Pascal Mercier - Perlmann's Silence

Tonight Perlmann quarrelled with his dead parents, because he thought there was a clearly visible causal connection between the unshakeable, rigidly dogmatic expectations they had imposed on their only child, and the fatal situation and inner misery in which he found himself at present. Tidal waves of accusation, of reproach, of reckonings of guilt and neglect buried him beneath themselves and dragged him, against all efforts of reason, away with them. When it was approaching two o’clock he took half a sleeping pill. At three he swallowed the other half. He was playing the A flat major Polonaise in front of an audience that seemed to extend infinitely back into the darkness of the hall. He knew he had to concentrate entirely on playing: everything depended upon him making no mistakes. Instead, he stared into the darkness of the hall and looked for Millar. He knew his gleaming glasses were there somewhere, but he couldn’t see him anywhere, his eyes streaming with exertion. Then, all of a sudden, Evelyn Mistral’s face appeared, with a radiant smile, as if she wanted to ask a question, but now it was Hanna’s face that studied him quizzically; it was Hanna’s face and also Laura Sand’s, mocking and white and still. From the very outset he heard the dangerous passage like a paradoxical, premonitory echo, he knew that he couldn’t rely on himself, that it was a matter of chance whether his fingers would do it right or not, whether they would be able to assert themselves against the paralysing influence of fear, his hands were sweating, the sweat was coming more and more, it was getting between his fingers and the keys, his fingers were slipping, now came the passage, he could hear quite loudly what it was supposed to sound like, but he couldn’t do anything, his fingers ceased to grip, it was a sensation of boundless impotence, and then he woke up with dry and very cold hands, which he immediately stuffed back under the covers.

The effects of the pill lay heavy on his eyes, but he still couldn’t get to sleep. While the first, pale light gave the bay an unreal presence, Millar’s invisible dream-figure transformed into a real person, to whom he had to prove his superior knowledge of Bach. But how was he to deliver that proof? Getting hold of the score was not a solution; on no account must it look as if he had made a special effort. The crucial thing, if he were to draw Millar’s attention to his error, was the incisive casualness of the man who had been familiar with these things for decades. The CD that Hanna had talked about. This would prove that it was a twofold error: it was not only the catalogue number that was incorrect, but the assertion that there was no recording. The story that it was a trouvaille thus acquired a ridiculous note in retrospect. Once again Perlmann heard Millar’s impossible pronunciation of the French word. You had to think about it for a moment before you understood. But the question about the CD was similar to the one about the score: how come he had it with him? A cassette would be easier to explain; with a Walkman, for example. He couldn’t have bought one of those little CD players that cost an absolute fortune. Or could he?

I happened to see it and just picked it up . That had exactly the right casual feeling, Perlmann thought as he shaved. And the sentence, if spoken in the right tone, had an urbane touch about it. The remark also explained why he didn’t mention it until the following day. Signora Morelli had already referred to the CD player in the drawing room upon his arrival.

He relaxed, and when he reached for the receiver to order coffee, he suddenly wanted to sit opposite Millar this morning, bolstered by the secret of his plan. On the steps he felt as if his brain were swimming around inside his skull. But somehow it would work. At eight on the dot he walked into the dining room.

Apart from the red-haired man from the pool there wasn’t another soul in the room. Perlmann greeted him and sat down in the other corner. He hesitantly ordered breakfast from a waiter he had never seen before. Then Evelyn appeared in the doorway and walked over to him with surprise. She had thrown a pullover over her shoulders, and her hair was tied in a ponytail. No, no, she said, communal breakfast was usually at eight, but for Sunday they’d agreed on nine. But that was too late for her today. She was plainly embarrassed at having to explain to him, the leader of the group. She straightened her cutlery and quickly changed the subject.

‘You won’t believe this,’ she said, ‘but the red-haired man’s name is John Smith. He comes from Carson City, Nevada. Brian talked to him recently, from one American to another, so to speak. He’s filthy rich and he’s spending his winter here. “It figures,” Brian said to him when he finally told him his name. If Brian despises somebody, he does it with good reason,’ she smiled.

‘And that must happen quite frequently,’ Perlmann couldn’t help saying.

Her hand, holding its croissant, stopped mid-movement. ‘You don’t like him that much, do you?’

Perlmann took a sip of coffee. His brain was swimming. ‘I think he’s fine,’ he said, ‘although he doesn’t exactly suffer from a lack of self-confidence.’

‘That’s true. But there is something he can’t deal with at all, and that’s Laura’s kind of irony. He gets completely helpless, and babbles like a little boy. But otherwise he feels he’s a match for everything – if I can put it like that.’ She gripped her ponytail, and the reddish strip appeared on her forehead. ‘Recently, at the session, I was annoyed at the way he treated me. Somehow condescending, I thought. But he played wonderfully last night, didn’t you think?’

‘Yes… yes, I did,’ Perlmann said haltingly, as if he had stumbled over a threshold.

Only the hesitation in the movement of her knife revealed that she had noticed his halting attitude. ‘I wish I’d learned an instrument,’ she said, and only now did she look at him. ‘My father urged me to; but at the time I didn’t feel like it. Juan, my little brother, did it better than me. He plays the cello. Not especially brilliantly, but he enjoys it.’

And you, do you play an instrument? He had to prevent that question being asked at all cost, so he asked more about Juan and the whole family, including the grandparents. One might have thought he was looking for material for a family saga.

They were in the doorway of the dining room when von Levetzov and Millar came down the stairs. They exchanged a glance that didn’t escape Evelyn Mistral. She raised her arm, made a delicate movement with her fingers as if doing a trill on the piano, took Perlmann’s arm with a smile and guided him out through the door to the flight of steps. It was only when they reached the promenade that she looked at him, and then they both burst out laughing.

She held his arm as they strolled along the harbor. Walking did Perlmann good, and the pressure above his eyes gradually subsided. Wrapped in the remaining after-effects of the pill, which lay on his eyes like a protective filter, he yielded to his imagination, which told him that he was enjoying this radiant autumn morning with the delicate plume of mist over the smooth, sparkling water. The present was within reach when Evelyn Mistral, who had now shaken her hair free, described Salamanca, and he was quite sure it would be his next travel destination.

They turned the corner and suddenly found themselves standing in front of a church, a bridal couple just coming out. He wished the photographs, the congratulation and the jokes would last much longer, and was disappointed at how quickly everyone suddenly climbed into the cars and drove away, honking jauntily.

Finally, Evelyn Mistral took his arm again and drew him gently away. It was nearly half-past eleven, she said, and she still had lots of plans. ‘I’ll be back at work two weeks tomorrow!’ Maria was already working on her first chapter, but in the second there were still so many gaps and incongruities that it was hopeless. ‘And when I think about Brian, Achim and Adrian sitting there…’