Diego Marani - The Interpreter

‘You’ll see, it’s a pigsty! He’s left all his stuff there, and what a state it’s in! They’d better get a move on and clear it out!’ she grumbled, pressing the button to the third floor.

‘I could tell from the start that he wasn’t quite right in the head! I’ve got an eye for such things!’ she said, waving her index finger around by way of warning.

‘Of course, I was younger in those days, and looked at men more carefully,’ she added, attempting a flirtatious gesture and lifting a hand to her hair while glancing in the mirror; then, clasping her hands behind her back, she leaned against the wall and carried on:

‘He’s lived here for over twenty years! You might say that we grew old together but, believe it or not, he never addressed a word to me. He’d talk to himself, or into a tape recorder, but never to another human soul!’

She glanced at me out of the corner of her eye.

‘Anyone can talk to themselves, everyone has their troubles, as I myself know since my husband died. But what he did couldn’t be described as talking! And at night, too! It sounded as if he were talking in his sleep! It must have been all the queer languages he knew; his head must have been churning like an upset stomach!’ she added, putting on a smile.

The door, when it opened, did indeed reveal a monumental mess: piles of books on the floor, clothes draped all over the place, over the bedhead, from doorhandles, from those on the dresser. The bookshelves, the worktop in the little kitchen and the windowsills were crowded with empty mineral water bottles, all of the same make, their green reflections visible on the walls; pairs of shoes, dozens of them, all English and all black, were lined up on the carpet.

‘They’d better not think they can ask me to clean up this lot! They’ll have to get the pest control people in first!’ she protested, running her hands over her apron and looking around despairingly.

‘And all this post! What’s he hoping for? That we’ll have it all sent on to him?’ she went on, pointing to a pile of letters and periodicals on the floor.

‘Didn’t he leave an address?’ I asked.

‘Address, my eye! He just went away, it must be four months ago by now. And that was the last we saw of him!’

She made a quick tour of the room, then paused at the door to the bathroom.

‘Well, do have a good look round and pull the door to behind you when you’re done — I must go down, I’ve got something on the stove,’ she said, and hobbled out onto the landing.

The first thing I noticed was the colour of the ink, then I recognised the handwriting. That particular shade of violet, veined with green, had been her nod in the direction of artistic caprice; together with her envelopes and writing paper, she’d had it specially made for her by a stationer’s in the centre of town. It contained the juice of some poisonous berry, and if you drank it you might die.

‘So it’s true that words can kill!’ she had commented, laughing, as she removed the wrapping paper from the little dark glass pot with the gilded label.

I bent down to pick up the envelope with Irene’s unmistakable writing on it; I was afraid that I was seeing things. It suddenly seemed to me that I recognised the place. But when could I have been there before? Seized by a sudden feeling of dizziness, I knelt down on the carpet and ran my hands frenetically through the pile of post; rummaging through dusty periodicals and faded printed matter, I found two other envelopes bearing that same violet handwriting. My head was spinning, fury and fear were raging through my veins, taking my breath away. I was no nearer to understanding it, but at least I could now see what I’d failed to see for months. Irene, with that man! How could it be possible? I tore the envelopes open viciously: the first letter was dated 3rd May, the second 27th June and the third 20th July. I tried to turn on a lamp, but there was no power. I went up to the window where there was more light.

Dear Piotr,

I call you by that name because you cannot be anyone but Piotr, the Russian in the film the other evening. You translated it so well that that’s how it must be. Are you really so melancholy? You’re certainly every bit as enigmatic. Would you too hang yourself for so little? I do hope not. At least wait until the end of the season! Or perhaps you are Snorri, the Viking pirate from last Sunday’s show? The one who never wanted to grow old, and went to have himself killed by his worst enemy. On second thoughts, you might be Yamada, the Japanese nihilist — what a wonderful film! Dark and cynical, and that’s how I like them. But perhaps it was your voice that made it seem so marvellous — not only are you a simultaneous translator, you’re also a true actor. How do you do it? How can you translate the characters’ very souls? How can you give yourself over to them and then so quickly find yourself again? How do you always manage to pull yourself back from the brink of your excursions into others? And how wonderful it must be to speak so many languages! Truly, you have the sounds of the whole world in your head. Excuse me for this intrusive letter, it’s not my style. But you left me a card with a telephone number that no one ever answers, so I had to write, and I hope to have better luck by post. I’d like to get to know you more, the couple of words we exchanged in the bar after the show were not enough. I want to know whether you are Piotr, Snorri or Yamada, but perhaps I will indeed have to wait for the end of the season to find out! Who knows how many other tortured characters you’ll have played before the end of June! Here’s my address and phone number. Get in touch!

Yours,

Irene

(The woman in the third row who always asks a lot of questions.)

I was sweating and my hands were shaking; a chill was slowly creeping into my bones, numbing my limbs. A door banged on the floor below, and a blast of cold air blew in from the stairwell; the clothes hanging from the doorknobs fluttered, made a faint rustling sound. I crouched down in a corner, threw the letter onto the table and began to read the next one, the one dated June 27th.

My love,

If I may call you that — once again, I’m writing you a letter, for speaking no longer serves any purpose. I don’t even know if you listen to me when I talk to you, or whether you’ve already flown away on the wings of your impenetrable thoughts. I don’t understand what’s happening to us. I know, it’s my fault. It was all so wonderful, there was no need to say anything. We were so close, we both felt it; and that was enough, or rather so much more than enough. But I wanted to talk, to question you, to know and, by doing so, I ruined everything. Do try to understand: I know nothing about you, I don’t know what you do on the other six days of the week. I don’t know anything about your hopes, your dreams, whether you’re happy or unhappy. I don’t know what you think about when you’re not with me. I feel that I have a substitute ‘you’ beside me, someone who resembles you but is not you. The real you will come later, and I and your substitute are here waiting for you and, as we’re waiting, we don’t know what to say. We look at each other, I smile at you, you tell me fascinating things about strange languages and our meetings are like television documentaries. When we say goodbye, when dusk falls on our afternoon ramblings around the city and I go homewards with a heavy heart, I keep my mind closed tightly as a fist, so that the precious treasure held within it — my rare time with you — cannot escape. Yet when I loosen it a bit, there’s nothing there; you’ve flown away. I thought I had you in my grasp, but you weren’t there at all. All that I know of you is what you’ve let me know: a shell, a voice. All that’s left to me of you, when we part, is your voice. I feel alone; the air around me feels cold, there’s an icy feeling in my house, in my life. You broadened my mind, made me see worlds I knew nothing of; whichever language you speak, your words enthral. How could one resist the thousand visions that you conjure up before me, the imaginary worlds you set up and inhabit? But there is something false in you, and sometimes I feel that what you are giving me is not yours to give — that you have stolen it from someone and are giving it to me to rid yourself of it, as though it were some kind of proof that could implicate you in some crime. No sooner do I get some hint of you, manage to grasp something that seems authentically you in that shifting mind of yours, than you cast it off and proffer me the empty shell of what you were. I was looking for warmth, friendly affection, more, perhaps; I thought you too valued our Sunday afternoon walks. I thought you needed me, as I did you. But you have need of nothing, of no one, and you treat even yourself with strained detachment, as though you had become bored with yourself and were trying to get away, to slip out of your own head and occupy a new one — a whole new world to be discovered, filled. This is the last Sunday of the season; after that, we won’t have any reason to see each other again, unless we seek it out ourselves. We’ll nod to one another, and then I’ll never see you again. But if you want me to stay, tell me so. With words — your own, for once, not those you pluck from others’ mouths. Then all my days will become one of our magic Sundays.