‘Who’s going to be presenting the final paper this week?’ asked Leskov as the lights of Santa Margherita came into view.
Once again, one last time on this journey, Perlmann gave a start. Over the last four tormented, breathless hours he had managed not to address Leskov directly, and avoided using the familiar you. It had been difficult at times, and had involved all kinds of linguistic somersaults. There must be a sentence, he thought, that would do it. But his brain couldn’t do it any more, so he said it: ‘You. Du.’
They turned the corner. The crooked pine. The streetlamps. The neon sign. The painted window frames. The flags. There were lights on in Millar’s, Ruge’s and Evelyn Mistral’s rooms. Perlmann drove up to the gas station parking lot. It was closed. So no questions about the body damage. When he lifted Leskov’s suitcase out of the trunk, he saw a bit of the red rubber band that had got stuck in the zip of the outside pocket. ‘Along here,’ he said and, as if he were Leskov’s servant, he picked up a case in each hand.
38
What happened then was something that Perlmann had seen in his mind’s eye so many times that it was more or less exhausted from being imagined. Now that it was actually taking place it was just a scene that had been rehearsed ad nauseam – flat, papery and without the reality of experience; the only real thing was the angular wooden handle on Leskov’s suitcase, which was cutting into his hand. But there was no relief associated with that unreality. On the contrary, the sensation of waste and death that clung to the walk up the steps was, as Perlmann knew, an expression of the utmost horror. His gait was more sluggish than the luggage called for, and his body felt like that of a puppet, each movement of which had to be put individually into action. It took him a huge effort of will to impel that body step by step closer to the front door.
As he entered the portico, he noticed that Leskov was no longer following him. He was standing at the top of the steps, looking up at the illuminated facade of the hotel.
‘Fantastic!’ he called breathlessly to Perlmann and, with his arm, his coat hanging over it, made a gesture that encompassed the whole hotel. Then he turned round, supported himself on the balustrade and looked out on the nocturnal view of the bay.
Perlmann set the luggage down. Waiting for Leskov was unbearable. Admittedly, it meant that the moment of his exposure was momentarily deferred. But this waiting was worse than any other waiting, worse even than the waiting at the airport a short time before. There it had been a waiting at the end of which he himself would assume control – bloody, murderous control, admittedly, but at least he could do something; it was down to him what would happen next and when. Now, on the other hand, there was nothing more he could do. He was no longer an active participant in the events that would follow. Now he was only their victim, their plaything. He had to wait impotently until Leskov condescended to emerge from his absorption to take delivery of the text that spelled the end for Perlmann. And Perlmann had to linger in that waiting, regardless of whether it lasted hours, days or years. His humiliation was his own responsibility, and his alone. But that insight was unbearable. He couldn’t stay on his own with it for more than a brief moment. He would explode if he locked himself away in it entirely, in line with the terrible logic of the matter. He needed some exoneration, someone who could bear at least a portion of the guilt, so this feeling of humiliation struck in blind hatred at Leskov, who came now, at last, a dreamy and enthusiastic expression on his spongy face.
He touched Perlmann on the arm. ‘I’ll never forget,’ he said, ‘that you invited me to this divine place.’
The lobby was empty as they walked across the gleaming marble floor to the reception. Perlmann saw the text from a long way off. There was only a single pigeonhole with a pile of papers sticking out of it. And now his anxiety returned to its usual form of expression: he felt his heart thumping all the way to his throat. There was no one behind the counter. I’ll just go and grab the text. The thought overwhelmed him. It allowed no other thoughts, no reflection and no contradiction. He quickly walked around the counter and took the text from the pigeonhole. He was about to roll it up to hide it from Leskov, when Signora Morelli appeared behind him: ‘Sorry, Signor Perlmann, for keeping you waiting.’
Perlmann froze. The force of the thought that had made him take the text had to fade away before he could react.
‘Oh, I must have given you a start,’ said Signora Morelli. ‘I didn’t mean to.’ And now, as Perlmann turned to face her, she saw the blood on his clothes. ‘Dio mio!’ she exclaimed and threw her hand to her mouth. ‘What’s happened?’
Perlmann looked down at himself, as if trying to recall something long forgotten. ‘Oh, that,’ he said as if Signora Morelli had grotesquely lost all sense of proportion, ‘that was just a bit of a nosebleed.’ He rolled the text up tightly, as if he were about to stuff it into a pneumatic post system. ‘I… I was just about to give Signor Leskov the text.’ Standing next to her, he made a gesture of introduction. ‘This is Professor Vassily Leskov, the man I told you about,’ he said in English.
‘Benvenuto!’ she smiled, blankly shaking the hand that Leskov held out to her across the counter.
As Perlmann, still clutching the text, walked around the counter and back to Leskov, he had the feeling that his alert reaction had used up the very last remnants of his strength. He would never again be capable of an alert reaction, never. And why all that effort at concealment? As soon as he starts reading the text upstairs, it will all be over in a few minutes anyway. And on top of everything, here I am handing him the text myself.
Signora Morelli had pushed a pad of registration forms towards Leskov, and he was now busy filling it in. He became uneasy when she said that she would be keeping his passport for a while, and enquired anxiously when he would get it back, as it still had his travel permit inside it. The signora reassured him that he could have it back after dinner; it was just a matter of routine. When she took his room key down from the board, she paused, fished an envelope out from the back of the drawer and handed it to Leskov. The Olivetti name was printed discreetly in olive green letters in the bottom left-hand corner.
‘Signor Angelini asked me to give you this. You’ll be seeing him later at dinner.’ With the corners of her mouth twitching, she watched Leskov feeling the envelope and then, with the clumsiness that came from embarrassment, putting it in his jacket pocket. She rang the bell for a porter to take his luggage.
The time had come. Perlmann handed the text to Leskov. That movement sealed his fate, and was enfolded in the numbing silence of a nightmare. He didn’t utter a single word and their eyes met only fleetingly.
Leskov received the text rather distractedly, because the porter was loading his luggage on to the cart, which he seemed to consider very strange. He bent down to his suitcase and opened the zip of the outside pocket. The piece of rubber band remained stuck in it. Now he’ll notice. Now.
‘Good evening,’ said Brian Millar, who had joined them along with Adrian von Levetzov. Leskov glanced up and straightened himself, still holding the text in his hand.
‘I assume you’re Vassily Leskov,’ Millar said in his sonorous voice. ‘Pleased to meet you.’ He looked at Leskov’s hand. ‘I see you’ve been given the text already.’
‘What in God’s name has happened to you?’ von Levetzov cried, interrupting the greeting, and pointing at Perlmann’s clothes.
‘Philipp had a flow of blood from the nose,’ said Leskov as he saw Perlmann standing there like a sleepwalker. It was the first time Perlmann had heard him speaking English. The ungainliness of the sentence and the tight, nasal pronunciation sounded like mockery. It was as if he had just started running the gauntlet.