Pascal Mercier - Perlmann's Silence

The click of the seatbelt as it shut was already a memory, and he already had his hand on the ignition key when it occurred to him. The seatbelt. I must make Leskov’s belt unusable. He released his own belt, turned on the light in the car and leaned over the passenger seat to get a look at the little box containing the roll of the belt. The only inconspicuous manipulation would be to block the narrow slit through which the strap ran. He took a handful of Italian coins out of his jacket pocket. The 100 lire pieces were the most suitable. But they only seemed to jam between the belt and the side of the box; if you pulled on the belt, they either came out at the same time or, more often, slipped into the box. Perlmann’s movements became increasingly frantic. He wasted coin after coin and at last, helplessly and slipping away from himself like an addict, he pushed in all the coins that had seemed unsuitable from the outset. All the coins in the box made it rattle a bit when he tugged on the belt: but the strap still passed unobstructed through the slit.

Perlmann sat up, rested his head on the headrest and forced himself to be calm by breathing slowly. In his seat pocket he felt the wallet in which he still carried around his German money, even though he had often planned to leave it behind. He took it out. The two five mark pieces felt fatter and more massive than the Italian money, and when he tried one of them out it fitted more firmly, and resisted an initial pull. But at the second, rather more energetic tug it, too, fell into the box on to the other coins with a quiet chink.

When Perlmann reached into his jacket pocket for the lighter, he felt one last remaining coin. It was a thin 200 lire piece. He took the cigarette out of his mouth and set the half-blackened brass coin on top of the second five mark piece. The two coins couldn’t be pressed into the slit at the same time by hand, but it was a close thing. Perlmann got out and searched through the tools in the belt. Then he opened the passenger door, set the two coins on the slit with his right thumb and ring finger, and with his index and middle fingers held the tip of a screwdriver over them, carefully tapping it in with an adjustable wrench. Light blows had no effect, but when he tapped harder the screwdriver slipped off, and at one point the brass coin almost fell into the slit. Once, when he sat up and stretched his aching back, Perlmann was passed by a cyclist in worker’s clothes and a peaked cap, holding a pick over his shoulder. ‘ Buona sera ,’ he said with a curious expression. ‘ Buona sera ,’ Perlmann wanted to reply, but afterwards he wasn’t sure if he had actually uttered it, or only thought it.

A moment later, when the screwdriver slipped again and scratched the black plastic box, he lost his nerve and the next time he struck it with all his might. When the screwdriver squashed the tip of his ring finger and slit it open, he dropped everything, stuck his finger in his mouth and hopped up and down with pain. After a while he wrapped his handkerchief around his finger and gave it one last try. The two coins caught, and now, carefully, millimeter by millimeter, he hammered them in. Once there was a groaning sound as if the box were about to explode. But it held and, at last, the belt was blocked. Perlmann sat down and tried it out. The curves of the two coins remained visible. He couldn’t get them any further in. Otherwise they would slide in with the others. If Leskov looked carefully when he noticed that the belt was jammed, he could, with a shake of his head, say something about vandalism.

First he had borrowed the map, then rented the car, and now this. He was getting deeper and deeper into the realization of his plan. His actions were gradually becoming more deliberate, his reflections more ingenious, his traces clearer. And even so, he thought as he packed the tools away, it all felt like an inward-rotating spiral that was constricting itself around him all by itself and without his help, and would in the end strangle him with his own crime.

With his hand still on the lid of the trunk, he saw a woman on the other side of the crossing opening a grocer’s shop and turning on the light. He ran over and walked into the shop. The old woman’s white hair was so fine and sparse that she looked almost bald. Her in-turned lips and jutting chin reminded him of the toothless old woman at the window in Portofino.

‘Closed,’ she said, pushing her pointed chin even further forward.

‘Just one question,’ Perlmann said.

She looked at him suspiciously.

‘Do lots of trucks come along here?’

‘What?’

‘Lots of trucks. Is there a lot of traffic? Through the tunnel, I mean.’

‘Not today,’ she grinned, showing her single stump of tooth.

‘On working days, I mean.’

‘Well, sometimes more, sometimes less.’

‘What does it depend on?’ Perlmann put his hands in his pockets so that he could clench his fists.

‘I don’t know. There’s more going on in the summer.’

‘But are there trucks at this time of day?’

‘Of course there are. They make one hell of a noise. And they stink. But why do you want to know?’

‘We’re making a film, and it has to have trucks in it,’ Perlmann said. He had no idea where that came from, but the information came without hesitation.

‘A film? In our village?’ She gave a croaking laugh and pushed the rolled tip of her tongue between her lips.

‘And what about the time of day? When does the traffic ease off in the evening?’

‘You want to know very precisely, don’t you?’ she said and now made a curious face as if she were trying to believe the story about the film. ‘Nothing comes down from Piacenza after four. And from Chiávari through the tunnel – well, from half-past four there aren’t as many, c’è meno .’ And then, suddenly quite enraged, she added: ‘Knocking off – these days they knock off at five in the evening!’

‘So not many trucks come through after half-past four?’

‘That’s what I said.’

Perlmann was tempted to repeat the question, however pointless it was. But he didn’t dare.

‘A real film, eh?’ she said when he was saying goodbye.

He felt he was about to suffocate in there, and just nodded.

‘As if!’ she murmured.

She watched after him as he walked back to the car. He was glad it was now too dark for her to make out the details of the car. When he turned round and set off towards Genoa she was still standing in the doorway.

Customs control at Genoa Airport wasn’t much to worry about, he thought, and shifted down, having been an inch away from causing a collision on a tight bend. His calculation had been too generous. If the flight was on time, Leskov could be out by a quarter to three, and then they would arrive when there were still trucks on the road. If his estimate for tomorrow’s journey, which stretched into the rush hour, was remotely accurate, he would have to be careful that Leskov didn’t notice his haste and ask about it.

And, generally speaking, how was he going to explain to Leskov that they were taking neither the coast road nor the highway, but driving through this bleak, grey valley, in which there was absolutely nothing to see? Perlmann stopped when it struck him as boiling hot. But not a single excuse occurred to him that would have sounded even halfway plausible. No thoughts came at all. The last few hours had leached him out completely. His finger hurt. And how would the others explain the strange route? His colleagues? Kirsten? The police? He drove on. I’ve still got twenty-one hours, after all.

Even before he could begin to get his bearings, he reached an area at the harbor that was veiled in dense fog, cut through with beams of cold, rust-red light from the high harbor floodlights. It was impossible to see three feet ahead, and his own headlights made everything even worse. He got out of the car. Apart from the sound of the water it was completely silent. He had no idea how to find the parking lot, but in his exhaustion he was grateful for the fog, and went deeper and deeper into it.