The Interpreter Read online

  Dr Barnung’s warning remained lodged in my mind, and I had now decided to put myself in his hands. I felt that the woes that had beset me were more important than my work and my career, that they spoke of a secret force which must be treated with the utmost respect and commitment. Before setting out for Munich, though, I was waiting for a sign, a time that seemed propitious: autumn, perhaps, season of mellow fruitfulness. I would lock myself up within the walls of Dr Barnung’s clinic as though in a monastery. Part of me sought such segregation, I was prepared to give myself wholeheartedly to the antiseptic practice of solitude. I told myself that I would be tempered by such spiritual gymnastics, it would make me stronger, better, more able to bear all that life still held in store for me. But, at the same time, I felt a growing desire to have news of the interpreter, to know what had become of him. From a more practical viewpoint, by now convinced that we had been struck down by the same malady, I hoped that by tracking him down I would gain a clearer idea of its course, alleviate its symptoms, perhaps even discover an antidote. Maybe he was already cured and could give me some advice; or maybe he had been entirely overwhelmed by it and was already imprisoned in a maze of incurable madness. Whatever his fate, it interested me.

  With the help of a clerk who worked in the personnel department, I managed to get the interpreter’s last address. I knew the road in question; it was in a modern part of the city near the station, where the buildings were mostly furnished flats rented by businessmen and adulterous husbands. The window of the interpreter’s apartment looked out over a small square containing an unkempt garden, and it bore a notice with the words ‘To Rent’. Feigning an interest, I knocked at the door of the porter’s lodge to ask to visit it; puffing and panting, a woman took a set of keys off a hook and pointed to the lift.

  ‘You’ll see, it’s a pigsty! He’s left all his stuff there, and what a state it’s in! They’d better get a move on and clear it out!’ she grumbled, pressing the button to the third floor.

  ‘I could tell from the start that he wasn’t quite right in the head! I’ve got an eye for such things!’ she said, waving her index finger around by way of warning.

  ‘Of course, I was younger in those days, and looked at men more carefully,’ she added, attempting a flirtatious gesture and lifting a hand to her hair while glancing in the mirror; then, clasping her hands behind her back, she leaned against the wall and carried on:

  ‘He’s lived here for over twenty years! You might say that we grew old together but, believe it or not, he never addressed a word to me. He’d talk to himself, or into a tape recorder, but never to another human soul!’

  She glanced at me out of the corner of her eye.

  ‘Anyone can talk to themselves, everyone has their troubles, as I myself know since my husband died. But what he did couldn’t be described as talking! And at night, too! It sounded as if he were talking in his sleep! It must have been all the queer languages he knew; his head must have been churning like an upset stomach!’ she added, putting on a smile.

  The door, when it opened, did indeed reveal a monumental mess: piles of books on the floor, clothes draped all over the place, over the bedhead, from doorhandles, from those on the dresser. The bookshelves, the worktop in the little kitchen and the windowsills were crowded with empty mineral water bottles, all of the same make, their green reflections visible on the walls; pairs of shoes, dozens of them, all English and all black, were lined up on the carpet.

  ‘They’d better not think they can ask me to clean up this lot! They’ll have to get the pest control people in first!’ she protested, running her hands over her apron and looking around despairingly.

  ‘And all this post! What’s he hoping for? That we’ll have it all sent on to him?’ she went on, pointing to a pile of letters and periodicals on the floor.

  ‘Didn’t he leave an address?’ I asked.

  ‘Address, my eye! He just went away, it must be four months ago by now. And that was the last we saw of him!’

  She made a quick tour of the room, then paused at the door to the bathroom.

  ‘Well, do have a good look round and pull the door to behind you when you’re done – I must go down, I’ve got something on the stove,’ she said, and hobbled out onto the landing.

  The first thing I noticed was the colour of the ink, then I recognised the handwriting. That particular shade of violet, veined with green, had been her nod in the direction of artistic caprice; together with her envelopes and writing paper, she’d had it specially made for her by a stationer’s in the centre of town. It contained the juice of some poisonous berry, and if you drank it you might die.

  ‘So it’s true that words can kill!’ she had commented, laughing, as she removed the wrapping paper from the little dark glass pot with the gilded label.

  I bent down to pick up the envelope with Irene’s unmistakable writing on it; I was afraid that I was seeing things. It suddenly seemed to me that I recognised the place. But when could I have been there before? Seized by a sudden feeling of dizziness, I knelt down on the carpet and ran my hands frenetically through the pile of post; rummaging through dusty periodicals and faded printed matter, I found two other envelopes bearing that same violet handwriting. My head was spinning, fury and fear were raging through my veins, taking my breath away. I was no nearer to understanding it, but at least I could now see what I’d failed to see for months. Irene, with that man! How could it be possible? I tore the envelopes open viciously: the first letter was dated 3rd May, the second 27th June and the third 20th July. I tried to turn on a lamp, but there was no power. I went up to the window where there was more light.

  Dear Piotr,

  I call you by that name because you cannot be anyone but Piotr, the Russian in the film the other evening. You translated it so well that that’s how it must be. Are you really so melancholy? You’re certainly every bit as enigmatic. Would you too hang yourself for so little? I do hope not. At least wait until the end of the season! Or perhaps you are Snorri, the Viking pirate from last Sunday’s show? The one who never wanted to grow old, and went to have himself killed by his worst enemy. On second thoughts, you might be Yamada, the Japanese nihilist – what a wonderful film! Dark and cynical, and that’s how I like them. But perhaps it was your voice that made it seem so marvellous – not only are you a simultaneous translator, you’re also a true actor. How do you do it? How can you translate the characters’ very souls? How can you give yourself over to them and then so quickly find yourself again? How do you always manage to pull yourself back from the brink of your excursions into others? And how wonderful it must be to speak so many languages! Truly, you have the sounds of the whole world in your head. Excuse me for this intrusive letter, it’s not my style. But you left me a card with a telephone number that no one ever answers, so I had to write, and I hope to have better luck by post. I’d like to get to know you more, the couple of words we exchanged in the bar after the show were not enough. I want to know whether you are Piotr, Snorri or Yamada, but perhaps I will indeed have to wait for the end of the season to find out! Who knows how many other tortured characters you’ll have played before the end of June! Here’s my address and phone number. Get in touch!

  Yours,

  Irene

  (The woman in the third row who always asks a lot of questions.)

  I was sweating and my hands were shaking; a chill was slowly creeping into my bones, numbing my limbs. A door banged on the floor below, and a blast of cold air blew in from the stairwell; the clothes hanging from the doorknobs fluttered, made a faint rustling sound. I crouched down in a corner, threw the letter onto the table and began to read the next one, the one dated June 27th.

  My love,

  If I may call you that – once again, I’m writing you a letter, for speaking no longer serves any purpose. I don’t even know if you listen to me when I talk to you, or whether you’ve already flown away on the wings of your impenetrable thoughts. I don’t understand what’s happening to us. I kno
w, it’s my fault. It was all so wonderful, there was no need to say anything. We were so close, we both felt it; and that was enough, or rather so much more than enough. But I wanted to talk, to question you, to know and, by doing so, I ruined everything. Do try to understand: I know nothing about you, I don’t know what you do on the other six days of the week. I don’t know anything about your hopes, your dreams, whether you’re happy or unhappy. I don’t know what you think about when you’re not with me. I feel that I have a substitute ‘you’ beside me, someone who resembles you but is not you. The real you will come later, and I and your substitute are here waiting for you and, as we’re waiting, we don’t know what to say. We look at each other, I smile at you, you tell me fascinating things about strange languages and our meetings are like television documentaries. When we say goodbye, when dusk falls on our afternoon ramblings around the city and I go homewards with a heavy heart, I keep my mind closed tightly as a fist, so that the precious treasure held within it – my rare time with you – cannot escape. Yet when I loosen it a bit, there’s nothing there; you’ve flown away. I thought I had you in my grasp, but you weren’t there at all. All that I know of you is what you’ve let me know: a shell, a voice. All that’s left to me of you, when we part, is your voice. I feel alone; the air around me feels cold, there’s an icy feeling in my house, in my life. You broadened my mind, made me see worlds I knew nothing of; whichever language you speak, your words enthral. How could one resist the thousand visions that you conjure up before me, the imaginary worlds you set up and inhabit? But there is something false in you, and sometimes I feel that what you are giving me is not yours to give – that you have stolen it from someone and are giving it to me to rid yourself of it, as though it were some kind of proof that could implicate you in some crime. No sooner do I get some hint of you, manage to grasp something that seems authentically you in that shifting mind of yours, than you cast it off and proffer me the empty shell of what you were. I was looking for warmth, friendly affection, more, perhaps; I thought you too valued our Sunday afternoon walks. I thought you needed me, as I did you. But you have need of nothing, of no one, and you treat even yourself with strained detachment, as though you had become bored with yourself and were trying to get away, to slip out of your own head and occupy a new one – a whole new world to be discovered, filled. This is the last Sunday of the season; after that, we won’t have any reason to see each other again, unless we seek it out ourselves. We’ll nod to one another, and then I’ll never see you again. But if you want me to stay, tell me so. With words – your own, for once, not those you pluck from others’ mouths. Then all my days will become one of our magic Sundays.

  I love you.

  Irene

  A chasm opened up within me, and I plunged into a black magma which burned my vital organs without filling them. I was breathing from my throat, unable to open my lungs, paralysed by the sheer horrific vastness of my discovery. I tore open the third and last letter, the one dated 20th July, bearing a Zurich postmark.

  My cruel friend,

  Where have you gone? What has become of you? I’ve looked for you everywhere. You don’t answer the phone; you’re not at home, I’ve been by a thousand times and rung your bell, at every time of day. The concierge was starting to give me funny looks. There’s never a light on in any of your windows; I sat outside in the car for one whole night, waiting to see when you’d get back, what you were doing. In the white light of the moon, I imagined rooms I’d never seen; it’s only now, after two months of knowing you, that I realise you’ve never shown me your house. I even started to think that perhaps you didn’t live there at all, that the card you’d given me wasn’t even yours. I went to look for you at the ‘Etoile’ cinema but they didn’t know anything about you either; at the sight of those dark red seats, my heart missed a beat. I asked the cinema manager to let me into the interpreting booths for a moment; in yours, I thought there was still a ghost of your smell. You’ll say that that’s impossible; it must be because I’ve still got it in my nostrils, and seeing places where I’d been with you just brought it back. I started to cry. The manager beckoned me to go down again, but I couldn’t because I was crying, and when he noticed, he came up and closed the curtain. Please, write to me, tell me where you are, just tell me that you’re still alive, goddammit! You’ve got my address in Zurich, write to me there. I’ll be leaving soon, I can’t bear to stay in this city any more, it’s been poisoned by unbearable memories; even the light of the changing times of day reminds me of you. So at two o’clock I’m in agony because you aren’t meeting me in front of the station, at three because we’re not strolling through the empty Sunday streets, just you and me, cars parked and cats on windowsills; and then again at four, when I can no longer see you but hear your voice in my head, your voice which speaks so many words, all the world’s words, except for those I long to hear. What are you looking for? What ghost are you pursuing, what secret suffering has you on its hook? Or is it you who are in flight? From what, from whom? Are you a murderer who has left gruesome acts behind you? Why don’t you tell me about them? Why have you never talked to me of yourself? It is only now that I realise that it’s not you I am in love with, but the characters in the films that you translated: a different man each Sunday, because that’s all you’ve ever given me of yourself. So now it’s Piotr I’m in love with, perhaps because he was the first, laden with promise, and perhaps because he was the gentlest of them. But Piotr hanged himself, poor bastard! And you’re not here, you never have been, you’ve never existed! In which case, how shall I ever forget you? How can I wipe you out of my mind, you who are the sum of so many absences, the blank mirror in which I seek… you, who are nobody, and myself. And who can rid me of myself?

  I shall love you forever.

  Irene

  Irene, my Irene slave to that madman! Now I understood those restless Sundays, the windy afternoons of that fateful spring when I would watch her preparing eagerly for her cinema matinees. I shouldn’t have let her go alone, least of all to the foreign season. But who could have known, who could have possibly imagined…It was all so unbearable that I felt a sudden desire not to believe it. I might have been able to leave that room, go down into the road and cross the little garden as though I had discovered nothing. But those three letters in their yellow envelopes had put a stop to that; rather, what they did was to trigger off new suffering in me. That man was like a maelstrom, sucking anyone who approached him into his vortex; he had swallowed up Irene, inexorably dragging her away from me and then contaminating me too with his own vile evil.

  I picked up the letters and stuffed them back into their envelopes, thrusting them into my pocket. Outside, the sky was now becoming covered with low, threatening banks of cloud; inside, too, darkness was gathering, the first raindrops pattering on the dirty windowpanes. The lift started up, and a square of light fell on the table, revealing a thick layer of dust disturbed by the wanderings of my hands. I was on the point of leaving when my eye was caught by a piece of folded paper tucked beneath an ugly glass vase placed in the centre of the table. In the midst of such chaos, the table was the only surface which had been left unencumbered – except for that vase, with that bit of crumpled paper. I picked it up and unfolded it. It was a list, written in capitals, with the names of various far distant, scattered cities:

  Vancouver

  San Diego

  Papeete

  Vladivostok

  Pusan

  Taipei

  Surabaya

  Durban

  Eilat

  Constanta

  Odessa

  Klaipeda

  Tallinn

  Apart from Constanta, Odessa, Klaipeda and Tallinn, the others were all crossed out. I saw those places – so far away, so different – as tracing an unbroken line around the globe, thickening in the Far East and then again in Europe but leaving a vast gap between Surabaya and Durban. Then I realised that it must be an itinerary, some abstruse trail to be f
ollowed up. I imagined that, rather than heeding Dr Barnung’s warnings and placing himself in his hands, that man had ended up believing his own visions and had hurtled off to those far-flung places in search of the phantasmagorical language whose existence his madness had summoned into being. He had visited them one by one, striking them off his list; the only ones left to visit were Constanta, Odessa, Klaipeda and Tallinn. I remembered his study course: Romanian, Ukrainian, Lithuanian, Estonian, four of the few languages with which he was as yet unacquainted and which he had perhaps gone to seek out, following his own crack-brained theories. I imagined him drinking his fill of words which his famished mouth was learning to savour; at each new one he uttered, I saw his own appearance shifting, a kaleidoscope of masks. I was tempted to think that perhaps that man was one of many, that I had encountered just one, but that there were hundreds of others like him, pursuing one another, wandering round the globe, usurping voices and faces not their own, leaving a trail of old clothes, shoes and mineral water bottles strewn behind them, as in that flat: the indecipherable armoury of madness. I decided that I would root him out from wherever he was hiding: no longer to help him, or to pool our sufferings, but rather to witness the course and climax of his madness for myself. My heart full of glee, watching him as he gasped, racked by spasmodic seizures, I would tell him that soon all his languages would crumble away and dissolve into one rank mush. Secretly, though, I sensed that it was not just the poisonous desire for vengeance that was driving me towards him. No, something stronger was at work, something I was trying to hold in check within my mind: some frightening affinity, some inexplicable and voluntary attraction which I was trying to resist with all the strength that I could muster. I felt a physical need to sense him at my side, to hear his voice, to smell the bitter odour he gave out, as though he were at once cause and cure of all my woes.