Pascal Mercier - Perlmann's Silence

But perhaps that was wrong, Perlmann thought, and he started talking to his daughter under his breath. At first the words came out only haltingly. He spoke them into the quiet, dark water, and only occasionally raised his eyes to look into Kirsten’s face for signs of understanding. Later the things he had to say came fluently. He began to sound more convincing, even to himself, and Kirsten started nodding. Admittedly, his tongue remained heavy, his lips didn’t always obey, and some words were blurred. But Kirsten wasn’t repelled. She understood, so he didn’t need to be embarrassed and was able to go on talking, more and more, until everything was completely clear, its every impulse comprehensible. So that he could be forgiven.

He put the pills in his pocket, got up stiffly and uncertainly and went back to the street. He couldn’t drive himself in this state. But he could persuade a taxi driver to fetch his passport and drive him to Konstanz. If he paid a princely sum, one would certainly be found. He could sleep on the back seat, and by the time they arrived tomorrow morning he would have a clear head again, and clear speech. Then he could tell Kirsten everything, explain everything, just as he had just done a moment ago, only much more thoroughly and much better.

In the lobby of the Regina Elena, inebriated wedding guests were rowdily forcing a glass of champagne on the night porter, who was trying to conceal his annoyance behind a sour smile. Under these circumstances Perlmann couldn’t possibly ask him to call a cab. He wasn’t even a hotel guest. He had no gettoni , so phone boxes were of no use to him. He went over to the Miramare and leaned against the wall at the foot of the steps. Dart in quickly, say the few words to Giovanni and then immediately come back here to wait, unseen, for the taxi. He wouldn’t be in there for ten seconds. That he would, during that time, meet one of the others, was unlikely. It was already half-past twelve. But it wasn’t impossible. Laura Sand, for example, sometimes took another walk at this time.

Perlmann climbed the first few steps until he could see the entrance beyond the edge of the terrace. His heart was thumping, and his breathing, involuntarily, was quite shallow. Giovanni was propped with one elbow on the counter, reading the paper. Rethink . Again he leaned against the wall. Otherwise he would have to look for a taxi stand in town. He could drag himself as far as the station. But hardly any trains stopped there in the middle of the night. What would taxis be doing there? And he couldn’t remember another rank. He would wander, lead-limbed, through the quiet alleys, each step a form of torture. Again he glanced across to the reception. Giovanni was now leaning against the counter on outstretched arms, reading the page under him. Shadows stirred in the bar, and a moment later a grey-haired man walked through the hall to the elevator. It was too dangerous. Perlmann would have to wait for another hour or two. He closed his eyes. A paralysing irresolution took hold of him.

‘ Buona sera, Dottore ,’ said Signora Morelli, coming energetically downstairs, her coat flapping behind her. ‘Is… is something wrong? Are you waiting for someone?’

‘No, no… nothing,’ Perlmann replied, startled, and making a special effort with his pronunciation. And because it seemed impossible not to say anything else, he added: ‘You’re still here?’

‘Yes, sadly,’ she said and pulled a face. ‘Taxes, we have nothing but problems with taxes. It gets worse by the year. I was working on it until a moment ago.’ She smiled. ‘Well, yes, and it’s mad to run such a hotel without more managerial staff, almost like a family business.’

It was the first time he had heard anything so personal from her, and if he had still belonged to her world, and the world in general, rather than mutely nodding he would have loved to show an interest.

‘Oh, by the way,’ she said, already turning to go, ‘I put the original of your text in your pigeonhole. In my haste on Saturday I left it by the photocopier. I hope you didn’t miss it.’

Perlmann didn’t understand. And he didn’t want to understand. Never again did he want to have to understand a sentence with words in it like text , original and copy . Never again.

‘ Venga ,’ the signora said when she saw his blank face, and went back upstairs. It was impossible not to follow her. She shoved aside Giovanni, who looked up in surprise from the newspaper and was saying hello, and took a text out of Perlmann’s pigeonhole. ‘ Eccolo ,’ she said. ‘But now I really have to go. Buona notte! ’

Giovanni looked at him quizzically when she had gone.

‘A taxi,’ he said. ‘I need a taxi.’ Giovanni reached for the receiver.

Perlmann realized then that he was confused by the fact that he stood there, contrary to his plan, as Giovanni made the call. He held the text limply in his dangling hand, and he held it the way you hold something that you’re going to drop in the gutter at the next possible opportunity. Never again did he want to hold a text in his hand. Never again.

The taxi company took its time, and an unpleasant, silent wait began. It was just to do something that Perlmann looked down at his hand that held the text. And it was a moment before he noticed the small, long card stuck under the paperclip that held the pile of papers together. Even before he knew what it said, something in him began to vibrate. He abruptly bent his arm, brought the card up in front of his eyes and read: 6 copie. Per il gruppo di Perlmann. Distribuire, come sempre . He didn’t understand. I threw away the original a little while ago . But his breathing quickened, he read again, lifted the card and saw the title: mestre non è brutta. Underneath, his name.

For a few seconds he stood there motionless, blind and deaf to his surroundings, wrapped in the beating of his blood. Maria. The call from Genoa. She finished typing up my notes. In spite of the people from Fiat .

It lasted until the thought had found its way to his body. Then Perlmann started running. He collided with the door, twisted his ankle on the steps and lost a shoe, but in spite of the pain and in spite of the cold cobbles he ran as he had never run in his whole life, clutching the rolled-up text in his fist like a relay baton. He got a stitch in his side and started coughing. Good God! I hope I’m thinking the right thing! Now he saw the figure of Signora Morelli walking along the marina. He ran with lungs that threatened to burst. There was no breath left to call out and, at last, when his soft knees refused to support him and he began to stumble, he had caught up with her. He couldn’t get a word out, just bent down breathlessly and coughed, his hands pressed to his ribs because of the stitch.

‘This note here,’ he panted at last, and now he no longer cared that his mouth wasn’t properly obeying him, ‘does this mean that you copied the text six times?’

‘ Sì, Dottore ,’ she said, and on her face her initial surprise made way for an expression of preparation for self-defense.

‘And those were the copies that you put in my colleagues’ pigeonholes on Saturday morning?’

‘ Sì. ’

‘And you didn’t copy and distribute any other text?’

‘No, Signor Perlmann,’ she said, now visibly annoyed with this breathless questioning, ‘this is the text that Maria gave me. I haven’t had another one.’

He held the papers up as closely in front of Signora Morelli’s face as if she were half-blind.

‘This text here? This one here? No other one?’

Signora Morelli’s tone changed when Perlmann lowered the pages and she recognized the harbingers of tears in his face.