Perlmann noticed too late that he had been nodding. Horrified, he turned his head towards Leskov. But he hadn’t noticed anything, and went on talking.
‘You know, it’s hard to describe, but the inner formulation and defense of my thesis were a great help to me in surviving my remaining time in prison. Why that should have been so I still don’t quite know. But I suspect that it had less to do with the content of the thesis than with the feeling of having made an exciting discovery. That gave me a piece of inner freedom, and made me invulnerable to many things.’
Leskov stopped again on the steps leading up to the hotel. ‘When I was out, and had regained my ability to work, I had lost the courage of my most important thesis, so in my first version I settled for observations about the creative role of language for experience. In that text I touch upon the radical idea only now and again. I think I was afraid of discovering that I had temporarily lost my mind in prison. Only in the course of that summer did I start fumbling around at the subject within myself. And when I then wrote the whole thing up, that was a process in which even imprisonment was addressed and, I hope, dealt with. A kind of healing process.’ By the portico, Leskov took his glasses and rubbed his eyes. ‘That’s why I’ve got to find the text when I get home. I simply must. It’s not just because of the post. That text – it’s a piece of my soul.’
‘Did you have a good flight?’ asked Signora Morelli.
‘Yes, thank you,’ said Perlmann like someone who has just been woken up.
‘She asked you that because of the note yesterday morning, didn’t she?’ Leskov said in the elevator.
Perlmann nodded. ‘A misunderstanding.’
Up in the room he threw himself on the bed. He did it without first setting down the suitcase – as if it had grown onto him. When he did finally let go, he saw that the leather handle was black from the sweat of his hand.
There was nothing more to think about. Now it was just a question of will power. Trembling, he waited for the feelings of guilt and his own shabbiness, with which he was attempting to forge an alliance, to emerge victorious over fear. Only then could time start flowing again and carry him forward, wherever that might be.
Before five minutes had passed, he sat up. He slowly took the envelope out of the suitcase, removed the staples and drew out the plastic jacket. He no longer had to be careful with the teeth of the zip fastener. With one single jerk – into which he put all of his despair – he pulled open the zip. One of the loose teeth was torn out and fell between the pages. Perlmann forced himself to inhale slowly a few times and cautiously pulled out the text. He ran the back of his hand several times over the top, curling page. The hole with the ragged, brownish edges, where the twig had gone through, was bigger than he remembered.
He washed his face and combed away a ridiculously prominent tuft of hair. A fresh shirt. Yes, and the jacket, too. The warm water wouldn’t do much for his cold hands, but he went back into the bathroom anyway. He pulled the door to his room closed behind him as softly as if someone were sleeping in there.
When he turned into the corridor that led to Leskov’s room, Perlmann’s pace slowed. Two doors before Leskov’s he turned round, walked to the elevator and sat in the big wicker chair. There was nothing more to consider. If he gave Leskov the text, then he would have to admit everything. If he didn’t give him the text, then Leskov wouldn’t get the post, and it was Perlmann’s fault. It was all quite clear. Crystal clear. There was no reason to sit here in the wicker chair. No amount of waiting could make it any clearer.
Perlmann waited. He would have liked to smoke. John Smith from Carson City, Nevada, who was coming out of the elevator in his tracksuit, showed Perlmann the headline of a newspaper and shook his head disapprovingly. Two French businessmen with briefcases came out of the corridor and walked, chatting, down the stairs. A chambermaid with bedlinen over her arm slipped past.
Perlmann walked back along the corridor. The blue nylon carpet was exaggeratedly thick; he felt as if he were wading. Next to Leskov’s door he leaned against the wall. Then he held his ear to the door and heard Leskov coughing. Perlmann rolled up the text and hid it behind his back with his left hand. One last hesitation before his crooked finger, an ugly, repellent finger, touched the wood. He knocked twice. Leskov seemed not to have heard. Perlmann’s nose started running. He took a few steps back, wedged the roll under his arm and blew his nose. After he had knocked again, he heard Leskov coming to the door. A short cough before the door opened.
‘Oh, Philipp, it’s you,’ said Leskov. ‘Come in.’
It was impossible to do it. Impossible. It wasn’t an insight. It wasn’t knowledge or a decision. It wasn’t even a thought. It didn’t even really have anything to do with the will. It wasn’t anything that Perlmann remembered; nothing that he had at his command. Afterwards he felt as if he hadn’t even been there. His body simply couldn’t put the plan into action. The intention was confronted with powerful, unshakeable forces that wouldn’t move. The resolution slipped off those forces like something laughably feeble. The system went on strike. A white, completely emotionless panic overrode everything.
‘Come in, please,’ Leskov repeated with a cordial but slightly puzzled smile.
‘No, no,’ Perlmann heard himself saying. ‘I just wanted to check when your flight leaves tomorrow morning. So that I can tell Angelini.’
‘Oh, I see. Wait, I’ll take a look. But please, do come in for a moment.’
While Leskov fetched his ticket from his suitcase, Perlmann stayed with his back against the door, which he had left ajar. Where his hand gripped the pages, they were wet.
‘At five past nine,’ said Leskov. He pointed to the armchair. ‘Time to have a cigarette?’
‘Not really, no. I promised Angelini I would call him back. He’s waiting.’
Perlmann took a step to the side, pulled the door open with his right hand and walked out backwards. Leskov stopped in the doorway and watched him go. Perlmann took a few more steps backwards. Then he quickly turned left on his own axis and, in a contrary motion, swung the rolled-up text in front of his chest. After a few quick steps he was on the stairs.
In his room he sat motionless on the bed for several minutes, staring straight ahead. Then he fetched his big suitcase. In it, partly telescoped in on itself, was an unopened envelope full of mail from Frau Hartwig, as well as the invitation to Princeton, the black wax-cloth notebook, the little volume of Robert Walser, the certificate and the medal. Perlmann couldn’t remember when he had thrown all these things in. He stared at the chaotic pile. It felt like a sedimentation of failure, guilt and dereliction. He didn’t know what to do with it. He wearily laid his torn and bloodstained pairs of trousers over it, then his dirty, pale jacket. It would look idiotic if he stepped into Olivetti headquarters in a blazer and far too pale trousers.
He put the chronicle in the other drawer. Then he packed the books – none of which he had opened in the course of the whole five weeks – in the suitcase. The zip of the plastic jacket would only close halfway. He no longer had the strength to think about it. He put Leskov’s text back in the envelope and placed it between the books. In the bathroom he got his sponge bag ready and took a whole sleeping pill. From the desk drawer he took the printout of his notes. He tore the sheets in half and threw them in the waste-paper basket.
Before he turned out the light he called Leskov and made his apologies for dinner. When he set the alarm, he felt the effect of the tablet in his fingertips.
56
Leskov’s stained suitcase was standing beside the reception desk when Perlmann came downstairs. On the gleaming marble floor of the elegant hall it looked like a remnant of another era. It was just after seven, and Giovanni was waiting for Signora Morelli so that he could go home.
‘Buona fortuna!’ said Perlmann as he shook his hand.
‘You too!’ replied Giovanni, and went on shaking. ‘And then . . . erm . . . I just wanted to say: you play the piano really well. R
eally brilliant!’
‘Thank you,’ said Perlmann and exchanged an awkward glance with him. ‘Is there a cup competition coming up where I could see Baggio on our television at home?’
‘Juventus are playing Stuttgart soon. I could check . . .’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Perlmann, ‘I’ll keep an eye out. What’s his first name, by the way?’
‘Roberto.’
Outside the door to the dining room Perlmann turned round again and raised his hand: ‘Ciao.’
Giovanni said the same word back, and it came out of his lips more lightly and surely than it had on Wednesday evening. It sounded almost as natural as if they were two old friends.
Leskov had put his suitcase on a chair next to him. Perlmann flinched when he saw him now, and immediately his eye looked for the little piece of rubber band in the zip of the outside pocket. It had gone.
‘Rather shabby compared to yours, isn’t it?’ said Leskov when he saw Perlmann staring at the case.
Perlmann gestured vaguely and picked up the coffee pot.
‘If I understood correctly the other evening, you’ll be talking to Angelini about the question of publication,’ Leskov said hesitantly as he folded up the napkin.
Perlmann nodded. He had seen it coming. But in a good hour it’ll be over. Once and for all.
‘It’s about a translation of my text . . . Do you think . . . ?’
‘I’ll talk to him,’ said Perlmann and pushed back the chair. ‘I’ll let you know.’
Perlmann would have liked to say goodbye to Signora Morelli, who was just taking her coat off, on his own. Leskov’s presence disturbed him, and when he heard the Russian’s extravagant words of thanks he went to the toilet.
But Leskov was still standing next to her afterwards. Today she was wearing a black scarf with a fine white edge, and above it her still rather sleepy face looked paler than usual.
Perlmann gave her his hand and was glad that Leskov now bent towards his case. ‘Thank you,’ he said simply, ‘and all the best.’
‘You too,’ she said. Then for a moment she rested her other hand on his. ‘Have a rest. You look completely exhausted.’
Leskov gave the taxi driver a sign and walked laboriously down the stairs. Perlmann set down his luggage and went back into the hall. He looked at Signora Morelli and had no idea what he had wanted to say.
‘Is there anything else?’ she asked with a smile.
‘No, no. I . . . erm . . . I just wanted to say it was good to have you here for those few weeks.’ And then, when her hand awkwardly reached for her scarf, he added quickly: ‘Have you sorted out your taxes?’
‘Yes,’ she laughed. ‘Thank God.’
‘See you then.’
‘Yes. Have a good trip.’
Perlmann was relieved that Leskov had chosen to sit beside the driver. Behind him, Perlmann leaned into the upholstery and closed his eyes. The after-effect of the sleeping pills pressed against his eyes. Contrary to his habit, when the taxi came round the corner he hadn’t turned back to face the hotel. Now he saw it in his mind’s eye, in all its details, and he even climbed the steps to the Marconi Veranda once more. It was over. Over.
‘For publication I could make a shorter version,’ said Leskov. ‘What do you think?’ In spite of several groaning attempts Leskov hadn’t managed to turn round completely, and now he was looking at the window past the back of the driver’s head.
Perlmann jammed his fists into the seat. He would have to run the whole publication business properly through his mind, he said.
After a lengthy pause, in which he had slipped into a half-sleep, the back of the front seat struck his knees. Leskov had loosened his seatbelt and rolled on to his right side, and was trying, once again in vain, to turn all the way towards Perlmann.
‘I barely dare to broach the subject,’ he said submissively, ‘but I don’t suppose you would be willing to translate my text?’
Perlmann froze and was glad that the driver was suddenly forced to overtake at that point, cursing as he did so.
‘I just thought that because you know my thoughts so well, and have responded to them with such interest,’ Leskov added hesitantly, almost guiltily, when he received no answer.
Only now did Perlmann manage to shake off his torpor. ‘Just from the point of view of time, it’s not going to work,’ he heard himself say in a hollow voice. ‘We’ve got the term coming up . . .’
‘I know,’ Leskov said quickly, ‘and I’m sure you’re going to want to go on working on your book. Incidentally, I wanted to ask you if I could read what you’ve written already. You can imagine how intensely interested I am.’
Perlmann felt as if a ton weight on his chest was keeping him from breathing. ‘Later,’ he said at last, when Leskov had long since clicked his seatbelt shut again.
‘The man with the cap is working today again,’ Leskov laughed when the taxi drove past the parking cabin to the airport entrance. ‘I won’t forget him again in a hurry. Such stubbornness!’
Then, as they stood in line at check-in, Leskov suddenly said that he hoped the plane wasn’t as full as it had been on the inbound flight, when he hadn’t known where to put his feet because of the suitcase. In the end the stewardess had saved him by stowing it somewhere at the back.
‘At least this way I can be sure that I haven’t left the text somewhere along this route,’ he said with a crooked smile. ‘You must knock on wood very firmly that I find it, when I step into my apartment in . . . wait . . . in fifteen hours.’
They slowly walked towards passport control. Another two, three minutes.
Leskov set down his suitcase. ‘When you step into your apartment, I’m sure it seems empty to you, even today. Doesn’t it?’
For one brief moment Perlmann experienced the same rage as he had felt in the silent tunnel; it was as if it had ceased only for a few minutes, not for several days.
‘Kirsten will be there,’ he lied. And then, contrary to his intentions, he asked the question: ‘Klim Samgin – how does he come to terms with his trauma? Or doesn’t he?’
Leskov made the face of someone normally unnoticed who learns, completely unexpectedly, that someone is interested in him, in him personally.
‘I’ve thought a lot about that. But it’s strange: Gorky doesn’t answer the question. On the one hand the memory of the hole in the ice keeps flashing up; on the other hand you don’t learn anything about how Klim feels about it. If you ask me: you can’t really come to terms with a trauma of that kind. It isn’t so much that something terrible happened to him that he couldn’t do anything about. Like me with prison. He lets go of the belt; that is, he does something, he performs an action. And also there’s this hatred within him. If there’s any chance of something that might be a real reconciliation with oneself, and not just a frantic self-reassurance. I doubt it. The red hands will never have let him go again. Or what do you think?’
Perlmann didn’t say anything, and just shrugged. Leskov took a step towards him, and put his arms around him. As stiff as a mannequin, Perlmann let him do it.
‘I’ll write to you straight away about the text!’ called Leskov, as the official flicked through his passport. ‘And, of course, I’ll send you a copy as soon as it’s typed out!’
Incapable of reacting, Perlmann watched Leskov waving his passport before he disappeared. With his head completely empty, Perlmann stood on the same spot. For several minutes he noticed nothing of the bustle going on around him. Only when a running child bumped into his case did he really come to his senses. Over. Again and again he said the word, only inwardly at first, then under his voice. It had no effect. The relief he longed for didn’t materialize. He took a few sluggish steps and leaned against a column. Fifteen hours, then for Leskov days of despair would begin, of impotent fury with himself and his increasingly faint hope of a dispatch from Lufthansa. Perlmann involuntarily hunched his shoulders and folded his arms in front of his chest.
Nothing had changed
in the waiting list for the afternoon flight from Frankfurt to Turin. There was still that one man in front of him. Perlmann walked over to the bar. But even before he was served his coffee, he left some money on the bar and went up to the viewing terrace. He set down his luggage as far as possible from the place where, long ago, he would have left the suitcase, had it not been for the girl in sneakers. The pilots were already sitting in the cockpit, and now two cleaning women with big garbage bags were leaving the plane. Do you know what I’m most afraid of? The cleaning crew.
Leskov was one of the first to leave the bus, which had driven out to the plane in a big loop. With his heavy gait he climbed the gangway and, at one point, he seemed to have trodden on a flap of his loden coat. Having reached the top, he looked as if he wanted to turn round, but was forced in by the others.
Perlmann wanted to go. He stayed where he was. Behind which window might Leskov be sitting? The plane rolled painfully slowly to the start of the runway, and time seemed to stretch to tearing point. After it had turned, the plane stood there as if it couldn’t be moved again, waiting in the pale morning light that seeped through a fine veil of clouds. Otherwise, nothing moved on the empty tarmac. Perlmann held his breath and felt his blood thumping. He felt as if this silence and inertia had been staged specifically for him, even though he couldn’t have said why, or what its message might have been. For several minutes the whole world seemed to him to have been frozen in an unintelligible act of waiting. Only the revving of the engine set time in motion once more. Without knowing why, and caught up in his blind tension, Perlmann concentrated on the precise moment when the tires lost contact with the runway. Then, when the plane flew out in a lazy loop over the sea, he saw in his mind’s eye the view that Leskov had now. That’s how I imagined the Riviera, exactly like that, he heard Leskov saying. Perlmann only bent for his luggage when the low cloud had swallowed up the last flash of the wings.
Perlmann's Silence Page 62