Pascal Mercier - Perlmann's Silence

Leskov took out the handkerchief that he had previously offered to Perlmann and laboriously blew his nose. ‘And I had almost forgotten the text. It was still a bit too soon to drive to the airport, and I took another look at it and made a few notes. Then there’s this phone call that I get really excited about, not least because of the post I’m hoping for. It goes on and on, and suddenly I’m short of time. I pick up the two cases and walk to the door, still filled with rage, and it’s only when I see the open outside pocket on the suitcase that it occurs to me. I’d have been left standing there like a bit of an idiot.’

I should tell him about the text on the road. Because if he discovered the loss, he would immediately put two and two together: that strange stop in the middle of the road, and after that the tires had barely been mentioned. His fury would be boundless: once, of course, because of the destruction of his paper, and then over the fact that Perlmann, the coward, hadn’t even had the courage to tell the whole truth. And that rage might loosen his tongue.

Now came the turn-off to Uscio, and then down to the sea at Recco. Perlmann stopped. ‘I’ve got to stretch my legs for a moment,’ he said.

If he took the turn-off, there was no second chance: it wasn’t a road for big trucks. Then he would walk up the steps beside Leskov, and the disaster would take its course. Then there was no longer anything that could stop it. If he drove straight ahead, in ten minutes they would be in Pian dei Ratti. Perlmann stood there motionlessly, his hand on his trouser-zip by way of disguise. He couldn’t deliver his confession, with its lengthy explanation, at the steering wheel. At some point he would have to look Leskov in his bright, grey eyes and tell him that he had destroyed his text. The text he had put everything into. The text that had helped him win his post. That he had simply set it down in the road under the exhaust like a pile of rubbish, of filth.

It was impossible.

Pian dei Ratti. The factory, the pines, the Renault poster. Wait for the front of the truck with the big lights. Sit next to Leskov again, silent and mute. Drive off once more, the whistling noise again and the feeling about the glasses.

It was impossible.

Perlmann got in and drove on towards Uscio and Recco. He drove fast on the almost deserted road, just fast enough for Leskov not to protest. Perlmann didn’t want another thought ever to pass through his head ever again. The Lancia took the many bends effortlessly. Only once, on a sharp curve to the right, did it sound as if the tires were touching the crushed metal.

‘I expected us to get to the hotel more quickly,’ Leskov said at one point. ‘What time is dinner?’

In Recco, when they turned into the alleyway leading to the coast road, it was just before seven. Perlmann stopped at a gas station. ‘Just a moment,’ he said and disappeared into the toilet, where the stench of urine took his breath away. He propped himself on the washbasin and threw up. But hardly anything came, apart from mucus and gastric acid; in the end it was nothing but dry retching. The face in the mirror was as white as a ghost. Under his nose and on his chin there was dried, almost black blood. His hair on his forehead was damp with sweat. He shovelled cold water into his face and then rubbed it dry with the sleeve of his jacket.

He would have to behave towards this Russian, who repelled him and whose paternal tone he found unbearable, as one does towards a father confessor, with the hope of absolution. And Perlmann would be in his thrall for ever, for good or ill. It was inconceivable.

But then there was this calculation: it was no longer possible that his deception would remain undiscovered. There was nothing more, absolutely nothing, that Perlmann could have done to deflect the exposure. So there was only the question of how many people would find out – whether the discovery would stop with Leskov, or reach everyone else. And looking at it quite soberly everything argued for at least making the attempt. He no longer had anything to lose.

A fat man came in. Perlmann gave a start. For a moment he thought it was Leskov. He couldn’t meet him at the moment. He wasn’t ready yet. He didn’t want it to be a confession in a stinking toilet. He locked himself in a stall. He wanted to sit down and rest his head in his hands, but it was a squat toilet, so all he could do was lean against the door, his forehead and nose pressed hard against the greasy plastic.

It wasn’t true that he had nothing to lose. But it was a while before Perlmann could summon the necessary concentration. The crux of it was this: if he didn’t confess to the murder plan straight away – and that was simply unthinkable – he had no plausible explanation for getting rid of the second version. That wouldn’t matter in the slightest if Leskov acknowledged the English text as his own. So what had he imagined he would achieve by getting rid of it? You should have got rid of me at the same time , Leskov could say. The separating wall that might still exist between that remark and the apprehension of the truth would be extremely thin, and could at any moment collapse if Leskov thought again about the tunnel.

And then Perlmann suddenly had the vision of Leskov, now in command of all moral authority, telling him to turn round and collect the crushed and scattered pages. He saw himself creeping around in the dark on the embankment, and scurrying back and forth across the carriageway in front of beeping cars with flashing headlights.

Battling against the sharp stench of urine, he breathed in deeply and then very slowly out. A confession was impossible. It was impossible.

‘This is how I’ve always imagined the Riviera by night,’ said Leskov as he looked down on Recco and later on Rapallo. ‘Exactly like this. It’s fantastic!’

Perlmann didn’t look. He stared at the road, lit by the one-sided beam of light. He drove, and with each passing meter he concentrated only on the fact that he was driving. Although his gums still stung from the gastric acid, he would have given anything for a cigarette. But the 1,600 lire – his money – hadn’t been enough to buy a pack. Right at the back of his consciousness, with dull indifference, he registered that his thinking had been correct: for the first plan – the car rolling over the edge – the coast road would have been out of the question.

‘Who’s going to be presenting the final paper this week?’ asked Leskov as the lights of Santa Margherita came into view.

Once again, one last time on this journey, Perlmann gave a start. Over the last four tormented, breathless hours he had managed not to address Leskov directly, and avoided using the familiar you . It had been difficult at times, and had involved all kinds of linguistic somersaults. There must be a sentence, he thought, that would do it. But his brain couldn’t do it any more, so he said it: ‘ You. Du. ’

They turned the corner. The crooked pine. The streetlamps. The neon sign. The painted window frames. The flags. There were lights on in Millar’s, Ruge’s and Evelyn Mistral’s rooms. Perlmann drove up to the gas station parking lot. It was closed. So no questions about the body damage. When he lifted Leskov’s suitcase out of the trunk, he saw a bit of the red rubber band that had got stuck in the zip of the outside pocket. ‘Along here,’ he said and, as if he were Leskov’s servant, he picked up a case in each hand.

What happened then was something that Perlmann had seen in his mind’s eye so many times that it was more or less exhausted from being imagined. Now that it was actually taking place it was just a scene that had been rehearsed ad nauseam – flat, papery and without the reality of experience; the only real thing was the angular wooden handle on Leskov’s suitcase, which was cutting into his hand. But there was no relief associated with that unreality. On the contrary, the sensation of waste and death that clung to the walk up the steps was, as Perlmann knew, an expression of the utmost horror. His gait was more sluggish than the luggage called for, and his body felt like that of a puppet, each movement of which had to be put individually into action. It took him a huge effort of will to impel that body step by step closer to the front door.