water. Kirsten had been particularly impressed by that: a waiter coming all the way from the bar to serve them.
You feel so important, and rich
, she had said, and he had seen how her enjoyment of this elegant world was in conflict with other, contrary attitudes that she had expressed for a long time, attitudes typical of her generation.

He set Leskov’s text face down on the low marble table and lit a cigarette. His lungs felt dirty and sticky after the two packs he had already smoked today, and in the taxi a few moments ago his dry cough had been very painful and seemingly endless. But that was no longer of any importance. He wasn’t hungry, but he did feel queasy, and a strange weakness all the way through his body gave him the ridiculous feeling of sitting uncertainly in the high-armed chair. When the waiter brought the drinks, he ordered a sandwich. He would have to force it down. But he did have to eat something.

He had never before found himself in this situation of not having the faintest idea how his thoughts – if he ever had any ever again – might continue. It wasn’t blindness. It wasn’t like trying to stare through a plank. It was a sensation of hopelessness that settled on the imagination like mildew, coated it with a milky and impenetrable whiteness and completely paralyzed it. Nonetheless, now, at the end, making a mistake out of pure physical weakness – that was something he didn’t want to do.

Twenty-five past nine. Now they would all know. Over dinner the conversation would have turned to tomorrow’s session, and Leskov would have asked if there was a written text by Perlmann – he’d forgotten to ask him as they drove to the hotel. Millar had looked up in amazement. He himself had put a copy of Perlmann’s text in Leskov’s pigeonhole, and he, Leskov, had been holding it in his hand when they had greeted him earlier on. No, no, Leskov would have replied, perplexed, that had been something quite different; a surprise that Perlmann had prepared for him: an English translation of a text that he, Leskov, had written. He had been utterly flummoxed to discover how much massive effort Perlmann had taken with it, and he could still scarcely believe it. Such overwhelming kindness! And it seemed to be an excellent translation: it was only with the title that Perlmann had made a curious error. Leskov was also especially grateful for that, because he could now give them all something in writing to hold, particularly since a terrible slip had occurred: he had left another text, which he had planned to talk about here – the new version of the one translated by Perlmann – at home in St Petersburg, although he could have sworn he had packed it. But it wasn’t so bad after all. He could explain the changes orally. Tomorrow morning he would ask for copies to be made for all of them, in preparation for the session that he was, as Perlmann had told him, to hold on Thursday.

At first, thought Perlmann, there would be a pause. Evelyn Mistral understood now why Perlmann had wanted to keep his Russian a secret. He saw her laughing face as she spoke of her complicity. The confusion would only set in later on when she had worked out that his secrecy had been illogical: if it was Leskov that he wanted to surprise, why couldn’t the others know? And if the game of hide-and-seek was supposed to be part of the surprise prepared for Leskov’s arrival, why had he been playing it weeks before the telegram, when he could not have known that Leskov was on his way? But those questions had never been asked.

It would be Achim Ruge, Perlmann imagined, who would ask the crucial, annihilating question. He would pose it quite dryly and – a sign of tense foreboding – savor his Swabian pronunciation: what was the title of Perlmann’s translation that he had got so wrong?
the personal past as linguistic creation
, Leskov would say. A crass and somehow incomprehensible error of translation, but still a beautiful title, much more so than his own, and apt. He would ask Perlmann’s permission to use it in future, of course with the appropriate reference to him.

It would have gone quiet at the table, Perlmann thought, incredibly quiet. He saw the others pausing as they ate, and staring at their plates. They couldn’t believe their ears; what followed on from this information was too monstrous to contemplate. At first they didn’t look at each other, each one of them wondered whether there mightn’t be another, harmless explanation.

‘So you think,’ Millar asked after a while, speaking dangerously slowly, ‘that the text headed
the personal past as linguistic creation
is a text that you wrote and Perlmann merely translated?’

‘Erm . . . yes, that is the case,’ Leskov replied uncertainly, confused and alarmed at Millar’s tone and the jerky, jabbing movements that he made with his knife.

The renewed silence must have been deafening.

‘That is incredible,’ murmured Millar, ‘simply incredible.’ Catching Leskov’s quizzical eye he went on: ‘You see, Vassily, it is a sad fact that we have all, each individual one of us, been given a copy of this very text. Admittedly, Phil’s name isn’t on it, but we were led to believe it was his contribution to tomorrow’s session. He hasn’t handed out any other text, or done anything to rectify the situation. There is also the fact,’ he might have added, ‘that the text was distributed at a point in time when no one knew of your arrival, not even Phil himself. All of this forces us to assume that Perlmann wanted to deceive us by presenting your text as his own. Plagiarism, then. Unimaginable, but there is no other explanation for it. And now we can no longer be surprised that he hasn’t appeared at dinner.’

It took Perlmann for ever to take the first bite of the sandwich. He chewed and chewed; each movement of his jaw was an achievement. The smoked salmon and egg didn’t taste of anything, and the obstruction that had formed in his throat could only be overcome by pushing very hard with his eyes closed. Of course, it was Millar who had voiced the thought. Perlmann’s old hatred flared, and despair made it even darker than usual. He set the bread back down on the table and started taking small sips of his whisky.

He didn’t dare to imagine Leskov’s face after the revelation of the truth, which had started working away in him after his first shock. The many curious features of the journey suddenly returned to his mind, and assembled themselves into a pattern: Perlmann’s irritation at the airport; his agitation at the wheel and his taciturnity; the strange route; the nausea; the insane driving in the tunnel and the lame explanations afterwards. Leskov couldn’t prove anything, even though he had been watching Perlmann like a hawk. There hadn’t been a single false move, nothing that would have clearly and irrefutably revealed an intention to commit murder. That someone, at a moment when a wide car had to be driven through a bottleneck, should have taken his hands off the wheel and closed his eyes, was careless, negligent and even more irresponsible than speeding. It wasn’t even superficially comprehensible, and pointed to a darkness in the driver’s personality. But it wasn’t a trace – not a shadow of proof – of premeditated murder. That much was clear to Leskov, too, so he wouldn’t tell anyone; such an accusation was too monstrous. Even in confidence he wouldn’t be able to accuse him. He couldn’t prove that Perlmann’s story about nausea and a morbid fear of bulldozers were outright lies. And yet Perlmann was quite sure that this evening –
now, at this moment
– Leskov knew everything. It was completely out of the question for him ever to meet this man, who would regard him as a murderer, ever again.

When Perlmann’s hand accidentally brushed the edge of the table, the bandage on his finger came off. It was only now that he noticed that his finger was very swollen. Around the bruised spot it was yellow and green, the skin was tense and hot. And now his head was itchy again as well. He took out the box of sleeping pills, held them under his jacket, looked furtively around and took one from it. After a moment’s hesitation he broke it in two and washed one half down with mineral water.

They would all be waiting for him in silence when he stepped into the Marconi Veranda tomorrow morning.

‘You’ve all got this text now,’ he would be able to say with a smile. ‘I hope you didn’t mistake it for my own, even though my name isn’t on it. By now I am sure you will know that it is a text by our Russian colleague, which I have translated. I had it distributed because it was to serve as the starting point for an idea I should like to develop now. And it is a happy coincidence that Vassily himself can now be here. I expect a great deal from this.’

It would be an audacious bluff. Perlmann grew quite dizzy at the idea, and that dizziness merged with the start of the effect of the pill. They wouldn’t believe a word he said, not a single word. They knew he was a fraud, a con man, and now they were also getting to know him as an ice-cold liar. He would never summon the strength to return each of their contemptuous stares with harsh defiance, forcing them into a state of uncertainty. They would only be uncertain if he now proceeded to deliver a thoroughly original, brilliant lecture. But he had nothing to say, not a single sentence. He would stand up there at the front like someone mutely gasping for air.

Or should he sit up there and in dry words, stony-faced, tell the truth? What words would he use? How many sentences would he need? Where would he look? And when he had said it, what then? Could one, in fact, apologize for such a thing? Was it not almost mockery simply to say, ‘I’m terribly sorry’ and then get up and go? And where to?

Could one go on living with such ostracism? Really live and inwardly develop, so that you weren’t merely crouching and creeping, enduring and surviving, vegetating? You would have to find a possible way of making yourself independent of the judgment of others and of the need for recognition. A way of becoming free, truly free. All of a sudden Perlmann felt calmer. The surge of panic and despair subsided, and he seemed to be standing very close to a crucial, redeeming insight, the most important of his whole life. Why, then, should it not be possible to withdraw entirely from his professional role, his public identity, into his private, authentic person, the identity that was the only thing that counted?