The Interpreter Read online

  ‘I’m sick!’ I shouted, as a dark flood of liquid poured from my mouth, sullying the sheets and dripping onto the floor. I was aware of Radu jumping up behind me and shaking me viciously by the shoulder, swearing the while and looking around the room for something to clean up the mess. Heedless of the handcuffs, hoping to avoid further damage, he thrust my head over the edge of the bed, but it was too late, I was already soaked in vomit and a trickle of blood was running down my dangling arm. Losing all patience, Radu pulled the soiled sheet from under my stomach and threw it on the floor, kicking at it angrily with his boot; then he reached into his trouser pocket for the key, grabbed the handcuffs and unlocked them. Propping myself up on my elbows, I rubbed my aching wrist, but the sense of relief was short-lived: my jailer was now dragging me down from the bed and propelling me warily towards the door.

  ‘Toilet, toilet,’ he shrieked, cursing as he did so. We went out onto the landing, lit by a single fly-blown bulb; the lavatory was on the other side of the stairs. I noted that we were on the first floor of a crumbling prefabricated building which must once have been a clinic. The other rooms opening off the corridor no longer had any doors at all; a couple of rooms on the ground floor had their doors still hanging from them on rusty hinges. Inside them was assorted debris – broken glass, overturned metal cabinets and broken chairs. The rain was pouring into the stairwell through a shattered skylight; above me I could see a patch of dull grey sky and, despite the biting cold, a barely perceptible stirring of fresh air gave me a feeling of relief. Here and there the aluminium banisters snaked downwards crazily, torn clear of their supports, or had tumbled down into the foyer below, to lie among scrap metal, plastic bags, lumps of masonry, empty tins and broken bottles; grass grew on the upper steps of a staircase which was brought up short by a tumbledown wall. Barefoot, I picked my way cautiously through the debris-spattered mud with which the landing was strewn, with Radu tugging me impatiently by the hand; I wanted to beg him not to twist my arm, but as I opened my mouth to speak I sensed that I was about to be seized by one of my convulsions. I gave him a beseeching look, fearing that he might take it as some form of subterfuge and become violent, but I saw that he was even more frightened than I was, staring at me in terror and backing off. I held out my hands towards him; my tongue glued itself to my palate and my lips stiffened in a way that had become all too familiar. I began to tremble uncontrollably; after a bit of confused gobbling, I produced the usual raucous braying which soon transmuted into a kind of whistle. My teeth were chattering so much that I spat out the remains of my food; I felt I was losing my balance, the world was swaying round me, the lavatory door, the landing, the dripping skylight. Seized by a fit of helpless coughing – now I could scarcely breathe – and terrified of falling, I clutched at Radu’s shoulders; to escape my grip, he started flailing around with his arms and knocked me sharply against the wall. As he retreated, he leaned his back against the tottering banisters, lost his balance and toppled over the edge, pulling the wobbly banisters after him, while I carried on with my insane chirruping and gabbling, lurching around like one possessed.

  When at last the spasms abated, I stood there in silence, listening to the sound of rain dripping onto sheet metal, to the rustle of plastic sheeting shifting in the wind. Aching in every limb, I made my way to the edge of the landing and peered cautiously over the edge, to see a black shape spread-eagled on its back amidst shards of broken glass, speared on the aluminium shafts, the rain gradually diluting the bright sticky stain which was spreading over the floor around him.

  I teetered back into the room, closed the door and warmed myself up in front of the stove for a bit before cleaning myself up as best I could with the freezing water from the washbasin. Matters were not improved by the fact that I had cut both feet by walking on broken glass; I dabbed them with disinfectant and bound them up with gauze which I’d found in the cabinet. I picked up my clothes from the corner where I had thrown them – they were filthy, and damp, but I had nothing else I could put on. I picked up my empty wallet and Tibor Preda’s passport and put them into Radu’s rucksack; I also found the printed list I’d removed from Stauber’s pocket; unsurprisingly, it was now somewhat the worse for wear. I took Radu’s jacket down from the hook – it stank appallingly of sweat and dirt; rummaging around in the pockets, I found some car keys and the pistol, together with a bundle of banknotes, done up in a plastic band. I counted them out. Three thousand dollars – now I knew what I was worth, though the other half was yet to come. I took the handcuffs off the bedhead and put them too into the rucksack. Suddenly the mobile rang, making me jump; I searched for it frantically in my inner pocket, then clutched it in my still trembling hand, watching it ring, feeling as though the unknown controller of my destiny were calling me from the other side, reproaching me, because that move had not been foreseen, and would be paid for dearly; warning me that, however I might struggle, however many Radus I might kill, I would not get away. In those moments of confusion, dazed and relieved as I was by my unexpected escape, the one thing I felt clearly was a sense that I was no longer the person I had once been; at some moment to which I could not return, leaving my being unguarded, I had accidentally departed from it. Having moved on from my old self, I could now look upon it, empty, untenanted, an easy prey to others’ whims. I felt that the ringing of the telephone had indeed been a warning, that soon I too would become a whistling man who would go to die in the convent in Odessa; on the one hand I had no way out, on the other I could afford the unheard-of luxury of playing with a life that was no longer my own. Spotting some bottles of aspirin on a shelf, I stuffed them into my pockets. It was now dark outside. I put on the fur cap, took down a torch that was hanging on the back of the door and made my way cautiously downstairs. Keeping my distance, I shone the light in the direction of Radu’s body where it lay in the dirt: he was still alive, one banister support protruding from his stomach. He was breathing unevenly, and blood was trickling from his mouth; his eyes were open, his expression almost resigned. Dazzled by the torchlight, he blinked; he seemed to be patiently waiting to die. Shivering with horror, I ran into the open, setting off an ominous clanging as I stumbled through scrap metal and tin cans, to find myself in a field furrowed with tyre marks. A thick mist was swirling over the grass, forming eerie configurations. Some distance away, I caught sight of the black car into which I had been unceremoniously bundled who knows how long ago. I got in and turned on the ignition; the lights lit up a gravel road. The engine sputtered for a bit, then the car sprang into motion with a throaty roar.

  It was very dark. The road unrolled before me like a white ribbon in the mist; to either side, the headlights revealed frost-coated canebrakes. There didn’t seem to be anyone else around. I was having trouble driving: my feet were hurting and my right leg quivered, unresponsive to my orders. Every so often it would stiffen on the accelerator, sending the car bounding forwards, then suddenly go limp, causing the engine to cut out. I had no idea where I was, I felt hungry and weak, but I drove through those frozen puddles hell for leather. The dashboard clock told me that it was ten o’clock, but that didn’t help me with the day. It was almost midnight when I at last caught sight of a metalled road, not far away, beyond the canes; I wondered how long I’d been driving along beside it without noticing. Through the mist I glimpsed the yellow halo of headlights, then heard the welcome sound of traffic.

  I turned off the headlights; leaving the engine running, I stretched out and fell asleep at last, though fear and exhaustion ensured that my sleep was not of the most restful, disturbed as it was by a series of hideous nightmares. When I woke up, dawn was beginning to break and the mist was thicker than ever; the branches of the trees were covered in hoarfrost, giving a certain beauty to the grim landscape. I got out of the car, climbed over the ditch and peered up and down the pockmarked road; there was a petrol station on the other side, with neon advertisements in a script I recognised as Cyrillic; there was also a rather dismal-looking bar.
The neon flickered wildly, sending reflections skidding over the oily puddles. Two articulated lorries were parked some way away, liberally splattered with frozen mud; a little further off again were several rusty trailers perched on their stands. I hesitated: I didn’t feel like driving, nor did I have the faintest idea where I was. I thought it might be better to try to hitch a ride, but I was nervous of coming out into the open. I got back into the car, rummaged around between the seats and came upon a bottle of liqueur and some garlic sausage, both of which I attacked with considerable gusto. They warmed me and cheered me up; I was borne aloft on an inexplicable wave of euphoria, raising the bottle to the windscreen to drink to that lackadaisical surge of good fortune which had insisted on saving me when the game was no longer worth the candle. I burst out into furious laughter, picking up Radu’s pistol and aiming it into the void. Once again I heard the trilling of the mobile I still had in my pocket, and this time I managed to answer it.

  ‘Radu is dead!’ I shrieked into it in Romanian.

  ‘Who’s speaking?’ asked a voice in tones of some alarm.

  ‘Felix Bellamy! The man who killed Radu! The whistling man who will kill you all!’ I shrieked again, guffawing as I did so.

  Through the bar window I could see two men sitting on stools in front of the counter, wearing colourful tracksuits under loose windproof jackets; their bootlaces were undone, and they were staring blankly at the wall in front of them, sending the smoke from their cigarettes towards the ceiling. The bartender, a small bald man with a pockmarked face, was drying glasses and cutlery with a cloth; he stared at me absentmindedly as I went in, adjusting his black waiter’s waistcoat with a twitch of his shoulders. There was a welcome smell of smoke and coffee; reassured, I walked past racks of sweets and newspapers, to be informed by the clock on the wall that it was March 2nd. As I sat down at one of the plastic tables by the window, pulling my chair out noisily, the other customers turned to look at me for a moment, then went back to drinking their coffee. They were speaking German; probably the drivers of the two articulated lorries parked outside. I caught the barman’s attention and pointed to the faded photograph of eggs and ham which was hanging above the coffee machine; he bent down behind the bar, I heard him opening a flap and soon afterwards he came to my table and banged down a plate which he’d just taken from a revolving oven. I devoured the half-cold eggs and half-burnt ham with relish, then sipped slowly at the watery coffee, warming my hands on the mug; in the meantime I was racking my brain for the best way to ask for directions without arousing suspicion. I looked around, seeking some point of reference, some clue as to where I might be. There were some dirty plates and a newspaper on the empty table next to me; I leafed through it, trying to decipher the Cyrillic letters – I would at least recognise the name Odessa, I imagined. I was looking at the pictures, at the diagrams with the weather forecast, when my own photograph leapt out at me from the middle of a page – the passport photo I had left with Janos. Under it, in a smaller format, was a photo of a card with Stauber’s name badge on it, surrounded by indecipherable characters and big black headlines. I turned to look towards the bar; the two lorry drivers were still busy chatting, but the barman was looking at me. He was twirling the glasses around in the cloth and putting them back on the shelf, staring at me in the mirror as he did so. I got up slowly, thinking that it would be better to pay and get out without further ado. I felt in my pocket for some money, and it was only then that I remembered that all I had was dollars; I peeled off a banknote without revealing the wad and put it on the counter, slipping my other hand mechanically into the other pocket and gripping the butt of the pistol. The barman didn’t bat an eyelid; he took the note with two fingers and expertly counted out the change, in hryvnia, on the zinc. But as I leaned forwards to take the wad of dog-eared banknotes, I noticed another copy of the paper I had leafed through a moment earlier, propped up against the dishwasher beside the sink, open at the page with my all too prominent photograph. He intercepted my gaze and stiffened: he had recognised me. His lips began to quiver; rigid with fear, he stared at me as if he’d seen a ghost. At first I thought I might try to reassure him, so I leaned up against the counter, seeking the right words; after all, I was the one who should be frightened. But he was shaking his head and moving backwards, clutching at whatever came to hand. I pulled the pistol out of my pocket and pointed it in his direction, shouting as I did so. The man raised his hands and backed up against the shelf on which he’d been replacing the glasses. It was almost as though he wanted me to fire. He seemed calmer now, almost relieved. The lorry drivers had jumped down from their stools and come up to the counter, their hands above their heads. Uncertain of how to proceed, I waved the gun around and signalled to them to leave the bar, but they failed to get the message and scuttled around, white as sheets, shrieking the same word time after time; they took their wallets out of their trouser pockets and threw them down at my feet. Then finally they rushed outside, tripping clumsily over their bootlaces and knocking into tables as they did so. Shortly afterwards I heard their engines roar into life, then saw their lumbering vehicles bouncing over the potholes and driving out into the road, hooting loudly in the mist; they had left the door open behind them, and a blast of cold air blew in, causing the newspapers hanging from the rack to flutter wildly. My coffee was still steaming on the table; the barman was gazing at me imploringly. Now somewhat at a loss, I pointed towards the till; the barman flicked open the drawer, then drew back and turned to face the wall. I went up to the till, grabbed a wad of banknotes at random and thrust them into my pocket; walking backwards, still with my gun trained on him, I picked up the lorry drivers’ wallets and turned to run out of the door. I crossed the road, jumped over the ditch, leapt into the car and set off immediately along the canebrakes, still following the unmetalled road which ran alongside the main one, then branched out once more into the countryside.

  For the moment, the mist showed no signs of lifting; the weak winter sun lightened it but never really broke through. By midday, though, the sky was dazzlingly bright, the light falling sharply on everything in sight and sending out cold reflections. An endless landscape of blurred fields sped past the windows; an occasional house loomed up through the purplish haze, then sank away into the blind eye of my rear-view mirror. I drove for hours without seeing a living soul, without encountering any other roads; sometimes a canal would appear to the side of the track, then wander off again to lose itself in meadows stiff with frost. Finally, in the distance, I saw a dense wall of tree trunks coming towards me through the mist, and found myself engulfed in a fir wood covering one slope of a hill, the road running up it in broad curves. When I emerged from the wood in a clearing at the top, I saw a broad plain stretched out below me, and a bend in a dark, muddy river flowing through fields lightly veiled by the tender green of the new corn. The track now ran downhill through leafless poplar groves, then joined a larger road covered with smooth, black asphalt. Just as I slipped into the flow of traffic, a pale sun finally revealed itself, causing the whole landscape to glitter unexpectedly: points of brightness sparkled on the recently upturned earth, on the metal of the cars, on the scrawls of ice in the ditches. At last I glimpsed a rusty signpost at the side of the road, and slowed down to read it: thirty kilometres to Suceava. Without noticing it, I had entered Romania.

  After a dozen kilometres or so, I stopped to fill up with petrol and buy a few provisions. Going into the bar, I cast a nervous glance over its occupants, a tingle of excitement running down my spine. I fingered the gun in my pocket, feeling a nasty smile form on my lips; I ordered some sausage and coffee and ate hurriedly, glancing around warily as I did so. The barman had abandoned his post to go and wash the kitchen floor; I could see him through the half-open door. Such few customers as there were were smoking in silence and drinking large tankards of beer. I put my cup on the counter and walked towards the door almost with regret, then turned to wink at the girl at the till, who picked up my crumpled banknot
es hastily, pulling her cardigan over her chest in embarrassment. I drove out of the forecourt, past the garage building, parked behind an abandoned articulated lorry and locked myself in – it was time to get some sleep. I set off again around dusk, following the signs to the Hungarian border.

  I still can’t really understand how it was that I became a bandit. I was clearly drunk on the sheer thrill of risk-taking. All sense of caution fell away, and I was gripped by an urge to risk my life in order to get the measure of the destiny that was dogging me. I enjoyed shuffling its cards, but in no way was I seeking a way out: rather than submit to the sentence it had in store for me, I preferred to cock a snook at it by laying myself open to an alternative, equally unpredictable downfall. Sated with the danger into which I was plunging so heedlessly, I forgot about the interpreter and Dr Barnung; but I must admit that my criminal undertakings may also have been fed by a pinch of vanity – poor things, perhaps, but my own. I even went as far as to think that, had my bosses back there in Geneva come to hear of them, they would have been proud of me. After all, they were forever urging me to try out new ideas. Inventiveness, daring, personal initiative, that’s what all bureaucracies are lacking; I’d been hearing that for years. I was proud of this new skill I’d acquired entirely on my own; with a stab of annoyance, I even began to regret that I could no longer enter the lists for promotion to the post of director-general. I committed every robbery hoping to read about it in the next day’s papers, and at night I’d fall asleep imagining the headlines.