The Interpreter Read online

  That was why I was alarmed by the swarm of ranters I was now being called upon to manage. They were people who challenged God, who, out of sheer devilry and vanity, would lean forward to peer into the abyss of madness. They struck me as circus performers, shifty, dishonest quick-change artists, mental stuntmen, who at any moment might put a foot wrong and take a serious fall. In truth, if I had agreed to go and run the interpreters’ department, it was simply because I felt I should do my superiors’ bidding. None of my colleagues wanted that thankless task, no one wanted anything to do with that horde of touchy, lying prima donnas. But I, with the vague promise of some more prestigious future post, had allowed myself to be persuaded. I hadn’t managed to say no. Even Irene said I was a fool. She accused me of going to the office as to a barracks, of performing my job like some blinkered soldier, who carries out the most fatuous corvée without batting an eyelid. She was right. I wore my grey functionary’s suit like a uniform; I was proud of my soldierly career as an anonymous executive. In my Spartan office, amidst the metal furniture and two-tone filing cabinets, I felt safe from the capricious world outside. I was fond of my office and its shabby furnishings; what I liked about it was that it had no history, no character, it was not even mine. It could be taken apart and put up again in a thousand other places without ever absorbing anything of the humanity amidst which it stood: the complete opposite of Irene’s furniture – laden with suffering, blackened by time and shot through with dead voices which, on certain nights, I felt I could hear emanating from the wood and peopling the house with ghosts, with lost souls, forever held back by time’s stealthy undertow. Whereas, in my own office, nothing ever happened which wasn’t caused by me. Everything had its routine, everything was governed by iron rules which protected me from the humiliation of doubt. Safe in my glass barracks, I commanded a gigantic army, with rows of string-bound files in place of tanks, and reams of paper doing duty for bombs, capable of destroying men and things in total silence. I did not know that what would be destroyed – by the few fussy, handwritten lines on a piece of lined paper referred to as Report 99/5162, which I found on my desk that windy March morning – would be me.

  Note to the Director, Interpreters and Conferences Department

  Subject: Mr XXX: Professional behaviour and performance.

  It is reported that, despite continual reprimands and warnings (see previous notes of XXX September and XXX January), Mr XXX, civil servant, grade L/4, continues to be remiss in the performance of his duties, and harbours attitudes that are unsuited to his rank and function.

  In the present case, we are informed that Mr XXX, while engaged in his work as a simultaneous interpreter, emits completely meaningless sounds and whistles; he translates inattentively, adding words of his own invention, which do not figure in the speaker’s speech; he indulges in long pauses, interrupting the translation, and expresses himself in languages other than those required for the meeting in question.

  In the present context, attention should be paid to the view put forward by Dr Herbert Barnung concerning the psychic health of the above, pointed out in an attachment to note n. 16/00, as well as the following notes from the health committee. Bearing in mind his record, and in view of the joint committee’s note 3/408 and articles 41, 64 and 82, section 3, subsection of the internal regulations, we invite the appropriate authority to take suitable steps in this connection, namely, for Mr XXX’s immediate suspension from duty.

  Gunther Stauber

  Head of Department

  Gunther Stauber was a ruddy-faced German with thinning straw-coloured hair. Huddled awkwardly on the armchair in front of my desk because of his girth, he kept crossing and uncrossing his legs, his shirt billowing out at every laboured breath. He tried to offset the massiveness of his frame with an attempt at military bearing which, rather than rendering him more authoritative, in fact made him look like a lion-tamer. He looked on impatiently, waiting for me to take my eyes off the hefty bundle of papers the secretary had laid out for me on the table.

  ‘As you well know, ours is an arduous task. For eight hours a day we spin our brains around as though in a blender. We grind the words of one language down into a fine paste so as to refashion them into those of another, and each word that enters our ears sooner or later will have to issue from our mouths. In the evening, as we leave our booths, it takes a bit of time for our brains to slow down to a normal speed; we need to shut down the machine, take everything to pieces, clean the machinery and let it rest, oiling the screws. But with age, and professional wear and tear, sometimes some people just can’t turn off the engine, so the brain carries on idling. The pieces get worn out, the spools overheat and the mouth spits out not real words, but everything that has got caught up in the gears – remains, dross, the residue of speech. Ultimately, the blade is blunted; it no longer cuts. It baulks at the harder words, beheading them without properly grinding them. They go into the machine and come out mutilated, distorted, but not translated. They are unrecognisable. This is what has happened to our colleague.’

  Instinctively, I raised my hands to rub them over my temples; I suddenly had the unpleasant feeling that I too had something electric running around in my cranium.

  ‘But don’t you think your colleague just needs a bit of a break?’ I objected cautiously. Stauber sniffed disdainfully and stiffened on his seat.

  ‘He’s had a bit of a break, as you put it, on more than one occasion. It’s all there in the file – three long periods of leave for health purposes. In fact, his psychiatrist insisted on it.’

  He sounded irritated, as though these were things he’d already said a hundred times.

  ‘Do you really think his behaviour is unacceptable? After all, he’s still a pro. Very well trained, and highly experienced. Can’t we just wait? And, in the meantime, head him off to less important meetings, where he can do less harm? Some debate at a seminar, nothing technical and not many languages involved?’ was my next suggestion.

  ‘Less important meetings? Impossible! What with his grade, if we don’t send him to ministerial meetings he hits the roof! Prickly as a pear, that’s what he is. He’ll never admit that he’s ill, and he certainly won’t agree to being considered a category two interpreter! If I assign him to meetings where there are fewer than five languages involved, he goes ballistic. He starts writing me notes saying that his abilities are going to waste, and has them sent to all the directors-general! More to the point, our department’s good name is at stake. When an interpreter starts raving into the microphone, no matter how insignificant the meeting, people get to hear of it. The delegates complain. We receive written protests from ambassadors. We can’t afford to wait. Even his colleagues can’t take much more!’

  Stauber was becoming increasingly indignant. Now he straightened up and wiped his forehead with his handkerchief. I stood up and walked towards the window. A stiff breeze was causing the clouds to fray and leave icy trails behind them in the sky. Splashes of yellowish sunlight suddenly fell over the room; without warming them, they gave things a dusty, transient look. They lit up the photo of Irene in its silver frame on the desk. The trams were glittering in the roads below; slowly, laboriously, the city was coming back to life.

  ‘I imagine you know this colleague well. He too is German; he must be about your age. From the records, I see that you were both taken on in the same year. Tell me a bit about his private life. Slip-ups and all. You must know a thing or two. What was he like as a young man? Even he must have been a bit more easygoing in his youth! He can’t always have been so disturbed. I see from his file that he never married, but he might have had girlfriends, and he must have had a family and friends. Apart from languages, he must have had other interests. I don’t know, some hobby or other. Sport, perhaps?’ My thoughts turned with relief to my tulips and roses; they were surely a fig leaf against madness. Stauber heard me out, though he was clearly dying to interrupt.

  ‘Sport, hobbies, friends – forget it! He’s always been just a
s he is today. He arrived here twenty years ago with that same wooden look on his face, eyes glazed over with that same anguish, glaring with that same steely determination – to do what, I’ve no idea. He had something of the spy about him, of the hired assassin. But then at least he didn’t make mistakes. His simultaneous translations were like radio bulletins; his voice was harsh, almost threatening, demanding attention. I remember that some delegates were in awe of him; they’d listen to him through the headphones and then crane their necks to look into the booths, wondering who it was who was speaking in such severe, commanding tones. You’re right, he is German, but his family isn’t from Germany; I think they’re from some Balkan country. He doesn’t drive, he doesn’t smoke, and all he drinks is water. He spends his holidays travelling the world, doing language courses; he’s lived alone in the same furnished flat for twenty years. No one knows much about him; he hasn’t any friends – well, certainly not at work. He always has lunch in the canteen, alone, reading the paper, in a different language each day, and I know that he always has supper in a restaurant near his flat, at seven on the dot. It’s by my bus stop, and when I come home late I see him sitting at his usual place in front of a glass of water, lost in thought, with some strange paper spread out before him. On a few occasions I’ve bumped into him in town of an evening, together with a woman, though never the same one. Although…’

  He crossed his legs and put two fingers in his collar to loosen his tie.

  ‘Although?’ I encouraged him.

  ‘Although not even then did I ever see him smile! I never saw him looking animated, or affectionate or loving. I don’t think they were women he went to bed with; I can’t see him touching them. He seemed somewhat impatient in their company, as though they were distant relatives passing through town and he had to entertain them for the weekend. Do you see what I mean?’

  I nodded. Visibly ill at ease, Stauber was inhaling noisily and wiping his sweaty hands on his trousers.

  ‘Loneliness can play nasty tricks. It can swallow a person up like quicksand,’ he added in a calmer voice, then carried on:

  ‘That man has always kept himself to himself. When it came to organising a conference he would say just the bare minimum to his colleagues, then withdraw behind that hypnotic stare of his, as though he’d ceased to see us, as though we were so many empty chairs. When you talk to him you get the feeling that there’s no one actually there, no personality, just a spongy blob of abnormal memory which has achieved its size by swallowing all the other organs of his body, which is now just an empty shell!’

  I had summoned the head of the German section in order to sort out this irritating matter as quickly as possible; I was looking for the speediest and, for me, the simplest solution. I felt I was wasting my time on such improbable matters as an interpreter who raves and whistles at random. I had trouble even believing such a tale. But I was beginning to fear that such things would be the stuff of my duties as long as I remained at the head of a department dealing with such madmen. I carried on staring out of the window in order that Stauber should not see the irritation which my expression so clearly betrayed.

  ‘But tell me more about this raving you talk of – what exactly does it consist of?’ I asked him, still without turning around.

  ‘We’ve got recordings of him, if you’d like to hear them! Sometimes he stops translating right in the middle of a speech and starts uttering meaningless words which don’t exist in any language, as though he himself were trying to work out how to pronounce them. He turns them over in his mouth to see how they will sound, and scribbles illegible signs down on a piece of paper. Or he’ll carry on translating, but in a different language, one that’s got nothing to do with that particular meeting. The worst thing is when he starts to make hissing noises, or squawks perhaps, with a kind of whistle coming from the throat. People who’ve seen him say that at such times he goes completely stiff, craning his neck, lifting his chin and narrowing his eyes, as though he needed to make a special effort at concentration. Luckily, at that point his colleagues usually manage to turn off the microphone without anyone noticing and continue interpreting themselves. But he carries on chirping, pronouncing meaningless words or blethering sounds in some unknown language. It upsets the meeting, delegates turn round to stare, some even leave the hall, and the speaker stops speaking. And then they blame me! I’m the one who takes the rap; it’s me who gets called on to provide explanations!’

  His voice rising to a crescendo, he tapped himself on the chest. I turned towards him and asked him brusquely: ‘In a word, Stauber, what do you suggest?’

  He narrowed his eyes against the sudden burst of sunlight that was now flooding the room. But he remained totally unruffled; I felt that he had had his words prepared right from the moment he entered my office.

  ‘I suggest that he should be suspended forthwith and then, ideally, declared permanently unfit for work. That’s within the regulations. All the conditions are in place so no one could object. That way he’d be out from under our feet – and never fear, he’d get a golden handshake, no problem about that. Then he could spend the rest of his life calmly raving away to his heart’s content and studying all the languages he likes – there must be one or two he still has to add to his collection – without putting a spanner in our works.’

  It was as though a weight had been lifted from him. I went back to my seat. What Stauber wanted from me was a signature. That would mean that the interpreter could be legitimately suspended from his post, and that the arrangements for dismissal could be set in motion. I was beginning to think that this was the only way out, the only way I could wash my hands of this whole tiresome matter. Yet still I hesitated.

  ‘Wouldn’t it still be preferable to see how his illness develops? We have no reason to think that it’s permanent, or incurable. He might be able to have some sort of therapy,’ I persisted.

  Stauber shot me a grim look. He sat bolt upright in his chair and clasped his hands around his knees.

  ‘When the mower breaks down, what do you do? Hope it will mend itself?’ he asked sourly before collapsing again, puffing, into the depth of his chair.

  I closed the interpreter’s file and placed my clasped hands on the table.

  ‘Let me think about it,’ I said, noting that at this point Stauber did not seem to know which leg to put on top of the other. He got up from his chair, straightened his jacket and awkwardly offered me his hand.

  ‘Stauber, how many languages does he speak?’ I asked point-blank.

  ‘Five …’ he said after a moment’s hesitation.

  ‘Which ones?’ I persisted.

  ‘German, Russian, French, English, Italian and Spanish. Why?’ he asked gloomily.

  ‘Pure curiosity!’ I answered with a smile as I accompanied him to the door. Alone in the room, I sat down again listlessly at my desk. Now the sun was high in the cloudless sky. Lashed by the wind, a distant fuzz of green was softening the sharp horizon, as though the young sap in the new grass and far-off woods were vibrating in the cold air. Shifting Irene’s photo slightly so that it would not catch the light, I found myself thinking that all in all, five languages was reasonable enough: Stauber might be a perfectly normal individual.

  I had an important meeting in the afternoon. I was to meet the director-general and present my plan for the running and reorganisation of the department. The secretary trotted to and fro, bringing me file after file, each time seeming to expect me to dictate something to her or give her some task to perform; she seemed even less at ease than I was. But I couldn’t take my mind off the strange affair of the interpreter. The sound of a telephone ringing in the next-door office brought me down to earth; I drew my seat up to the desk and started to read through one of the files, leafing through the communiqués, checking on the internal regulations and the judgments of the joint committee; I even went as far as to read through the hefty psychiatrist’s report, and with some care: in the brain of his patient, Doctor Barnung had noted som
e reduction in the size of the hippocampus and an enlarging of the basal ganglia, together with an abnormal cerebral blood flow. Apparently his age, and certain genetic considerations, put him at risk of schizophrenia. Hallucinations and delirium were the classic symptoms of the illness – he seemed to have the lot: he saw things that weren’t there, was afraid that he was being persecuted and convinced that he was gifted with exceptional powers. The psychiatrist even had a specific term for the invention of non-existent words, namely glossolalia – a form of schizophrenia. In this man’s one-track life, trouble seemed to have built up like a poison, which had now gradually overflowed from some mysterious vessels to infect his entire brain. Intense mental exercise, study and the general rigour which seemed to have marked his habits had failed to ward off that sly disease, which was now attacking him from within, slowly defeating him like a parasite.

  That man knew fifteen other languages: French, English, Dutch, Danish, Swedish, Spanish, Portuguese, Greek, Italian, Russian, Polish, Hungarian, Romanian, Japanese and Turkish. German was his mother tongue, but he also interpreted into English. He was forty-seven years old, and had been in the job for twenty-two years. His behaviour and record had been unblemished: no absences, no reprimands. Six months on the waiting-list to do a Japanese language course at Tokyo University. He’d been to the best Swiss and German interpreters’ schools and had spent long periods of study leave in dozens of countries. Held together by a now somewhat frayed elastic band was his collection of university diplomas and testimonials in any number of foreign languages. I paused to look at the photographs: one on a document asking to be entered for some competitive examination, one taken when he first took up his position, later ones on his identity card, renewed every five years. In each one he looked like a different man.

  I would come home late in those days, and even spend some time at the office at weekends. In order to reorganise the department I had to make a thorough study of how it worked, to analyse statistics, compare costs and check on the legal underpinnings of the reforms I was preparing to bring in. My promised assistant did not materialise, so I had to do all the work myself. Irene didn’t have much patience with this new job of mine; she thought I was being overzealous. At first, she merely teased me about it.