Diego Marani - The Interpreter

At first they threatened violence, but they ended up by putting up with me. I didn’t touch any of their things, I didn’t put a foot in the basement, with its piles of sand and gravel, I didn’t ever go up to the floors where they lived and slept, in gangs. I kept myself to myself in the concrete space beneath the stairs, hidden behind a wall of cardboard, together with my rags. I’d only go there when it was getting dark, and by dawn I’d be out again, to avoid meeting them. With time, though, the squatters became used to my presence, and sometimes brought me food, which they said they got for almost nothing from the markets on Friday evenings; they’d unload crates of fruit from their van, bags of bread, eggs and even meat, which they’d cook and share out among themselves in front of a bonfire in the basement. There was also a lot of beer, and by the end of these sessions someone would always be flat on their back in the sand, the worse for wear. On certain evenings other gangs would join them, and the atmosphere would gradually become heated: a threatening buzz would spread through the unfinished building, down the dark staircases, through the bare echoing rooms and empty corridors. The squatters would unearth sticks and cudgels, start wielding bottles and jerry cans, rummage around in the darkness filling rucksacks with bolts. Every now and again one would let out a bloodcurdling whoop, a sort of war cry to incite the rest. I’d peek at them through a gap in the cardboard; their heads swathed in black handkerchiefs, they’d leave the building in small groups, then vanish into the dark streets, among the glistening cars and rubbish bins, to come back at dawn, silent and exhausted. Through the smoky glow I could just make out their dim figures as they took off their disguises and hid their weapons under the piles of gravel. Then they’d disperse, as mysteriously as they had come, and when the first glimmer of dawn appeared, lighting up the bare concrete pillars, you would never have known that anyone had been there at all.

One night, there must have been about fifty of them sitting outside my cardboard den, but this time they weren’t preparing for an expedition; they didn’t have any weapons, they weren’t distributing bottles and bolts. They were just smoking, in silence, the tips of their cigarettes weaving in the dark. Someone threw a handful of gravel against my cardboard, asking me whether I wanted a smoke; the others laughed and called out more or less in unison:

‘Hey, Swissman! Come on out, there’s some really good stuff tonight!’

Afraid of offending them, I got up and went out hesitantly to join them — I didn’t really know any of them at all, for me they were just nameless faces in a tight-knit pack. But I did know some of their voices: the one who had called me had always seemed well disposed towards me, right from the start he had made sure the others left me alone. I’d listened in horror from behind my cardboard as he’d managed to dissuade his companions from setting it on fire. So I followed his voice and went to sit next to him; he passed me a cigarette I’d no desire to smoke, but I took a puff anyway and handed it back to him. At that same moment, two yellow lights appeared in the space outside the building and lit up the squatters’ faces; then a large car appeared and stopped just in front of the concrete pillars, its headlights pointing at the ceiling. The back window was rolled down and a pale face peered out for a moment, only to be hurriedly withdrawn. The squatters extinguished their cigarettes and put them into their pockets; they got up from the heaps of gravel and went to stand in a line next to the car. One by one, they filed past the car window, from which a white hand passed them something, though I couldn’t make out what. Then they came back towards the building and went silently back up the stairs, or off along the street in small groups. I was now the only person left in the semi-basement; seated on my heap of gravel, I stared at the car headlights, shielding my eyes with my hands. After a few moments the door opened and I saw a tall, smartly dressed man coming slowly towards me, picking his way among the puddles, his hands in his pockets.

‘I see you’re not one of them, then,’ he said, looking at me curiously; he sat down on the low concrete wall outside the semi-basement and carried on staring at me appraisingly.

‘I come here at night, to shelter,’ I told him, somewhat mortified.

‘And may I ask you what brings you to this godforsaken spot?’ There was something kindly about his tone; I stood up, made awkward by his gentle manner — for too long now I’d had dealings only with riff-raff.

‘Needs must…I sleep in there,’ I said, pointing my chin in the direction of my cardboard abode.

‘If I’m not mistaken, you’re not from round here. French, perhaps?’

‘Not really. Swiss,’ I gently corrected him.

‘Swiss?’ he repeated in some amusement. ‘You must be the only Swiss vagrant on the face of the earth. Don’t tell me you used to be a banker!’

I shook my head and lowered my eyes from the dazzling headlights at which I’d been staring so fixedly. The man gestured to his chauffeur, who turned both the lights and the engine off; now the dim parking lights were the only source of illumination amidst so much darkness. All that could be heard were the usual night noises; the squatters’ footsteps were receding, together with the clang of their boots as they hit the odd metal bin.

‘They come and eat out of my hand!’ said the man, turning his head towards the road and getting up from the wall.

‘That’s my contribution to saving the world!’ he added, laughing. He took a few steps backward, turned away from me and looked up at the sky.

‘Have you been with them for long?’ he asked, raising his voice so that I could hear him.

‘A week or so,’ I answered vaguely.

He turned back towards me, sinking his feet in the gravel, which crunched beneath his soles.

‘Well…can I offer you a drink?’

‘Thank you. But I don’t know whether…’

‘Oh, don’t worry, we’ll soon get that sorted out!’ he said cheerfully as the chauffeur switched on the engine.

I emerged from the semi-basement, shaking off the worst of the filth from my clothing, and sat down nervously on the edge of the soft leather seat.

Klaus Burke was one of the richest men in Munich; he owned various businesses making a wide range of products, from taps to engine filters, windscreens and plumbing equipment.

‘To tell the truth, I don’t even know how many I’ve got, or where they are; some of them I’ve never even seen. I don’t know anything about what I produce; I just move money around on the stock exchange, or rather, my managing director does that for me,’ he admitted in the grand restaurant he’d brought me to. First, though, we’d gone to his elegant apartment in the city centre, where I’d been able to have a hot bath and change my clothes. Taking off my rags and sinking into the scented foam, I’d had my first sight of my body for quite some time. With a sense of deep relief I massaged my roughened, parchment-yellow skin, leaving my hands to soak in the hot water to alleviate the cramp in my fingers. Scarcely able to believe my luck, I buttoned up the warm woollen jacket and ran my hands luxuriously over my stubble-free cheeks. Almost dizzy with pleasure, I gloried in the warmth of the radiators and the softness of the armchair when I finally rejoined Klaus Burke in the drawing room.

‘I use this apartment for business meetings with my clients and directors, but I don’t live here; I prefer to be in my villa on the Ammersee, among my horses and my woods,’ my host informed me as he showed me around.