Perlmann's Silence

by Pascal Mercier

  He checked in his case and collected his boarding card for the eleven o’clock flight to Frankfurt. He would – he thought in the bar – have to wait five long hours at Frankfurt Airport for the flight to Turin, not knowing whether he would be able to find a seat. If not, he could always drive to Ivrea. He could get there by ten o’clock tomorrow. Admittedly, that would mean he wouldn’t be at the university before Wednesday. But with the prospect of his new job in the bright office Perlmann was invulnerable to reproachful glances.

  In the hall he sat down in a corner and unpacked his books. He picked up each individual one and examined it with puzzled thoroughness, as if it were a document from a very distant, very alien culture. He ran through the contents lists and, although he was familiar with all the topics, he was amazed at all the things that were in there. He opened a few pages at random and read. They were brand-new textbooks, hailed as revolutionary on the blurb, but he had the feeling of reading the same thing as always. The spine of the book snapped when he moved on to the next random sample. The shiny pages with the illustrations and tables smelled particularly intensely of fresh print.

  At last he packed them all away again, leaving out only Leskov’s text. No, the engraved initials on the case couldn’t give him away. Suddenly, he was repelled by the dark sweat-stains on the handle. On the way to the restroom he carried the case in his arms like a shapeless package. He hid it behind the garbage bin under the washbasin and then walked quickly to security control, where the envelope containing Leskov’s text was suspiciously examined.

  Sven Berghoff was sitting with his back to him when Perlmann stepped into the waiting room. Perlmann recognized Berghoff immediately by his unkempt red hair, the raised collar of his jacket and his long ivory cigarette holder, which protruded from the side of his mouth. Berghoff was the only one who had caused Perlmann any difficulties over his leave. It had been his revenge for the fact that Perlmann, whose lectures were always full to capacity, had recently burst in to one of Berghoff’s lectures in search of chalk and had found only six people listening. Berghoff had turned red, claimed there was no chalk there, when there was a great mountain of the stuff beside the sponge and, even though Perlmann, to keep from embarrassing him, had left without any chalk, Berghoff had cut him ever since.

  The sight of Berghoff put Perlmann in a complete panic. All of a sudden there was no Leskov any more, and no text that had to get to the mail. There was only the dark corridor of the institute, the lecture halls and seminar rooms, the grouchy and unctuous remarks of colleagues. He turned round, swung over a barrier and ran – with Leskov’s text pressed firmly to his chest – out to a taxi in which he asked to be driven to the station. Perlmann only calmed down when the train set off for Ivrea.

  57

  It was cold when Perlmann stepped out on to the station forecourt. An icy wind drove sand from an abandoned building site into his eyes. Even though it was just before four, lots of cars were already driving with their lights on. There didn’t seem to be a taxi stand. Holding the hand with Leskov’s text under his coat, Perlmann walked towards the center.

  In the hotel they asked him, perplexed, if he had any luggage. The room he had booked – more expensive than the price originally agreed – seemed shabby after the luxury of the Miramare. When he had showered, he put his clothes back on and went to the window. There was snow on the mountaintops of the Valle d’Aosta. The remaining light in the west was cold and forbidding.

  There were lockers at reception, but they were too small for Leskov’s text. They would keep the envelope somewhere else. ‘Nothing’ll happen to it,’ the man behind the counter said with a smile when Perlmann turned round again at the door.

  The way to Olivetti headquarters led down a long, straight road leading out of the town. The massive building was dark, and the black glass facade, broken at an obtuse angle, looked menacing. There was a single car in the parking lot. Perlmann walked a little way around the star-shaped complex and tried to make out something inside. Behind a side door, a uniformed watchman sat at a faintly lit desk. When he saw Perlmann, he got up and shone his inspection lamp outside. Perlmann turned round and went back to the hotel. On the way the toast that he had eaten on the train kept repeating on him.

  As soon as he had lain down on the bed and covered himself with a blanket from the wardrobe, he fell into a dull sleep, haunted by the priest with the pointed, malevolent face who had sat opposite him on the journey and looked at him disapprovingly every time he smoked a cigarette.

  It was half-past eleven when Perlmann woke up, his limbs stiff. It had been half-past eight when Leskov had spoken of the fifteen hours. So now, when it must have been half-past one in Russia, he was entering his apartment in St Petersburg. He would be dashing to the desk and rummaging among the chaos: nothing. He would be looking in every possible and impossible place, still in his loden coat. In the end he would give up, fall silent and stare into the distance. Gradually, Leskov would start hoping that the text would come by post, perhaps even tomorrow, but certainly on Tuesday. By Wednesday at the latest. He would go into the institute every morning at mail delivery time to receive the dispatch. And every morning he would experience the same disappointment.

  Perlmann went down to reception and asked the grumpy night porter to fetch him the envelope with Leskov’s text. He put it beside his pillow when he crept into bed afterwards, and also laid his coat on the blankets.

  Now Kirsten would be phoning Frankfurt to ask if he had got home all right. He was glad he didn’t have to talk to her. He thought about Giovanni sitting in front of the television. And about Signora Morelli. He didn’t even know what street she lived on. Once again he saw himself standing in the train compartment with Evelyn Mistral, and felt her hands on the back of his neck. She hadn’t said a single word about his notes. Perhaps that was the reason why his thoughts didn’t stay with her any longer than they did. Instead he now kept seeing Brian Millar, just before he got into the taxi, turning towards him once more and raising his hand. No one told me. We should have . . . Perlmann buried his head in the pillow.

  The morning light here was quite different from the light by the sea, harsher and more featureless, without magic and promise. Perlmann showered for a long time and brushed his teeth with the wet corner of his towel. His stubble reminded him of the morning when he had fainted. Before he went to breakfast he checked that Leskov’s text was still in the envelope.

  Afterwards, when he sat on the edge of his bed with the receiver in his hand, the number of Frau Hartwig’s office refused to come to him. A strange weakness, like that caused by a rising fever, kept him from remembering. In the end it was his motor memory when dialling that helped.

  ‘There’s an important meeting at four o’clock today,’ said Frau Hartwig. ‘I just wanted to make sure I’d mentioned it.’

  It was as if her irritability continued straight on from the end of their last conversation – an irritability that had not existed in the last seven years.

  Perlmann held the receiver away from him and exhaled slowly and with great concentration. ‘As I said,’ he said calmly, ‘I’ll be in the office tomorrow morning. At about ten, I would say. And send out those notices as we discussed.’

  He handed in Leskov’s text at reception again, for safe keeping. Yes, he had needed it during the night, he said in reply to their puzzled question. Outside the streets were beginning to fill with commuter traffic. In the future he, too, would go to work in the morning in a stream of others. Or stand in a crowded bus and read the paper. A sandwich in a bar at lunchtime, followed by coffee. In the bar he would see the same people every day, and those wonderfully light, floating acquaintanceships would come into being. Home in the evening to a simple, probably noisy apartment. It would be a while before he got used to the noise, the shouting of children through the thin walls. But on the other hand he would be free, and like everyone else he could lean out of the window in the evening or sit in front of the television. Books – he would allo
w himself some time for those. And then only Italian books, fiction. After a while he might risk translating a novel. If he wasn’t too tired in the evening. Because he would now – for the first time in his life – be a person who had evenings. A person with a proper job. Honest toil. A person with a present.

  Perlmann stopped outside a shop selling toiletries and waited for it to open at nine. He imagined Kirsten stepping into his apartment, still inadequately furnished, after walking down a shabby corridor with damp walls. She was already slightly embarrassed, he thought, but also impressed, and eventually she would say she thought it was great to have a father who did something so unusual.

  He bought the most basic toiletries. Then he went back to the hotel to shave and brush his teeth. The same underwear for a week. He took his tie out of his blazer pocket and put it on. His shirt collar was dirty, and the bloodstain on the lapel of his blazer was impossible to ignore.

  The closer he got to the Olivetti building, the more his confidence faded. After an unfamiliar shave, the wind felt bitter on his cheeks, and that sensation passed into a feeling of general vulnerability. What did he actually want to say to Angelini? How was he to formulate his question? How to explain, so that the whole thing didn’t sound like romantic eccentricity, like a twenty year old’s fantasy of running away? And how could Perlmann avoid revealing a connection with his fainting fit? It would, he thought, have to sound light and undramatic, almost playful. But not capricious. In spite of everything, there would have to be a sense of mature serenity behind the lightness of his words.

  The parking lot was almost full, and people were still streaming into the huge building. Perlmann counted seven floors. The windows of the main facade had a coppery sheen. Behind them, in big, neon-bright offices, nothing but men in suits. He imagined they had a wonderful view of the mountains. On sunny days those spaces would be flooded with light from dawn till dusk.

  It was a quarter to ten. The door behind which the watchman had been sitting yesterday was the exit, through which the employees left the building. As they did so, they stuck a card in a machine. An electronic time clock. Perlmann gave a start. Maybe it was just some sort of security measure. On the other hand: anyone could stroll in unimpeded through the main entrance. He would find out. He, too, would get a card.

  Already in the doorway, he glanced once more across the street. Not a bar to be seen. What he was stepping into now was a kind of ghetto in an open field. On the other hand, he was sure there would be a first-class caféteria. That had its advantages, too.

  Angelini’s office was on the fourth floor of a side wing, and had an anteroom with two more doors leading off it. The secretary brushed the long blonde hair from her brow as she looked in the diary. There was no sign of his name, she said, and looked at him with cool regret from her freckly face. The appointment was more of a private one, said Perlmann, and tried not to be intimidated by her pointed nose and narrow mouth. She looked at his pale trousers, and her eye also lingered for a moment on the lapel of his blazer. Then, with a shrug, she pointed to a chair and returned to the screen.

  Angelini appeared at about half-past ten. His temple still bore the impressions of the pillow. Unasked, the secretary handed him a cup of coffee, which he took into the office. The way he apologized for his lateness and pointed Perlmann to the armchair next to the desk, was so slick it bordered on caricature. He let a stack of letters slip through his fingers, flicked backwards and fished out an envelope that he slit open with a decorated letter opener. As he scanned the text with a frown, he took the occasional sip of coffee. ‘Just one second,’ he said and disappeared into the anteroom.

  The only thing Perlmann liked about the room was the Miró and Matisse prints. But they, too, hung over the conventionally elegant furniture, as if that was just how things were supposed to be. The burgundy leather chair behind the black desk was too flashy and didn’t match it, but it was the only thing that emanated a little individuality. There was no point looking out of the window. It gave a view of a hill with trees and bushes, from which only a few brightly colored leaves still hung. It was only if you stood right off to the left that you could get a view of the mountains.

  Angelini apologized again as he leaned back in the armchair and lit a cigarette. His face was relaxed now, and full of friendly curiosity. ‘What can I do for you?’

  Perlmann looked at the crossed feet under the desk, dangling just above the floor, and below the ankle of Angelini’s right foot he saw a hole in his sock. All of a sudden he felt safe, and the impulse to laugh, which he struggled to suppress, gave his voice the requisite jauntiness.

  ‘I wanted to ask you if the company might have a job for me. As a translator, for example. Something like that.’

  It was the last thing Angelini had expected. His feet stopped dangling. Without looking at Perlmann he picked up his coffee cup and drank it down in a series of slow sips. He took his time. Yet again he ran his cigarette along the inner rim of the ashtray. Then he looked up.

  ‘You mean . . . ?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Perlmann, ‘I’m giving up my professorship.’

  Angelini stubbed out his cigarette. His face now looked as if he didn’t know what expression to decide upon.

  ‘Can I ask why? Has it got something to do with . . . ?’

  ‘No, not at all,’ Perlmann said quickly. ‘I’ve been planning it for ages. I’d just like to try something new. In a new country.’

  Angelini took a cigarette and walked to the window. When he turned to Perlmann, his face was full of baffled admiration. It was the most personal expression that Perlmann had ever seen him wear.

  ‘You know,’ he said slowly, ‘I’m completely bowled over by this. A man of your academic status, your reputation . . .’ He walked to the door. ‘It will take a moment. I also want to ask them about the likelihood of a work permit.’

  The secretary brought Perlmann coffee. Now, all of a sudden, everything was going far too quickly for him. He felt all a-flutter, as if before an exam. In conversation with Angelini he had not, to his knowledge, made any mistakes in Italian. But they would inevitably come. From one minute to the next, even though nothing had happened, he felt clumsier, slow and dim-witted. He wasn’t really talented, that was as true when it came to languages as it was with music. He had a good memory, and he was a hard worker. That was it. He was no Luc Sonntag.

  Angelini was smiling contentedly as he came back. ‘In your case the probationary period would only last a month. Just a question of form. And the legal department sees no problems with your work permit. Where languages are concerned, you’re always at an advantage.’ His expression revealed that he was missing something in Perlmann’s face. ‘And you’re quite sure you want this? Forgive the question. It’s just . . . it’s simply so unusual.’

  ‘I know,’ said Perlmann.

  Even now, Angelini had expected more of a reaction. But after a brief hesitation he made a special effort. ‘Could you start on the second of January? The company will make you an offer over the next few days. And we’ll try and help you with a apartment as well.’

  Perlmann nodded repeatedly.

  ‘While you’re here,’ said Angelini, ‘I can show you your office.’

  It was a cramped office with two desks opposite one another. The window faced backwards, towards the east. It looked down on a low building connected to the main block by a walkway. Beyond it, on the slope, an electricity cabin. In the months when the sun managed to peep over the hill, there might be two or three hours of morning sun.

  The woman at the other desk had turned on the light. ‘This is Signora Medici,’ said Angelini. ‘Our chief translator. She comes from Tyrol and speaks five languages. Or how many is it?’

  ‘Six,’ the woman said, shaking Perlmann’s hand firmly.

  The contrast between name and appearance was so great that he could barely keep from laughing. She was a plump matron in knee socks and sandals, and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses sat on her nose, with lenses as
thick as magnifying glasses.

  ‘Don’t worry, we can speak German,’ she said as Perlmann made one mistake after another.

  After that remark he felt dazed, and later he remembered only that he had stared at the wall with all the holiday postcards, which looked exactly like the wall in Frau Hartwig’s office.

  Yes, he said later in Angelini’s office, his work with the group had been a great success. He would contact him shortly about publication.

  ‘You know,’ Angelini said as they parted, ‘I still can’t imagine why you would want to give all that up. Well, anyway, you can think about it for a while now that you know more about it. And tell Carla out there what your expenses are. She’ll write you a check. This was a job interview, in a way!’

  The secretary was on the phone. Perlmann nodded to her and went outside. On the way to the hotel he accidentally bumped into two people. The man at reception who brought him the envelope containing Leskov’s text, pointed to the address.

  ‘St Petersburg. Will something like that really arrive? I mean, does the mail to Russia actually work? With all the chaos over there?’

  While Perlmann was dozing in the train to Turin, that question pursued him like a stubborn echo. For the whole journey he held the envelope so tightly that there were sweat stains on it afterwards. He kept hearing Signora Medici’s Tyrolean accent, when she had suddenly spoken German.

  At the airport check-in desk he pretended not to speak a word of Italian. He bought two German newspapers, even though he was more interested in the Italian headlines. German, that was the language he knew. The only one. To imagine anything else was conceited nonsense.

  When the plane rose, he saw the grounds of the Fiat works. The people from Fiat. Santini. He closed his eyes. When flying, he had often noticed, thoughts formed that you forgot later when you stepped inside the airport, as if they had never happened, so that it remained unclear for ever whether they had really been thoughts at all. Finding a perspective outside oneself, to live from there in greater freedom within oneself. It could be a goal, he thought, an ideal. But perhaps it was also a chimera, the expression of his fatigue. He picked up both newspapers and read them from the first page to the last. He immediately forgot every article that he had read. So he didn’t need to think, either about what had been or what was yet to come.