Diego Marani - The Interpreter

Note to the Director, Interpreters and Conferences Department

Subject: Mr XXX: Professional behaviour and performance.

It is reported that, despite continual reprimands and warnings (see previous notes of XXX September and XXX January), Mr XXX, civil servant, grade L/4, continues to be remiss in the performance of his duties, and harbours attitudes that are unsuited to his rank and function.

In the present case, we are informed that Mr XXX, while engaged in his work as a simultaneous interpreter, emits completely meaningless sounds and whistles; he translates inattentively, adding words of his own invention, which do not figure in the speaker’s speech; he indulges in long pauses, interrupting the translation, and expresses himself in languages other than those required for the meeting in question.

In the present context, attention should be paid to the view put forward by Dr Herbert Barnung concerning the psychic health of the above, pointed out in an attachment to note n. 16/00, as well as the following notes from the health committee. Bearing in mind his record, and in view of the joint committee’s note 3/408 and articles 41, 64 and 82, section 3, subsection of the internal regulations, we invite the appropriate authority to take suitable steps in this connection, namely, for Mr XXX’s immediate suspension from duty.

Gunther Stauber

Head of Department

Gunther Stauber was a ruddy-faced German with thinning straw-coloured hair. Huddled awkwardly on the armchair in front of my desk because of his girth, he kept crossing and uncrossing his legs, his shirt billowing out at every laboured breath. He tried to offset the massiveness of his frame with an attempt at military bearing which, rather than rendering him more authoritative, in fact made him look like a lion-tamer. He looked on impatiently, waiting for me to take my eyes off the hefty bundle of papers the secretary had laid out for me on the table.

‘As you well know, ours is an arduous task. For eight hours a day we spin our brains around as though in a blender. We grind the words of one language down into a fine paste so as to refashion them into those of another, and each word that enters our ears sooner or later will have to issue from our mouths. In the evening, as we leave our booths, it takes a bit of time for our brains to slow down to a normal speed; we need to shut down the machine, take everything to pieces, clean the machinery and let it rest, oiling the screws. But with age, and professional wear and tear, sometimes some people just can’t turn off the engine, so the brain carries on idling. The pieces get worn out, the spools overheat and the mouth spits out not real words, but everything that has got caught up in the gears — remains, dross, the residue of speech. Ultimately, the blade is blunted; it no longer cuts. It baulks at the harder words, beheading them without properly grinding them. They go into the machine and come out mutilated, distorted, but not translated. They are unrecognisable. This is what has happened to our colleague.’

Instinctively, I raised my hands to rub them over my temples; I suddenly had the unpleasant feeling that I too had something electric running around in my cranium.

‘But don’t you think your colleague just needs a bit of a break?’ I objected cautiously. Stauber sniffed disdainfully and stiffened on his seat.

‘He’s had a bit of a break, as you put it, on more than one occasion. It’s all there in the file — three long periods of leave for health purposes. In fact, his psychiatrist insisted on it.’

He sounded irritated, as though these were things he’d already said a hundred times.

‘Do you really think his behaviour is unacceptable? After all, he’s still a pro. Very well trained, and highly experienced. Can’t we just wait? And, in the meantime, head him off to less important meetings, where he can do less harm? Some debate at a seminar, nothing technical and not many languages involved?’ was my next suggestion.

‘Less important meetings? Impossible! What with his grade, if we don’t send him to ministerial meetings he hits the roof! Prickly as a pear, that’s what he is. He’ll never admit that he’s ill, and he certainly won’t agree to being considered a category two interpreter! If I assign him to meetings where there are fewer than five languages involved, he goes ballistic. He starts writing me notes saying that his abilities are going to waste, and has them sent to all the directors-general! More to the point, our department’s good name is at stake. When an interpreter starts raving into the microphone, no matter how insignificant the meeting, people get to hear of it. The delegates complain. We receive written protests from ambassadors. We can’t afford to wait. Even his colleagues can’t take much more!’

Stauber was becoming increasingly indignant. Now he straightened up and wiped his forehead with his handkerchief. I stood up and walked towards the window. A stiff breeze was causing the clouds to fray and leave icy trails behind them in the sky. Splashes of yellowish sunlight suddenly fell over the room; without warming them, they gave things a dusty, transient look. They lit up the photo of Irene in its silver frame on the desk. The trams were glittering in the roads below; slowly, laboriously, the city was coming back to life.

‘I imagine you know this colleague well. He too is German; he must be about your age. From the records, I see that you were both taken on in the same year. Tell me a bit about his private life. Slip-ups and all. You must know a thing or two. What was he like as a young man? Even he must have been a bit more easygoing in his youth! He can’t always have been so disturbed. I see from his file that he never married, but he might have had girlfriends, and he must have had a family and friends. Apart from languages, he must have had other interests. I don’t know, some hobby or other. Sport, perhaps?’ My thoughts turned with relief to my tulips and roses; they were surely a fig leaf against madness. Stauber heard me out, though he was clearly dying to interrupt.

‘Sport, hobbies, friends — forget it! He’s always been just as he is today. He arrived here twenty years ago with that same wooden look on his face, eyes glazed over with that same anguish, glaring with that same steely determination — to do what, I’ve no idea. He had something of the spy about him, of the hired assassin. But then at least he didn’t make mistakes. His simultaneous translations were like radio bulletins; his voice was harsh, almost threatening, demanding attention. I remember that some delegates were in awe of him; they’d listen to him through the headphones and then crane their necks to look into the booths, wondering who it was who was speaking in such severe, commanding tones. You’re right, he is German, but his family isn’t from Germany; I think they’re from some Balkan country. He doesn’t drive, he doesn’t smoke, and all he drinks is water. He spends his holidays travelling the world, doing language courses; he’s lived alone in the same furnished flat for twenty years. No one knows much about him; he hasn’t any friends — well, certainly not at work. He always has lunch in the canteen, alone, reading the paper, in a different language each day, and I know that he always has supper in a restaurant near his flat, at seven on the dot. It’s by my bus stop, and when I come home late I see him sitting at his usual place in front of a glass of water, lost in thought, with some strange paper spread out before him. On a few occasions I’ve bumped into him in town of an evening, together with a woman, though never the same one. Although…’

He crossed his legs and put two fingers in his collar to loosen his tie.

‘Although?’ I encouraged him.

‘Although not even then did I ever see him smile! I never saw him looking animated, or affectionate or loving. I don’t think they were women he went to bed with; I can’t see him touching them. He seemed somewhat impatient in their company, as though they were distant relatives passing through town and he had to entertain them for the weekend. Do you see what I mean?’