Diego Marani - The Interpreter

‘Yet it did seem to me that he responded to your last, er, what shall we call it, contribution — at least after a fashion,’ he went on, clearly alluding to my attack, which he had taken as an attempt at communication.

‘No, I don’t think so; I think all I did was to frighten him even more,’ I said, inwardly praying that I wouldn’t be seized by another crisis.

‘Why don’t you go to the police?’ I then suggested.

‘Are you joking? We wouldn’t be able to weigh anchor for weeks!’

‘What do you intend to do with this man?’ I asked.

‘I’ll leave that to Janos — he dealt with the other three!’ the captain said, pointing towards the sailor who was closing the cabin door.

I shot Delattre a horrified look, but he burst out laughing.

‘Come now, what can you be thinking of? We don’t throw them overboard! There are some nuns nearby who take such people in, and we keep them in business!’ he reassured me cheerily.

‘As soon as the sedative has worn off, Janos will put him in the car and take him to the nuns. We’re setting sail tomorrow, so we’re going to have to get rid of him before the day is out,’ he added in a low voice, giving the sailor an expectant look, which was answered with a shake of the head.

The captain asked me whether I would care for a cup of tea in the control room before I left.

‘My dear Stauber, a sailor’s life is a complicated one! Think of us as a piece of France which is plying the high seas, and everything which happens to us, even the most trivial incident, has to be seen in that light; often it’s France herself who goes on the attack. This business will certainly come to the ears of the secret services; indeed I happen to know that the French ambassador has already been alerted. Come to think of it, what are you doing here in Odessa?’ he asked me politely as he refilled my cup.

‘Oh, just the usual — updating myself linguistically, attending boring specialist meetings!’ I ad-libbed blithely, sipping my tea and wishing heartily I could be out of there.

‘How wonderful to know so many languages and to be able to understand the people you come across! Whereas I’m always cooped up in my cabin, travelling the world without seeing it. Imagine — by now I recognise the ports by the colour of the containers on the wharves! But I won’t bore you with my moaning; I’ll call Janos to take you back to your hotel, you could probably do with some rest.’

He rose and shook me warmly by the hand.

‘One last thing,’ I said before going up on deck. ‘Could I go with your sailor to the convent? You see, if what your stowaway is speaking is indeed a language, I’d be most interested to know more about it; as a professional linguist, I’d like to see these other men who speak it.’

‘Of course, Mr Stauber! Indeed, if you do learn something, I too would like to hear about it. Janos will be happy to take you there; he’s not actually one of our sailors — I’d describe him as an invaluable Man Friday whom we happen to have here in Odessa.’ Delattre rose from the table and went off to summon his dogsbody.

We left the port in complete darkness; the wind had driven off such powdery snow as had remained on the quays, and now there was nothing to lighten the pitch-black of the night. The dark water tugged at the boulders with an oily sucking sound. After driving through the container port and leaving the last cranes behind us, we turned off the main route taken by lorries and drove along a wide dark road which led into the outskirts of the city. Janos stopped in front of a white building with high windows. Stretched out on the back seat, his wrists held firm by lengths of adhesive tape, the stowaway did not utter a word during the entire trip; every so often I would turn around to catch a glimpse of his wild, staring eyes. We lifted him out and walked him into a sumptuous entrance hall smelling of must and urine; the sailor pressed a switch, and two weak bulbs in the wall lit up the gloom, revealing the steps of a wide marble staircase leading up into the darkness, flanked by a blackened balustrade. Beneath it was a wrought-iron gate leading to an inner courtyard. We ventured along an ill-lit portico and came to a sort of porter’s lodge, from which a grey-clad nun emerged and came limping towards us; Janos said something to her, she glanced at me over thick spectacles and gave a suspicious nod. Two other nuns appeared and took charge of the stowaway, freeing his hands and leading him into an adjacent room; Janos and I followed the nun with the glasses. After going back through the stinking hallway, we went up the stairs to the first floor; the nun opened a door with a large key and we were greeted by a powerful stench of stale air and excrement. Beyond the door, without either windows or furniture, lit by a neon strip, was a large room, peopled by some fifteen men, leaning against the walls or stretched out on the floor, their eyes fixed on a large skylight affording a view of a grimy, green-flecked night sky. Their grey uniforms put me in mind of Dr Barnung’s clinic. The nun stopped us in our tracks, gesturing to us not to go any nearer to them; she whispered something to Janos, who translated:

‘Soon one of them will start singing!’

The men had all turned to stare in our direction, silent and motionless. The first one to start was one who had been lying on the ground; he opened his arms and let out a long whistle, then craned his neck and gobbled like a turkey. Everyone else then did the same, in one great burst of whistling, wailing and arm-waving, their eyes wide, their mouths forming little round holes before they began their cry. Then, apart from the odd squawk, they became silent and motionless once more; those who had been lying down lay down again, the others turned their backs on us and ignored us. The nun opened the door and preceded us down the stairs; once in the entrance hall, she again whispered something in Janos’s ear.

‘She says two new ones arrived last week, found on the road by lorry drivers. We don’t know where they come from, nor what brings them here; they look Russian, or perhaps Mongolian, but we can’t be sure,’ said the sailor, translating the nun’s words; the nun crossed herself.

‘Ask her if I can see the new arrivals.’

After hearing Janos’s translation the nun nodded and took us back to the porter’s lodge, then to the sickroom where the stowaway from the Saint-Nazaire had been taken, together with two other men lying on camp beds, one of whom was asleep, snoring noisily, his mouth agape, his head done up in a bandage with blood seeping through the gauze. The third man was seated on the edge of his bed with his back to the door, rocking incessantly, his head bowed. I went up to him: amidst the mass of tousled hair I recognised the wrinkled face of none other than Colonel Kwiatkowski. I called him loudly by his name and he stared at me; for a moment I thought he recognised me, but then I realised that his eyes were utterly blank. He half-opened his mouth and uttered a weary moan before returning to his rocking.

It was pitch dark by the time Janos took me back to the Krasnaya; we made the return trip in complete silence. Finding Kwiatkowski among the whistling madmen had thoroughly shaken me.

‘Don’t hesitate to contact me should you need to,’ said the sailor as I was getting out of the car. ‘I’m always at the place where they land timber, wharf thirteen. Just ask for Janos, they all know me.’ I nodded my thanks and stared after the rear lights as the car drove off.

The hotel porter was dozing in an armchair in the foyer, still dazed with sleep as he came to let me in.

‘I’m sorry, I’d like to know whether Mr Gunther Stauber has arrived,’ I asked him while waiting for the lift. Yawning, the porter opened the register and leafed through a couple of pages.