Pascal Mercier - Perlmann's Silence

He bought the most basic toiletries. Then he went back to the hotel to shave and brush his teeth. The same underwear for a week. He took his tie out of his blazer pocket and put it on. His shirt collar was dirty, and the bloodstain on the lapel of his blazer was impossible to ignore.

The closer he got to the Olivetti building, the more his confidence faded. After an unfamiliar shave, the wind felt bitter on his cheeks, and that sensation passed into a feeling of general vulnerability. What did he actually want to say to Angelini? How was he to formulate his question? How to explain, so that the whole thing didn’t sound like romantic eccentricity, like a twenty year old’s fantasy of running away? And how could Perlmann avoid revealing a connection with his fainting fit? It would, he thought, have to sound light and undramatic, almost playful. But not capricious. In spite of everything, there would have to be a sense of mature serenity behind the lightness of his words.

The parking lot was almost full, and people were still streaming into the huge building. Perlmann counted seven floors. The windows of the main facade had a coppery sheen. Behind them, in big, neon-bright offices, nothing but men in suits. He imagined they had a wonderful view of the mountains. On sunny days those spaces would be flooded with light from dawn till dusk.

It was a quarter to ten. The door behind which the watchman had been sitting yesterday was the exit, through which the employees left the building. As they did so, they stuck a card in a machine. An electronic time clock . Perlmann gave a start. Maybe it was just some sort of security measure. On the other hand: anyone could stroll in unimpeded through the main entrance. He would find out. He, too, would get a card.

Already in the doorway, he glanced once more across the street. Not a bar to be seen. What he was stepping into now was a kind of ghetto in an open field. On the other hand, he was sure there would be a first-class caféteria. That had its advantages, too.

Angelini’s office was on the fourth floor of a side wing, and had an anteroom with two more doors leading off it. The secretary brushed the long blonde hair from her brow as she looked in the diary. There was no sign of his name, she said, and looked at him with cool regret from her freckly face. The appointment was more of a private one, said Perlmann, and tried not to be intimidated by her pointed nose and narrow mouth. She looked at his pale trousers, and her eye also lingered for a moment on the lapel of his blazer. Then, with a shrug, she pointed to a chair and returned to the screen.

Angelini appeared at about half-past ten. His temple still bore the impressions of the pillow. Unasked, the secretary handed him a cup of coffee, which he took into the office. The way he apologized for his lateness and pointed Perlmann to the armchair next to the desk, was so slick it bordered on caricature. He let a stack of letters slip through his fingers, flicked backwards and fished out an envelope that he slit open with a decorated letter opener. As he scanned the text with a frown, he took the occasional sip of coffee. ‘Just one second,’ he said and disappeared into the anteroom.

The only thing Perlmann liked about the room was the Miró and Matisse prints. But they, too, hung over the conventionally elegant furniture, as if that was just how things were supposed to be. The burgundy leather chair behind the black desk was too flashy and didn’t match it, but it was the only thing that emanated a little individuality. There was no point looking out of the window. It gave a view of a hill with trees and bushes, from which only a few brightly colored leaves still hung. It was only if you stood right off to the left that you could get a view of the mountains.

Angelini apologized again as he leaned back in the armchair and lit a cigarette. His face was relaxed now, and full of friendly curiosity. ‘What can I do for you?’

Perlmann looked at the crossed feet under the desk, dangling just above the floor, and below the ankle of Angelini’s right foot he saw a hole in his sock. All of a sudden he felt safe, and the impulse to laugh, which he struggled to suppress, gave his voice the requisite jauntiness.

‘I wanted to ask you if the company might have a job for me. As a translator, for example. Something like that.’

It was the last thing Angelini had expected. His feet stopped dangling. Without looking at Perlmann he picked up his coffee cup and drank it down in a series of slow sips. He took his time. Yet again he ran his cigarette along the inner rim of the ashtray. Then he looked up.

‘You mean…?’

‘Yes,’ said Perlmann, ‘I’m giving up my professorship.’

Angelini stubbed out his cigarette. His face now looked as if he didn’t know what expression to decide upon.

‘Can I ask why? Has it got something to do with…?’

‘No, not at all,’ Perlmann said quickly. ‘I’ve been planning it for ages. I’d just like to try something new. In a new country.’

Angelini took a cigarette and walked to the window. When he turned to Perlmann, his face was full of baffled admiration. It was the most personal expression that Perlmann had ever seen him wear.

‘You know,’ he said slowly, ‘I’m completely bowled over by this. A man of your academic status, your reputation…’ He walked to the door. ‘It will take a moment. I also want to ask them about the likelihood of a work permit.’

The secretary brought Perlmann coffee. Now, all of a sudden, everything was going far too quickly for him. He felt all a-flutter, as if before an exam. In conversation with Angelini he had not, to his knowledge, made any mistakes in Italian. But they would inevitably come. From one minute to the next, even though nothing had happened, he felt clumsier, slow and dim-witted. He wasn’t really talented, that was as true when it came to languages as it was with music. He had a good memory, and he was a hard worker. That was it. He was no Luc Sonntag.

Angelini was smiling contentedly as he came back. ‘In your case the probationary period would only last a month. Just a question of form. And the legal department sees no problems with your work permit. Where languages are concerned, you’re always at an advantage.’ His expression revealed that he was missing something in Perlmann’s face. ‘And you’re quite sure you want this? Forgive the question. It’s just… it’s simply so unusual.’

‘I know,’ said Perlmann.

Even now, Angelini had expected more of a reaction. But after a brief hesitation he made a special effort. ‘Could you start on the second of January? The company will make you an offer over the next few days. And we’ll try and help you with a apartment as well.’

Perlmann nodded repeatedly.

‘While you’re here,’ said Angelini, ‘I can show you your office.’

It was a cramped office with two desks opposite one another. The window faced backwards, towards the east. It looked down on a low building connected to the main block by a walkway. Beyond it, on the slope, an electricity cabin. In the months when the sun managed to peep over the hill, there might be two or three hours of morning sun.

The woman at the other desk had turned on the light. ‘This is Signora Medici,’ said Angelini. ‘Our chief translator. She comes from Tyrol and speaks five languages. Or how many is it?’

‘Six,’ the woman said, shaking Perlmann’s hand firmly.

The contrast between name and appearance was so great that he could barely keep from laughing. She was a plump matron in knee socks and sandals, and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses sat on her nose, with lenses as thick as magnifying glasses.

‘Don’t worry, we can speak German,’ she said as Perlmann made one mistake after another.