The Interpreter Read online

  ‘Odessa murderer strikes again’, ‘Swiss criminal holds police at bay’, ‘Felix Bellamy, the Beast of Bukovina’.

  I bought all the newspapers that mentioned me and piled them up on the back seat; I still have some cuttings, and carry them about with me in my wallet. I drove along highways and byways, pillaging shops, attacking stationary articulated lorries and isolated houses, but my true passion was the petrol stations on the A576. There was something particularly thrilling about training a gun on a roomful of people while the traffic rolled quietly by behind my back; someone might turn on me at any moment, one of the men I was threatening might pull out a gun himself, the police might burst in. In fact, none of this ever happened; those grim faces were afraid of me, people were quaking, some of them crying. They were at my mercy: I could kill them one by one with a bullet in the head or torture them slowly, firing at them limb by limb. I could do anything – except exchange my fate with theirs. I could have selected one of them at random, stuck my pistol in his hand and taken his place among the rest. I could have freed myself of myself, of that unknown me who was pursuing me, whose poisonous breath I felt upon my neck.

  I always used the same strategy for my attacks: I’d hide the car in some track in the surrounding countryside and approach my goal by foot. I’d wait until there were few enough people in the service station for me to be able to observe them at length and assess their reactions. At such moments I felt strangely powerful: I was afraid of no one and nothing, not even of my convulsions, though these, it was true, were becoming increasingly few and far between. They added yet another grim note to the fear felt by my victims as, pistol cocked, I would begin to jabber and howl, wide-eyed and quivering. At such times, too, I felt my body monstrously enlarged, as though, until that point, it had been nothing more than a cold statue, and I had come into possession of it then and there. I saw my own flesh magnified as though under a microscope, my hairs like posts implanted in my skin, my wrinkles like canyons in a petrified desert, my bones like deformed encrustations created from a jet of red-hot lava which had suddenly solidified. When in the grip of such hallucinations I would note the tug of each muscle, the impulse of every nerve, taking stock of their efficiency, amazed by their effortless infallibility, surprised to find myself so resilient, my movements as deft and firm as those of a healthy man. A strange tingling sensation would creep along my limbs; they felt refreshed, as though cleansed of some lingering poison. It was as though all that was left of me was my body; something which had prevented it from developing was falling away. This hollow armature of flesh and bone was growing exponentially, capable now of unheard-of feats. Perhaps, in fact, one single shove would have knocked me off my feet; if one of my victims had had the courage to come up to me and twist my wrist I would have dropped the gun and fallen to my knees in pain, lain spread-eagled in the sawdust, alive yet dead, like a lizard’s chopped-off tail. Sometimes a deathly chill would creep over me, as though I were turning to ice, but then the sheer thrill of the engagement would heat my blood, sending it beating through my temples, surging through my veins; I would stamp my feet wildly and shriek out my threats, clutching the butt of my gun and feeling that I too was made of gunmetal. I’d fire the odd shot in the confusion, picking off the glasses in their racks, or aiming at the electronic games. I didn’t waste my bullets, though; I’d found some cartridge clips in Radu’s car, but I was nervous about running out of ammunition. After my attacks I’d run away off into the countryside, lock myself in the car, hide the money and pistol under the seat and call a number chosen at random from the list on Radu’s mobile:

  ‘This is Felix Bellamy. I’ve just robbed the Astori Service Station on the A576. I’m the person who killed Radu, the one you wanted to chop up and sell by the kilo, the one who will eventually do for the lot of you, one by one!’

  I’d burst out into peals of vicious laughter, turn off the phone, close my eyes and stretch out on the seat, waiting until the blare of sirens had died down on the main road. I’d set off again a few hours later, quite unfazed, driving coolly past the station I’d just ransacked. I often slept in the car; sometimes, when I felt insecure, I’d drive into a town, select a smart hotel and stay there for a day or two. I was sorry to have to throw Radu’s mobile away when the battery ran down; it amused me to terrorise his friends with my phone calls. But by now I no longer needed to build up a reputation; at least some of the fur-hatted surgeon’s henchmen would not have had a good night’s sleep for quite some time.

  For the brief period when I was travelling the roads of Romania like a buccaneer, my physical problem seemed to vanish. My convulsions became rarer, I no longer suffered from nausea or dizziness; even the raging sweating fits to which I had previously been subject, leaving me in a state of utter prostration, suddenly stopped. I had a hearty appetite, and fell into a deep and dreamless sleep the moment my head touched the pillow. I would wake up refreshed, clear-headed, my mind crystalline as the morning air. I’d get back into the car and set off on my looting sprees as though they were my daily task, a new profession I had found for myself, one which I practised scrupulously and well. It was as though I were in the grip of a sort of hypnosis, as though I were obeying an instinct. I knew that what I was doing was monstrous, but I had no sense of guilt; taking out my gun and pointing it at the defenceless clients of the petrol stations I found along my way had become a bodily need, an impulse I could not resist. I was acting like an animal; for the few minutes my assaults lasted, I truly felt that I had been transformed into some lesser being. I must have cut a terrifying figure, because people backed off even before I pulled out my gun. Perhaps my face took on the rapacious look of the interpreter; perhaps, like his, my words came out as eldritch howls; yet when I looked at myself in the rear-view mirror when I got back into the car, my face looked completely normal, and it was only slowly that I realised what I had done. My baffled mind was a brazier in which a great fire had at last been extinguished, still clouded by dense smoke; all that remained after such devastation was shrouded in fog.

  I was going to have to get rid of Radu’s car; it was beginning to arouse suspicion, even in the remote mountain service stations where I went to fill up with petrol to avoid the A576. One afternoon, driving towards Cluj, where I was intending to spend the night, I noticed the hangar of a brand new shoe factory just off the road, with several luxury cars with foreign number plates parked outside it. I turned off the engine and peered at the prefabricated building through the wire netting. Suddenly I heard a blind go down, then, one by one, all the lights went out. I picked up Radu’s rucksack, got out of the car and slithered down the grass bank until I came to the point where the wire netting ended. I saw a group of people come out of the building and gather for a few minutes on the gravel, chatting and smoking before throwing down their butt ends and getting into their cars, driving off rapidly down the road which was now vanishing into the evening mist. Once clear of the gates, one of them – a grey Mercedes – had drawn up in the darkness to the side of the little road, well clear of the streetlights. A man got out, holding a mobile phone to his ear, walking and talking at the same time, staring at the tips of his shoes. I ran down the hill a little further and took up a position at the edge of the ditch, in order to have a better view. I couldn’t see anything inside the car; the tinted windows reflected dark reddish clouds. The man carried on talking. Numb with cold as he probably was, he had one of his hands in his pocket. I could see his breath above the boot; I leapt across the ditch, threw open the car door and jumped in, hearing him shout as I turned the engine on. I heard gunfire, and a bang on the boot lid; while I was watching the man turn around and try vainly to run after me, I felt a pair of cold hands pressing on my throat, and pointed nails digging into my eyes. I braked sharply, turned round on the seat as best I could and directed a few vicious punches in the direction of my assailant before driving on at speed, my tyres smoldering on the asphalt. I hit something soft and yielding, whose scent would linger on my
sleeve for quite some time. I heard a gasp, a coughing fit, and then a feeble moan from time to time. I left the A576, drove up into the mountains for a few kilometres and stopped at the edge of a village; I got out of the car and opened the back door, to find a young girl curled up on the seat, just visible in the yellow glow of the safety light. I made a cautious move in her direction, but she instantly began kicking and shrieking like a madwoman. Afraid of attracting attention, I got in and drove off again, in search of a suitable place both to rob a Romanian car and to rid myself of my unwelcome visitor. I drove slowly, down dark empty roads, through nameless villages, past isolated farms, by empty haylofts and old agricultural machinery sunk in the dripping mist of dismal fields.

  ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you!’ I tried saying in Romanian, peering at my prisoner in the rear-view mirror, but she was too terrified to answer; she was breathing with difficulty and sobbing quietly.

  ‘Don’t be afraid. I won’t come anywhere near you!’ I insisted. ‘All I’m interested in is the car. As soon as we’re back on the main road I’ll let you out, I promise!’

  That seemed to calm her down, though she continued sobbing; she sat stock-still, watching my every movement.

  ‘And where would you drop me? On the roadside?’ she asked after a bit.

  ‘I’ll drive you wherever you want to go,’ I told her gallantly.

  ‘I want to go to Cluj, to my hotel,’ she said testily, between sobs.

  ‘I can’t go to Cluj with this car, at least not until I’ve changed the number plate. I’d have the police straight on my tail!’ I objected politely but firmly.

  ‘So what are we going to do?’ she asked plaintively.

  ‘Haven’t you got a mobile?’ I was beginning to lose patience.

  ‘The battery’s flat. And my clients are waiting for me at Cluj, for a working dinner!’ Now she too was becoming angry.

  ‘Then I’ll take you back to the factory and you can phone from there for someone to pick you up,’ I suggested.

  ‘The factory will be closed by now!’

  ‘There must be a guard. We could break a window!’ I snapped back, irritated by her quibbles.

  Drying her eyes, she nodded. I heard her blowing her nose; her breathing was now almost normal.

  I turned the car round in search of a road that ran downhill. It was raining heavily; the headlights served almost no purpose, staining the mist yellow but not shining through it.

  ‘We can speak French if you prefer,’ the girl said suddenly, in perfect French.

  I raised my eyes to look in the rear mirror, seeking her out in the dark.

  ‘French? Are you French?’ I asked more cordially, delighted to have a chance to speak my native tongue.

  ‘No, I’m Romanian. I’m an interpreter.’

  At those words, pain blossomed in my stomach, a short-lived cramp clenching my vital organs.

  ‘An interpreter?’ I repeated blankly.

  ‘What about you? I don’t think you’re Romanian. Am I right?’

  ‘No, I’m not Romanian,’ I answered absently, and left it at that.

  No sooner were we down in the valley than I noticed I had a flat tyre. I found a spare one in the boot, but I didn’t feel confident that the car would perform well if it came to a chase. The situation was touch and go; to add to my worries, there was that unintentional hostage. Swearing to myself, I changed the wheel, realising now that instead of going back to the factory I would do better to get myself another car. The girl was watchful, glancing nervously out of the window. Down here on the plain too it was raining heavily, obliging me to reduce my speed. Peering into the darkness, I tried to work out where we were. Beyond a curve in the road I saw the lit sign of a decrepit service station, and slowed down; through the streaming windows I could just make out the figure of a mechanic, seated in front of a television. Two cars were parked under the canopy. I veered off the road and swerved into the muddy forecourt, turned off the engine and twisted round in my seat, switching on the safety light. It was then that I had my first good view of her: she had large, troubled eyes, light skin and an unruly black fringe. Her features were delicate, but she had a cold expression on her face. Something about her made me feel uneasy, as though it were she who had the upper hand. Unable to hold her gaze, I pretended to be scanning the darkness beyond the window.

  ‘Look, why don’t you go and call your friends? Then you can come back and wait for them here in the car.’

  She looked at me suspiciously and seemed about to get out, but then hesitated.

  ‘What about you?’ she asked, although she didn’t look at me.

  ‘Don’t worry about me. I’ll be off – and I’m sorry about the mix-up,’ I said, holding my hand out stupidly towards her above the seat. She stared at me thoughtfully, biting her lip, looking now at me, now at the lights in the bar. Clutching her handbag to her, she thrust a shoulder to the door and clambered out; I watched her bedraggled figure disappear into the darkness, then got out myself and went up to the two cars. I hadn’t noticed it from the road, but the larger one was raised up on a jack. The other was an old Alfa Romeo; the door was unlocked and I climbed in and sat down in the dry. I wanted to wait for the girl to come back and get into the safety of the car before going to force the mechanic to give me the keys. But there was no sign of her, and I was beginning to lose patience. The rain was hammering down loudly on the metal roofing; beyond the wall of water I could just make out the glass door to the service station. Suddenly, amidst the din of the water crashing from the eaves, I heard a cry. I leapt out of the car and stumbled through the mud, flinging myself into the service station, pistol cocked. The girl was stretched out on the damp sawdust in a state of semi-undress, with the mechanic on top of her, holding her by the wrists. Seeing me, he tried to get to his feet, but got caught up in his trousers and fell back on his knees; his forearms on the ground, he gave me a doltish stare. Without thinking what I was doing, I began to kick him in the face, but instead of defending himself he just lay there motionless, as though impervious to my blows, and that made me more furious than ever. Had the girl not shaken me from my trance-like state with a loud cry, I would have kicked the man to death. As it was, though, I turned my attentions elsewhere, leaving him groping about on the floor, his face covered in blood; I rushed over to the counter and rummaged through the drawers until I came upon the bunch of keys with the Alfa Romeo shield. While I was about it, I thought I might as well make off with the takings into the bargain, together with a wallet lying on a nearby chair. Then I rushed out, dragging the girl behind me, switched on the engine of the Alfa, parked beneath the dripping awning, and set off hell for leather towards Cluj.

  My prisoner was now crying harder than ever, pulling her sopping jacket across her chest.

  ‘My handbag! I’ve lost my handbag!’ she wailed, running her hands desperately over the seats.

  Driving was becoming all but impossible; the road was a mass of huge puddles. My wheels sank into the mud and disengaged themselves with loud sucking noises, sending me skidding across the road. I no longer had the faintest idea of where I was, and would drive pointlessly towards any light I saw looming through the wall of water. I’d been driving for almost an hour when I realised that I’d overshot Cluj by quite some distance: we were now on the minor road to Oradea.

  The radio was announcing accidents and traffic jams, caused by the monumental downpour that had unleashed itself on the region. The seven o’clock news bulletin also made mention of my latest exploit.

  ‘The Beast of Bukovina has struck again, this time with the help of a mysterious accomplice. The police found documents and personal effects belonging to a Romanian citizen, a certain Magda Kobori, on the scene of the crime. According to evidence given by the victim, Bellamy is using the woman as a decoy,’ said the announcer.

  ‘This is too dreadful! What sort of a pickle have you got me into now? You’re a raving lunatic! Why on God’s earth did you attack that man? And now I’m your
accomplice! Me, a gangster’s moll…’ Then her tone changed, becoming almost a murmur:

  ‘I…I wanted to thank you…’ She gave a lengthy sigh and dissolved into tears again, but this time more gently, in a way that I found touching: survivor’s tears of sheer relief.

  ‘So you’re the Beast of Bukovina!’ she exclaimed incredulously, reverting a little to her former self.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, young lady! My name is Felix Bellamy. Believe it or not, I’m a peace-loving Swiss citizen who, until recently, practised one of the most trouble-free professions in the world!’

  Oradea was awash with swirling water. The river had broken its banks further upstream, sweeping away the electricity pylons. As we approached the centre we sighted a hotel with its lights on, but felt nervous about going in. I told Magda to get out, then drove on for a few metres and left the Alfa in a supermarket carpark. I went back to the hotel and asked for a single room, pretending not to recognise the pretty girl who was registering at the reception desk, complaining about the loss of her luggage in the chaos. A few moments later, she came to knock on my door.

  ‘It’s impossible to make a call; the line is down and won’t be mended until tomorrow!’ she told me in a state of some alarm. I don’t know how I found the courage to pull her into the room; her expression was cold and resentful, as though she expected it. I removed my hand from her arm and took a few steps back.