Pascal Mercier - Perlmann's Silence

‘It has advanced my own work greatly. And for that I should like to thank you all.’

It was still too early to light a cigarette. His hand might tremble. It hadn’t sounded too bad. Even quite convincing. But within the heads of each of those sitting at the table, the same question must have been forming: Then why didn’t he deliver anything from that book, rather than inflicting that other, weird stuff on us? With a hasty movement that was supposed to mask the trembling that he feared, Perlmann reached for his cigarettes and then, so that his hands could keep one another calm, he held his lighter as if a storm were sweeping through the dining room. The smoke tasted unfamiliar, as if it wasn’t his brand. He tried frantically to think of the bright office in Ivrea, and even managed to conjure a precise image of the desk. In spite of this he felt ill.

When could one expect the publication of this interesting book, asked von Levetzov, thus seeming to take the words out of Millar’s mouth. He wanted to give himself time, Perlmann answered, and let the ash fall past his knee to the carpet so that he didn’t have to bring his hand to the ashtray. Might the publication of the work discussed here not be the ideal place to introduce his first ideas? von Levetzov asked. When he saw Perlmann’s hesitation, a shadow of suspicion flitted across his face.

‘That publication is firmly planned, isn’t it?’

‘Of course,’ Perlmann heard himself saying. ‘But you know how these things are: sounding out the publishing companies, negotiating – the usual. And I will have to talk to Angelini about finance. Then you will all be hearing from me.’

‘I could imagine my publisher in New York being interested,’ said Millar. ‘Especially in a book like yours. Shall I talk to him?’

Perlmann nodded silently. He had no idea what else he could have done. His cigarette burned his fingers. He dropped it and trod it out on the pale carpet. Leskov drew lines on the table cloth with the handle of his spoon. He’s thinking about a translation of his text. He’ll ask me again tomorrow.

Signora Morelli appeared and offered them coffee and cognac in the lounge. ‘ L’ultima serata! ’ In the hall, Perlmann turned round and went back to the dining room. He picked up his cigarette butt and wiped the spot with his napkin. It had left a big, black stain. There was only one couple left in the room. They were preoccupied with themselves, and only glanced at him fleetingly.

‘I went outside for a moment,’ said Millar as Perlmann sat down in one of the armchairs in the lounge. ‘Still dry. Now the money can only go to you or Vassily, who guessed it would take an hour.’ He took a 10,000 lire note from his pocket. ‘We could get the jackpot ready now.’ He weighed down the resulting bundle of notes with the ashtray. ‘How long should we keep the bet going on for? Shall we say till midnight?’

Perlmann hadn’t known he was going to do it. He only realized at the moment when Millar rested his arms on the arms of the chair and pressed himself backwards in preparation for standing up. It was almost as if Perlmann were being pushed by an invisible force that knew more about him than he did about himself. With a single movement he was on his feet, and walked quickly to the grand piano. Before he sat down, he screened his hands with his body and pulled the bandage from his finger. As he lifted up the lid, from the corner of his eye he saw Millar slipping back from the edge of his chair.

Perlmann didn’t need to think. Nocturnes were the only thing that he thought himself capable of playing after almost a year without playing a single note. Anything apart from Chopin was technically too difficult; the danger of disgrace was too great. And in the Nocturnes there was no problem with memory. He had grown up with these pieces. He had heard and played them hundreds of times.

If only there weren’t that damned problem with the rhythm. He had a very precise and effortless sense of rhythm. But it was always a while before it settled in and his internal metronome started ticking. He played the first few bars like someone walking after being roughly woken from sleep, Bela Szabo had always said. And he was right. But when his sense of rhythm kicked in it was like an awakening; there was a liberating security in his head and hands, and every time it happened Perlmann had the impression of never having been really awake, as awake as he was now. He had learned to put those brief phases of uncertainty behind him before playing to anyone. But now they would all hear.

He started Opus 9, Number 1 in B minor. Without a bandage, the ring finger of his left hand felt cooler than the others, and when he touched the keys he didn’t feel, as expected, pain, but a fine, sticky film. Nonetheless, the attack was good, he felt, the feared strangeness of touch had faded after a few notes. He had slipped into the first run, and was concentrating on the strange mixture of protraction and acceleration, when with a deafening crash it began to thunder. The first crack hadn’t yet faded away when the cold light of a flash of lightning lit up the lounge, mixing unpleasantly with the warm, golden light of the chandeliers. Immediately afterwards a new, even louder crash made everything tremble. Perlmann took his hands from the keys. All heads were now turned towards the window, through which a quick succession of lightning flashes could be seen, bright ramifications of spookily brief duration. Perlmann took out his handkerchief, moistened it and cleaned his ring finger. A moment later he felt a sting along the scar.

When the natural spectacle seemed to be over, and everything was calm but for a distant rumble, Perlmann started over again. Now his sense of rhythm was there immediately. He had the whole piece clearly in front of his eyes and grew calm. Yes, he could still do them, his soft yet glass-clear Chopin notes – the only thing that Szabo had always acknowledged, and even slightly envied him for. It was with a similar touch, Perlmann imagined, that Glenn Gould had played Chopin. Glass clarity with velvet edges . He was also pleased with the pearly runs. But it didn’t sound dreamy. And that wasn’t due to the fact that his left ring finger, now that the accompaniment was growing louder, was really starting to hurt, just as the two fingers of his right hand, which had previously been holding his cigarette, stung when they rubbed against one another. What was that about?

To prevent any applause, Perlmann seamlessly moved on to the second Nocturne from the same Opus. Again it thundered, but this time the crash was no longer directly over the hotel, and he went on playing.

‘Now I’ve got to see if it’s raining,’ Millar said sotto voce and got to his feet. Evelyn Mistral put her finger to her lips. Millar stepped outside.

That was it, Perlmann thought: he had always compared his sound with Millar’s Bach, and that acted as a block that prevented him from finding his way into the right state of mind. He closed his eyes, yielded more to the notes and tried to forget. The third Nocturne was more successful. Only his sore fingers were gradually becoming a problem.

Towards the end of the piece Millar came back, unmistakeably clearing his throat.

Next Perlmann chose Number 1 in F major from Opus 16. He only noticed that this one contained a danger when he was in the middle of a theme. Suddenly, he felt that he had a face. It started to sting behind his closed eyelids. For God’s sake. He involuntarily stretched his back and closed his eyes tight in a violent grimace. Seconds of horrified waiting. No. Once again it had been fine. At the very last moment he had managed to force back the tears. So I can’t play the piece in D flat minor. Under no circumstances.