The Interpreter Read online

  I drew a chair up to the bed and sat down, taking her hand.

  ‘Please, calm down, just try to forget about all that; stop tormenting yourself. In fact, why don’t we speak German?’ I suggested.

  ‘No, please…Let me speak just a little more Romanian. For me, this will be the last time.’

  At the time, I did not know what Roxana meant by those words. She apologised for having fought me off so aggressively, but it was I who felt mortified at having yielded to her entreaties. I felt responsible for the sudden worsening of her condition, and for the intensive course in Navajo to which she had been subjected.

  ‘Don’t worry! A little Navajo has done me good,’ she reassured me with a smile. ‘But I’ve got a question for you too: what makes you so interested in hearing about him?’

  ‘I know him; he worked for me, but it would take too long to explain,’ I answered evasively. It was then that I was suddenly seized with the fear that Irene too might have met the same end as Roxana, and might even now be locked up in some psychiatric clinic, victim of who knows what form of madness.

  ‘Do you know where he ended up?’ I asked, returning to the matter in hand.

  ‘He was on his way to Odessa; I don’t know what he was going to do there.’

  ‘That’s the second city on the list!’

  ‘You too know about the list?’

  ‘Yes. What does it mean?’

  ‘That’s something I’ve never been able to understand. He was always rewriting it – on tram tickets, on restaurant bills, on newspapers. He’d recite it aloud all the time, like a mantra.’

  I waited until Roxana fell asleep before leaving her; there in the moonlight, her face at last looked serene. I went back to my room, found my bag on top of the cupboard and stuffed my things into it. I was lost in a maze of thoughts, and it was a long time before I fell asleep. The following morning I went to Dr Barnung’s study to take leave of him, and his clinic too. He received me without a word and had me sit down in the armchair in front of his massive desk; the bright sunlight lit up our faces, setting the little glass medicine cupboard at the end of the room ablaze as though it were a sacred reliquary. The cat was crouched as ever on the windowsill, licking its paws; a few snowdrops had pushed up through the soil in the garden.

  ‘Mr Bellamy, your cure is not yet complete. By interrupting it, you are jeopardising all that you’ve gained so far. The sense of security by which you are currently pervaded is purely illusory, it is due to the daily salvo of intensive courses you are undergoing – it is not, how should we put it, self-generating. The beneficial effect of intensive Romanian is not sufficiently strongly rooted within you, it cannot yet sway your character. As soon as you abandon the daily gymnastics which support it, your language will once again fall into disorder. You’re courting trouble, Mr Bellamy!’

  His solemn tones rang out like a threat, and he looked me long and intensely in the eye.

  I arrived in Odessa one dark night at the end of February; a freezing wind was blowing, sending the dry snow swirling around like dust, heaping it up along the runways and hurling it against the hangars and the parked cars in the icebound fields. I chose a hotel at random from among the leaflets in the airport hall, and got into the first taxi to hand. We drove through vast squares filled with snow-covered lawns, with dark stone monuments towering above them, then through the wide streets of the centre, where streetlamps shuddered in the wind, sending dark shadows over the crumbling stucco facades of the old palaces. My hotel, the Krasnaya, was described as overlooking the sea, but I could not make out any water when we arrived at a modern building set somewhat back from the road. I found myself in a cold, ill-lit foyer, draped with heavy purple hangings; a few couples were sitting in armchairs in the bar. To the other side of the glass partition, a waiter was laying the tables in the restaurant; the clock above the reception desk was chiming eleven. A smell of deodorant sprayed over musty fabric filled the air. I saw that that evening I would be eating alone, with no one else to talk to, and I suddenly felt nostalgic for Dr Barnung’s clinic and for my table of eccentric fellow patients. I would have preferred to talk to Vandekerkhove rather than endure that solitude. What I now saw before me was no longer the smiling vision of a life to come, but once again a yawning chasm, splitting off into a thousand narrow galleries. I realised that Dr Barnung had been right: I was not cured and, once away from the Romanian laboratory, my wound was beginning to bleed again. I was seized by a sense of panic and struggled to prevent myself crying out; I felt suddenly powerless, rooted to the spot, paralysed by the expanse of time that was opening up before me like some foul intestine. I went into my room without even turning the light on, in order not to see the table in front of the window, the cupboard and the chair and the bedcover of dismal printed cotton. I lay down on the bed and tried to sleep but after a bit, to my total consternation, I was seized by a convulsion, the first I’d suffered for a long time. I leapt to my feet, trying to contain myself, taking deep breaths to lessen the spasms, but the usual senseless words, the usual mangled sounds gurgled up from the diseased depths of my being like a tainted wave, and all I could do was spit them out. When at last the attack was over I lay down again, weary and dazed; I wrapped myself up in the clammy covers and fell asleep. Over the days that followed, things got worse: the rhythm of my linguistic ravings quickened, and sometimes I would fall prey to strange dizzy spells. Infinite anguish was raining down upon me from measureless heights.

  Despite my malaise, I persisted in my search for the interpreter, though I had not the faintest idea of where he might be, and faced with that boundless city I began to lose heart; my legs felt heavy, my heart sank like a stone. Yet somehow I felt that my man was not far away, and that sensation quickened my impatience, excited my already frayed nerves; bereft of Dr Barnung’s beneficial mumbo jumbo, I felt that only with the interpreter would I find relief. I could scent his presence in the air; sometimes I thought I saw his face in the crowded streets. Some irresistible force was driving me on and, against all reason, I yielded willingly to its call. Within me, someone who was no longer me, but not yet someone else, wanted to know where that man had ended up, and was using my body to achieve his aim, but Dr Barnung’s tapes were no longer there to keep him at bay. Sometimes, within me, I felt that the metamorphosis was actually taking place, I felt that ‘other’ surfacing under my skin; I would touch my face and find shapes I didn’t recognise, sudden wrinkles and lumps I hadn’t felt before, but when I ran to look at myself in the mirror I would find my face unchanged, merely alarmed by those inexplicable hallucinations.

  I proffered a few banknotes to the hotel porter, asking him to let me check the register for the last few months, to see whether the interpreter had been staying there; aware that I was looking for a needle in a haystack, I nonetheless scrutinised the pages back as far as last July – perhaps he had been travelling under a false name; there was no knowing what documents he’d used. Then it occurred to me to ask the porter if he remembered any client who resembled him; but I found him impossible to describe, not a single feature of his face had lodged itself in my mind. Furthermore, whatever language could I say he spoke? I went systematically through all the hotels in the city, paying lordly tips to get my hands on the registers, but I found nothing. I would spend whole afternoons observing the comings and goings of taxi drivers, self-serving busybodies in pursuit of powerful businessmen, women with showy jewellery perched on huge suitcases; I would listen to them talking, stare at their mouths without understanding a word they said. I thought of the interpreter, who could take possession of any language in no time at all, speak it like an impostor, as though it were his own. And I knew he didn’t just learn them, repeating them and imitating their forms – he sucked them into his monstrous memory, pillaged them as bees do flowers, leaving them apparently intact but in fact drained of all blood. I thought of Irene, bewitched by who knows what words and lost forever; of Roxana, bereft of her mother tongue, prisoner of a silence
which was destroying her mind. In my pursuit of the interpreter, I was running the same risks. I saw that he took something away from each language he learned, some vital quintessence which his greed snuffed out for good; that the voice of whole peoples was being muffled, deadened at his passing, their languages impoverished and castrated, and that the whole world was now scored by an invisible trail of silence which that diabolical being was covertly digging out ever more deeply with his unwholesome wanderings.

  I would go back to my hotel before darkness fell, have an early supper and spend the rest of the evening in the bar, to ensure being dead drunk by the time I went to bed.

  Had it not been for my loneliness and ill health, when I got on and off the buses or walked along the seafront I might have thought myself on holiday. I found a bus route which went out of the city to a nearby tourist spot on the sea, where I would spend whole days in relative tranquillity; I’d found the wreck of an old ship beached in the sand, and I would climb up onto the deck. Water had seeped into the seaweed-covered hull, and huge dark fishes had become trapped there; misshapen silhouettes, they swam around slowly, open-mouthed, drinking in the water as though nourishing themselves on the rusty metal as it dissolved. Leaning over, I could see their slimy backs, their bellies with their greenish scales. I would prod at them with a stick, trying to lure them out of their lairs, but the frightened creatures would simply dart down into the depths, leaving just the odd slow-moving bubble behind them. I felt strangely drawn to that grisly wreck, with its sharp smell of corroding iron; once there, I would lose myself in the wild seascape, offer my face to the carefree wind coming from the open sea as though it might purify me, heal my inner wounds, set me free from that dogged pursuit, or perhaps just sweep me away, like a bit of dry seaweed, like a cuttlefish bone. That sweep of blue, bitingly cold though it was, distracted my haunted mind and made me feel less alone; I walked along stark white beaches, thrashed by violent waves, disturbing fishermen and shell collectors, followed at a distance by a barking dog, for all the world as though it were one of those Sunday afternoons when I would stroll around the lake in former times and, lost in my thoughts, would walk so far that I would have to find a taxi to take me back.

  One Sunday I went back to the city earlier than usual; the sky had turned leaden, and a sharp east wind was blowing branches and rubbish up onto the beach. Soon it began to snow; the frozen flakes mingled with the sand, whistling among the brushwood; I sought refuge in the bus, which was waiting at the bus stop. The driver was asleep and was not best pleased when I knocked on the door to ask him to let me in. The city, when we reached it, was sunk in snow, the whiteness of the streets marred only by the odd tyre mark; I went back to the hotel but hesitated to go up to my room for fear of loneliness. At least there were people in the foyer, the waiters were chatting to each other and a group had just gathered in the bar, drinking beer and laughing uproariously; I lingered among the armchairs, uncertain as to what to do, when I found myself in front of a man wearing a sailor’s cap, holding out a strip of cardboard bearing the words ‘Stauber – Geneva’. I stared at it, intrigued by the coincidence. The man came up to me.

  ‘Are you Gunther Stauber, the interpreter?’ he asked me in strongly accented French. I jumped, then looked around me in alarm.

  ‘That’s me!’ I replied firmly, without any idea as to what prompted this reply.

  ‘They’re waiting for you down at the harbour; after you’ve seen them, I’ll bring you back to the hotel,’ the sailor said, leading the way. We got into a car and made our way towards an outlying part of town strewn with abandoned antenna towers, half-built hangars and ugly, peeling blocks of flats; piles of snow were building up in odd corners and blinding slivers of ice hung over the drains at the edges of the pavement. Then, at the end of the road, the sea came into view, dark, rough and flecked with foam. The sailor led me to a pier where a French merchant ship was berthed, the Saint-Nazaire; an officer came towards me from the deck and took me into the control room, out of the wind. We shook hands.

  ‘Welcome on board, Mr Stauber. I am Delattre, Captain Jacques Delattre. Above all, first I would like to thank you for agreeing to come to our aid. I must admit, when I first turned to the Red Cross, I wasn’t at all hopeful; conditions being what they are, I couldn’t see what they could do. But I’ve known Admiral Van Wijlen since naval college; we haven’t often met in recent years, but we’ve stayed in contact. He promised me he would take a personal interest in the matter, and he’s always been a man of his word. He’d spoken to me on the phone about a well-known interpreter, a top-grade functionary in some important Geneva-based international organisation and an expert in Asiatic languages whom he knew personally. A little less than a week ago, he cabled me to tell me that he had been transferred to Odessa. I’m happy to have you among us; even if, at this juncture, I’m not sure that even an expert like yourself can be of much use to us!’

  Without the faintest idea of what he was talking about, I nodded, beginning to fear that I had got myself into something of a pickle.

  ‘I don’t know if you are au courant,’ he said, clasping his hands behind his back and glancing at the sailor, who shook his head.

  ‘I’m not au courant with anything; I only knew that someone from the Saint-Nazaire would be getting in touch with me,’ I lied.

  ‘Well, then, let’s go downstairs,’ the Frenchman said, following the sailor to the companionway.

  ‘You see, it’s a strange business, one to be handled with care – we might find ourselves in trouble with the Ukrainian authorities. But it isn’t an isolated phenomenon, either,’ he went on as we walked. We came to a corridor lit by small lights screwed into the ceiling, then stopped in front of a cabin door.

  ‘They’ve put him in here for the moment, but we found him in the hold where the timber is stored. He looked more animal than human – he was wearing just a filthy overall and his feet were bound up in rags tied up with wire. The nurse has given him a tranquilliser, so he may be a bit confused. We tried asking him who he was, but he just answered in that incomprehensible gibberish of his, and that was when I called in Van Wiljen – we need someone who knows the languages spoken in Siberia, which is where we imagine this man comes from. We ply a route between Nahodka and Marseilles, taking machinery to Siberia and coming back through South-East Asia laden with tropical timber, calling in at Odessa where we sell some of our teak, and that’s where we discovered him. But Nahodka is the only place where he could have come on board.’

  The captain gave me a serious look and placed his hands on the handle of the cabin door.

  ‘The worrying thing about all this, you see, is that he’s the fourth man we have found in our hold in as many months; it can’t be pure coincidence. We want to know who these individuals are, where they come from and what they are looking for on our ship; perhaps they are being sent by someone; perhaps, without knowing it, we’re being made a third party in some illicit trafficking,’ he added before sharply turning the handle of the cabin door.

  The midget of a man lying on a camp bed, in the glare of a neon strip, had eastern features and a mad look in his eyes; upon our entry he shook his head and gave us a wide-eyed stare. The captain and the sailor shuffled towards the back of the cabin and waited for me to speak. I would have to enter into the spirit of the thing and come up with some fabrication, so I addressed some words of gibberish to him, surprised by the ease with which I did so. Hearing my words, he frowned; I came out with another string of nonsense, which might have approximated a run-down of my stay in Dr Barnung’s clinic: fragments of the Esperanto text which Kwiatkowski had tried to have me learn, something of what I could remember of Seroa, a bit of Navajo and Vassilenko’s Urdu. Behind my back, the captain and the sailor listened in awed silence. After observing me at length, the man sat up, licked his lips, opened his mouth and began to speak. Then it was my turn to be dumbfounded: for a moment, I thought that it was the interpreter that I was dealing with. The man began to whistle a
nd whimper and quack in just the same way as the interpreter had done, emptying his lungs to emit volleys of clicking sounds, then whistling again, but from his throat, modulating the sound until finally it became one heartfelt, pleading wail. Then he fell silent and lay down again, gazing at the ceiling with blank, staring eyes; at that moment some mysterious inner power took possession of my breathing and I too began to whistle, whimper and quack in precisely the same way as he himself had done, noting, even as I did so, that my rantings were strangely like his own. The whole thing lasted just a few seconds. Now the madman was looking at me, and he seemed suddenly to have become more aware of his surroundings; he began to bang his head on the pillow, twisting it from side to side, howling and clutching the bedframe with his hands. The sailor rushed up to the bed, slipped a leather thong around his torso and pinned him down, then used another to immobilise his legs; he took a syringe from a case he had in his pocket and injected the contents of a yellowish phial into a vein; the man soon quietened down.

  The captain slipped out of the cabin and gestured to me to do likewise.

  ‘Did you manage to catch anything?’ he asked me anxiously.

  ‘I must admit, I didn’t. I don’t know his language – if language is the word. I tried speaking to him in Tungusic and asked him a few questions in Urdu, but he didn’t seem to react. Perhaps he’s just deranged,’ I added airily, amazed at my own cool-headedness.