Pascal Mercier - Perlmann's Silence

Perlmann walked back along the corridor. The blue nylon carpet was exaggeratedly thick; he felt as if he were wading. Next to Leskov’s door he leaned against the wall. Then he held his ear to the door and heard Leskov coughing. Perlmann rolled up the text and hid it behind his back with his left hand. One last hesitation before his crooked finger, an ugly, repellent finger, touched the wood. He knocked twice. Leskov seemed not to have heard. Perlmann’s nose started running. He took a few steps back, wedged the roll under his arm and blew his nose. After he had knocked again, he heard Leskov coming to the door. A short cough before the door opened.

‘Oh, Philipp, it’s you,’ said Leskov. ‘Come in.’

It was impossible to do it. Impossible. It wasn’t an insight. It wasn’t knowledge or a decision. It wasn’t even a thought. It didn’t even really have anything to do with the will. It wasn’t anything that Perlmann remembered; nothing that he had at his command. Afterwards he felt as if he hadn’t even been there. His body simply couldn’t put the plan into action. The intention was confronted with powerful, unshakeable forces that wouldn’t move. The resolution slipped off those forces like something laughably feeble. The system went on strike. A white, completely emotionless panic overrode everything.

‘Come in, please,’ Leskov repeated with a cordial but slightly puzzled smile.

‘No, no,’ Perlmann heard himself saying. ‘I just wanted to check when your flight leaves tomorrow morning. So that I can tell Angelini.’

‘Oh, I see. Wait, I’ll take a look. But please, do come in for a moment.’

While Leskov fetched his ticket from his suitcase, Perlmann stayed with his back against the door, which he had left ajar. Where his hand gripped the pages, they were wet.

‘At five past nine,’ said Leskov. He pointed to the armchair. ‘Time to have a cigarette?’

‘Not really, no. I promised Angelini I would call him back. He’s waiting.’

Perlmann took a step to the side, pulled the door open with his right hand and walked out backwards. Leskov stopped in the doorway and watched him go. Perlmann took a few more steps backwards. Then he quickly turned left on his own axis and, in a contrary motion, swung the rolled-up text in front of his chest. After a few quick steps he was on the stairs.

In his room he sat motionless on the bed for several minutes, staring straight ahead. Then he fetched his big suitcase. In it, partly telescoped in on itself, was an unopened envelope full of mail from Frau Hartwig, as well as the invitation to Princeton, the black wax-cloth notebook, the little volume of Robert Walser, the certificate and the medal. Perlmann couldn’t remember when he had thrown all these things in. He stared at the chaotic pile. It felt like a sedimentation of failure, guilt and dereliction. He didn’t know what to do with it. He wearily laid his torn and bloodstained pairs of trousers over it, then his dirty, pale jacket. It would look idiotic if he stepped into Olivetti headquarters in a blazer and far too pale trousers.

He put the chronicle in the other drawer. Then he packed the books – none of which he had opened in the course of the whole five weeks – in the suitcase. The zip of the plastic jacket would only close halfway. He no longer had the strength to think about it. He put Leskov’s text back in the envelope and placed it between the books. In the bathroom he got his sponge bag ready and took a whole sleeping pill. From the desk drawer he took the printout of his notes. He tore the sheets in half and threw them in the waste-paper basket.

Before he turned out the light he called Leskov and made his apologies for dinner. When he set the alarm, he felt the effect of the tablet in his fingertips.

Leskov’s stained suitcase was standing beside the reception desk when Perlmann came downstairs. On the gleaming marble floor of the elegant hall it looked like a remnant of another era. It was just after seven, and Giovanni was waiting for Signora Morelli so that he could go home.

‘ Buona fortuna! ’ said Perlmann as he shook his hand.

‘You too!’ replied Giovanni, and went on shaking. ‘And then… erm… I just wanted to say: you play the piano really well. Really brilliant!’

‘Thank you,’ said Perlmann and exchanged an awkward glance with him. ‘Is there a cup competition coming up where I could see Baggio on our television at home?’

‘Juventus are playing Stuttgart soon. I could check…’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Perlmann, ‘I’ll keep an eye out. What’s his first name, by the way?’

‘Roberto.’

Outside the door to the dining room Perlmann turned round again and raised his hand: ‘ Ciao .’

Giovanni said the same word back, and it came out of his lips more lightly and surely than it had on Wednesday evening. It sounded almost as natural as if they were two old friends.

Leskov had put his suitcase on a chair next to him. Perlmann flinched when he saw him now, and immediately his eye looked for the little piece of rubber band in the zip of the outside pocket. It had gone.

‘Rather shabby compared to yours, isn’t it?’ said Leskov when he saw Perlmann staring at the case.

Perlmann gestured vaguely and picked up the coffee pot.

‘If I understood correctly the other evening, you’ll be talking to Angelini about the question of publication,’ Leskov said hesitantly as he folded up the napkin.

Perlmann nodded. He had seen it coming. But in a good hour it’ll be over. Once and for all.

‘It’s about a translation of my text… Do you think…?’

‘I’ll talk to him,’ said Perlmann and pushed back the chair. ‘I’ll let you know.’

Perlmann would have liked to say goodbye to Signora Morelli, who was just taking her coat off, on his own. Leskov’s presence disturbed him, and when he heard the Russian’s extravagant words of thanks he went to the toilet.

But Leskov was still standing next to her afterwards. Today she was wearing a black scarf with a fine white edge, and above it her still rather sleepy face looked paler than usual.

Perlmann gave her his hand and was glad that Leskov now bent towards his case. ‘Thank you,’ he said simply, ‘and all the best.’

‘You too,’ she said. Then for a moment she rested her other hand on his. ‘Have a rest. You look completely exhausted.’

Leskov gave the taxi driver a sign and walked laboriously down the stairs. Perlmann set down his luggage and went back into the hall. He looked at Signora Morelli and had no idea what he had wanted to say.

‘Is there anything else?’ she asked with a smile.

‘No, no. I… erm… I just wanted to say it was good to have you here for those few weeks.’ And then, when her hand awkwardly reached for her scarf, he added quickly: ‘Have you sorted out your taxes?’

‘Yes,’ she laughed. ‘Thank God.’

‘See you then.’

‘Yes. Have a good trip.’

Perlmann was relieved that Leskov had chosen to sit beside the driver. Behind him, Perlmann leaned into the upholstery and closed his eyes. The after-effect of the sleeping pills pressed against his eyes. Contrary to his habit, when the taxi came round the corner he hadn’t turned back to face the hotel. Now he saw it in his mind’s eye, in all its details, and he even climbed the steps to the Marconi Veranda once more. It was over. Over.

‘For publication I could make a shorter version,’ said Leskov. ‘What do you think?’ In spite of several groaning attempts Leskov hadn’t managed to turn round completely, and now he was looking at the window past the back of the driver’s head.

Perlmann jammed his fists into the seat. He would have to run the whole publication business properly through his mind, he said.