Pascal Mercier - Perlmann's Silence

When their eyes met, Perlmann smiled at him. Millar hesitated, then his face darkened, and he irritably raised his eyebrows. He seemed to think Perlmann was making fun of him. But then he saw that Perlmann’s persistent smile was a different smile, not an ironic or a hostile one. He blinked two or three times, reached for his glasses and made a first, still cautious attempt to smile back. As he did so there was still scepticism in his face, and only after a further hesitation did his features fall into a relaxed, casual smile that turned into a broad, warm grin that Perlmann had never seen on his face before. He’s glad, too, just as glad as I am. Was that hatred necessary?

Perlmann only noticed that the Mayor had stopped talking when he pointedly cleared his throat. From the box he had taken a gold medal that hung from a strip of fabric in the colors of the town’s coat of arms. Now, with an expression of ridiculous solemnity, he stepped up to Perlmann, who bent far forwards to avoid contact with his belly. The Mayor put the strip of fabric over Perlmann’s head and then handed him the unrolled certificate declaring him to be a freeman of the town. Then he shook his hand endlessly, coming out with the usual phrases in Italian. To Perlmann’s annoyance, Angelini now started clapping and went on sedulously clapping until the others joined in, timidly and plainly embarrassed by so much empty convention. But for a while Perlmann maintained his feeling of relief at having shed his hatred of Millar. He delivered a brief speech of thanks, and even managed a joke. That sense of relief, and the hint of presence that it contained washed everything else away. He swapped a smile with Evelyn Mistral, and for a moment it seemed as if everything was fine again. As incredible as it seemed to him later in the car, he quite simply forgot that in less than four hours he would murder somebody and end his own life.

The town’s visitor’s book was bound in red leather, and the two lions from the coat of arms were stamped on it in fine black lines. The Mayor had taken it out of his desk, and now asked them all to approach and write in it. Perlmann was the first to sit on the high-backed chair, shifted it closer to the desk and drew the open book to him. He automatically reached into the left side of his blazer, but he had no pen. He tried again on the right, and was about to voice his request, when he was handed a fountain pen from above. When he looked up along his arm, the only person he could see at first was von Levetzov; but then he suddenly became aware that they were all standing around the desk in a semi-circle, looking down at him. And as he unscrewed the pen, he discovered that some clerks had now come into the room as well, and were watching him from the second row.

At that moment everything that he had been able to maintain since the beginning of the reception collapsed within him. He felt himself freezing at the focus of all those eyes. His nose started running. The hand holding the pen felt numb with cold, and when he was about to start writing he saw to his indescribable horror that it was trembling as if he had a violent case of the shivers. For two or three seconds he tried in vain to calm his hand by pressing his forearm against the edge of the table. Then he set the quivering fountain pen down next to the book with a quiet clatter and took his handkerchief out of his trouser pocket. As he blew his nose he closed his eyes and tried to relax while breathing out. As he did so, he felt as if his nose-blowing, which was subject only to his own will, after all, would never stop, it was like the beginning of an endless nose-blowing compulsion through which time stretched until it seemed almost to stand still.

Doggedly, as if wresting the movement from alien powers, at last he stuffed the handkerchief back in his pocket, where he clenched his hand into a fist to check that it belonged to him again. Then he braced himself, picked up the pen with a flying motion and guided it as quickly as he could over the paper, only writing the P out properly, just hinting at the e and levelling out the remaining letters in a single line which, from pressure on the nib, showed a fine white line in the middle. It wasn’t his signature. It wasn’t even like it. In fact, it wasn’t actually a possible signature for his name, because it didn’t even contain the suggestion of an elevation for the l . He also saw, as he automatically screwed the top of the fountain pen back on, that it was curiously crooked and began far too low on the fresh page. And on such an occasion, he thought as he got up, of course one signed one’s full name. He forgot to give the pen back to von Levetzov, but just left it there and, without looking at anyone, withdrew to the corner beside the door where, under the surprised eyes of the clerks, he lit a cigarette.

When the prosecco was handed out, his colleagues came over to study the medal at close quarters. Not a word was said about his trembling hand, and he couldn’t discover anything special in their expressions, either. The ribbon with the medal wandered from neck to neck, the jokes about the whole ceremony became more and more silly and frivolous, and at one point Millar clapped Perlmann on the shoulder with a laugh. Perlmann made an effort not to draw attention to himself, and laughed along. It was a laugh with no inner echo, a laugh with a run-up, a kind of facial gymnastics. He was glad that Ruge outdid a joke that had just been made, turned on his side and pretended to double up with laughter. As he straightened up, he wiped away the tears, interrupting himself with a feigned burst of laughter.

When the merriment finally faded away, they noticed with some embarrassment that both the Mayor and Angelini had already left. Apart from them, there were only two clerks in the room, talking about something with empty glasses in their hands.

Perlmann looked at the clock above the door: twenty past twelve. He’ll be in Frankfurt now. His nose started running again. His handkerchief fell on the gleaming parquet, and when he straightened up again, everything went black for a second. He was already at the stairs behind the others when Laura Sand touched his arm and, with a mocking smile, handed him his forgotten certificate. As they went downstairs together, she said abruptly, without looking at him: ‘You’re not terribly well, are you?’

It was the first time she had said anything so personal to him, and never before had he heard such warmth in her smoky voice. He braced himself against tears, and crushed the certificate in the middle as he did so. He swallowed twice, glanced at her quickly and swallowed again.

‘I’m OK,’ he said more quietly than he had planned, and added in a louder voice: ‘I slept really badly.’

‘See you later,’ she said as they parted in the hall. He watched after her as she opened the heavy door, leaned against it and lit a cigarette with her big lighter before stepping out into the square. He was relieved that he had resisted the massive temptation to confide in her. At the same time, though, he had the feeling that he had just wasted his last chance.

He hurried into the toilet, which was actually meant only for council employees. It wasn’t diarrhoea, it was, once again, that deceptive sensation in his abdomen. Nonetheless, he sat there for a while with his head in his hands, thinking about nothing. He didn’t get back up until he finally started feeling cold. It was as arduous as if he were made of lead.

Evelyn Mistral was waiting outside the door.

‘You’re going to the airport now, aren’t you?’ she asked in Spanish. There was a hint of shyness in her face, but above all the hope that the last few days’ estrangement was in the past.

‘ Sí ,’ said Perlmann, and felt his throat tightening as he waited for what was to come.