The Interpreter by Diego Marani, Judith Landry Read Free Book Online Page A

cabinet-makers, junk shops, the tinny tones of answerphones in empty flats. I even phoned some relatives of hers in Zurich; her cousin told me she’d gone back to Canada, but no, he didn’t have her address; his hesitant tone made me suspect that he was seeking advice from someone else in the room, and I had the sudden feeling that Irene was there, right next to him, prompting him as to what to say. I was assured that he would give her my message, that he would let me know her address in Canada, but while I was dictating my own address into the receiver I had the distinct feeling that it was not being taken down; her cousin seemed very eager to hang up, saying goodbye evasively and with false courtesy. I called the number again many times over the following days, at various times of the day and night; it was answered just once, after many rings, late that same August, by an irritated-sounding maid, who told me in German that there was no one home, they’d all gone to the seaside.
    Whole days would go by without my saying a word to a soul; I was surprised to learn how long one could live without speaking. I’d say ‘Good morning’ to the caretaker in the office, the odd ‘sorry’ to someone on the tram, a ‘thank you’ in the bar, and it would already be evening. The trees were turning with the first heavy rain, the nights were becoming dark again; less dramatic dawns would reveal a steely sky which sent a fine white dust raining down onto the city, and the lake was puckered with cold wrinkles, which broke up on the shore like the laboured breath of a sick man. Voices rang out again in office corridors and the streets were bright with headlamps of an evening. I started work again, and within the shelter of my room the grip of solitude eased up a little; in there, time could flow over me without harming me. But as soon as I was out again on the street, I felt myself short of breath, each corner like a dagger of anguish planted in my back. I’d try to spin out my journey, to put off the moment when I’d have to turn the key in the lock and be enveloped by the darkness of those empty rooms. I’d wander from one pavement to another, sometimes suddenly changing direction to escape my goal, and I had the feeling that the people around me noticed my odd behaviour and looked at me suspiciously, as though I were a beggar.
    It happened for the first time on a Saturday afternoon, and in the moments that followed I truly felt that each man and his destiny are two sworn enemies whom only death will part; only one of the two can go on living, the other must succumb. The fight is not only desperate, it is also unequal; it may go on for years, or draw to a lightning close. Yet there are men who manage to floor their mortal double and clear the way for their own existence. I am not one of them: I died that day, and the person who is writing this is a mere ghost. I’d gone into a baker’s to buy my usual loaf of bread, but instead of the words I had intended to produce, what came out of my mouth was incomprehensible blather. At first I thought I was just out of practice, that my long periods of silence had weakened my powers of conversation; in the office I’d already noticed my voice becoming hoarse after just a few moments dictating to my secretary. So I simply gave the puzzled shopgirl an embarrassed look and tried repeating my request. In my efforts to speak clearly, I felt my throat knotting up; between the words I was so clumsily pronouncing, I gave out a long rasping sound like that of a whimpering dog. Eyes wide with terror, I backed off towards the door and left the shop, making brusque gestures of refusal to the alarm-stricken shopgirl, who was still firmly proffering me my loaf of bread. I ran off like a murderer, my throat paralysed by fear, turning around every so often to look back at the by now distant baker’s to check that no one was coming after me, that people were not stopping to point at me as I passed. When