Pascal Mercier - Perlmann's Silence

And then their intimate relationship: Leskov’s paternal tone might not, objectively speaking, change at all. But from now on he, Perlmann, would always hear a menacing undertone, a nuance that stripped him of every possibility of defending himself. He would have to remain silent. He would be like a lackey if so much as a single word on the subject were mentioned.

Perlmann started to hate this man Vassily Leskov. It was a quite different hatred from his hatred of Millar. His hatred of Millar had to do with what Millar had said and done. It had its origin in things that had happened between them. Millar was actively involved in its genesis and, as a result, Perlmann’s hatred was rooted in the man himself. He hated Leskov, on the other hand, even though this Russian, at that moment innocently packing his suitcase, hadn’t done the slightest thing. So, on closer inspection, the feeling of hatred which seemed to be targeted at Leskov in fact slipped off him and fell back on Perlmann, who was aware of the shabbiness of his feeling, but was unable to resist it.

He turned the sound back up on the television, annoyed that the report on an earthquake was coming to an end. Sport and fashion – those weren’t images capable of freeing him; rather they seemed to mock him. He could have slapped the bright and cheerful faces of the presenters and gave a start when he became aware of his absurd hysteria. He was relieved when the weather-map appeared; the detached perspective of the satellite image did him good. He had never studied a weather report with such keen attention. He eagerly studied the tip of the pointer as it went from place to place – all places that he contemplated with yearning simply because they were somewhere else.

When the forecast for the following day began, he found himself in a state of rapidly mounting panic. The broadcast would soon be over, and then he would be overpowered by thoughts that would turn him into a different, ugly person, cold and alien to himself. He clung to the forecast for Italy. When the camera pulled back and the presenters’ desk became smaller and smaller, he stayed there, eyes straining, to the very last picture and the last note of the signature tune.

The advertisements leapt out shrilly at him, and he immediately turned off the television. But the empty, dark screen, his bedside lamp reflected in it, left him defenseless against himself, and he turned it back on. He hopped desperately from channel to channel, trying frantically to numb himself with erotic images, and even the attempt to slip into the excitement of a car chase with wailing sirens and gunfire was doomed to failure. His flight from his own thoughts was over. They had caught up with him, and forced their way violently into his consciousness. He tapped the keys of the remote control ever more quickly and desperately, the individual channels pursued one another and flashed up only briefly, then at last he turned off the television.

He went into the bathroom and took the pack of sleeping pills from his sponge bag. Two of those tablets would be enough to erase all thoughts for a while. He already had the pills on his tongue and could taste their bitterness, promising oblivion, when he lowered his glass of water. It was mad, now of all times, when everything was at stake, to yield to anaesthesia, not knowing how long it would be until his head was clear enough again to think in practical terms. He set the damp pills down on the shelf, drank the glass dry and then walked very slowly, head lowered, back to the red armchair, like someone whose time has run out once and for all, and who must at last give himself up. He set the red lighter, which he was already holding, carefully back down on the table and lit the cigarette with a hotel match. He inhaled the smoke more deeply than usual and breathed it very slowly out. He waited until the very last moment before breathing in. Then he began.

It would have to look like an accident. An accident that had happened somewhere between the airport and the hotel. An accident that happened in Perlmann’s presence, and one to which he could testify. There was basically only a single possibility: it would have to be an accident in a car that he rented at the airport.

A rental car just for Leskov? Someone might ask if that was necessary, whether a taxi wouldn’t have done. After all, everyone else had arrived by normal means of transport. But there were possible explanations: Perlmann held this man, Leskov, in even greater esteem than they had previously supposed, clearly in a personal sense as well. Or: he wanted to make a special gesture to a Russian who was travelling from St Petersburg and who had never been in the West before. Or: the expenses budget that Angelini had set aside was so generous that it was easily affordable. And besides, after a fatal accident no one would utter such a question. By no means, he could be sure of this, was the rental car on its own a cause for suspicion.

But how would he do it, from the technical point of view? Stage an accident in such a way that Leskov would be killed while he himself was unharmed – that was practically impossible. Other people must on no account be drawn into sympathy with him, that much was clear. He didn’t need to think about it for a second. And driving into a tree at the roadside, a lamppost or a rock – the outcome could never be calculated with any certainty. Only one thing came into question, in fact, and Perlmann found it very strange how quickly, almost automatically he hit upon the idea: he would have to stop right above a steep cliff – in the mountains or on a rocky bit of coastline – get out and send the car rolling over the edge with Leskov inside. In his mind’s eye he saw the slowly rolling car, inside it Leskov’s massive form, his horrified face, his mouth widening to a scream; the car would tip over and plunge into the depths before going up in flames or sinking into the sea. Perlmann pressed his thumb and forefinger to his eyes to banish the details of the picture, and it was a while before he could go on thinking.

It would have to happen in a rest area, a spot where the ground fell away in a rocky plunge. How would he stop? He could change to neutral and put on the handbrake. After getting out he would have to bend and reach inside, press in the button on the handbrake, pull up the lever and let it go. To pull it up, he thought, he would have to hold his arm, or his forearm at least, more or less parallel with the lever, or else it wouldn’t release, and that would mean that he would have to lean very far in towards Leskov, his victim. Perhaps he could do it if he supported himself on the driver’s seat with his left hand; but perhaps he would also have to use his right knee as well. It depended how wide the car was. At any rate, and this was the worst thing about the idea, he would come very close to Leskov’s body again, and if he bent his arm clumsily or lost his balance as he supported himself, he might even touch him. He didn’t need to look at him, he could violently narrow his field of vision and stare hard at the handbrake. Once he had the lever in his hand he could close his eyes. But that moment of unseeing physical closeness, which would be so entirely different from physical closeness on the journey, would be terrible. And absolutely unbearable was the idea that Leskov might see through his intention, and that there would be a fight, in the course of which they might plunge together.

He had to do it without the handbrake, just with the gears. Leave him in the car when he stopped it, get out and then, in a flash, lean in to knock it out. It would take one or two seconds. And to do that he wouldn’t have to support himself, or only on the steering wheel, in which case he wouldn’t go near the passenger seat. Would Leskov pull up the handbrake when he felt the car rolling? He couldn’t drive: Perlmann now remembered him saying dryly that his income would never stretch to a car. But actually, every passenger knew that there was a handbrake and where it was. On the other hand, Perlmann’s attack would strike like lightning from a clear sky. And even if Leskov wasn’t looking out of the window at that moment, and saw Perlmann’s movement quite clearly, he wouldn’t be able to grasp the situation quickly enough; the truth would be too unexpected and too monstrous. He would be confused by the rapid movement and horrified by the rolling, and probably paralyzed by both. But Perlmann couldn’t rely on it. He would have to prevent Leskov from defending himself in any way by driving close to the cliff edge, so close that the front wheels protruded beyond it as they pulled up, and the car’s center of gravity lay irrevocably beyond the edge in the air. Leskov might say something anxious as they drove so close to the abyss. But Perlmann would no longer need to react to it. He would concentrate entirely on what he needed to do, and a few seconds later it would all be over.