They wouldn’t disturb him any longer, von Levetzov said and pointed to the waiting porter. They would be seeing each other over dinner at half-past eight, after all.
By now the suitcase with the open outside pocket was on the cart as well. ‘So, see you very soon,’ said Leskov, waving the text significantly and following the porter to the elevator.
Perlmann watched him go. He had never fainted. Now he wished it would happen, so that he wouldn’t have to experience that sensation any longer, the sensation of endless falling.
‘You’re as white as a sheet,’ said Signora Morelli. ‘Are you not well? Would you like to lie down?’
‘It’s nothing,’ said Perlmann, and looked at her for a long time until she became embarrassed and ran her hand searchingly over her hair. I’ve got to tell someone before the others find out. Why not her? But no, that’s impossible. What would she do with such a confession? And it wouldn’t change anything at all.
She handed him the key and made a maternal face that he had never seen before. ‘It must have been a difficult journey from Genoa to here,’ she said. ‘There’s always a lot of traffic on a Monday, especially trucks.’
‘Yes,’ Perlmann said, barely audibly. He took his key and went to the elevator.
He sat on the bed and slumped back. A few moments before, when he had closed the door behind him and seen the spacious room in front of him, he had had a moment of relief: after four full hours spent in such close proximity with Leskov, he was alone again at last. Leaning on the door, he had stood there for a while and yielded to that feeling of respite, knowing that it was a stolen emotion, a lie that could be washed away by anxiety at any moment. It wouldn’t have been washed away exactly. It was more that the desperate consciousness of his situation had seeped up from below, constant and inexorable, and had colored and replaced all other sensations. He had gone to the wardrobe and pulled a yearned-for cigarette from the hastily torn-open pack. But he had stubbed it out again after two drags.
Now he had room for only a single sensation: the feeling of not knowing what to do with himself. In his mind he could relocate to any place imaginable, any corner of the universe – but he always felt the same thing: I have no right to be here. He felt as if he had to wring every last breath from that ruthless, devastating sensation. There was that one point from which all experience emanated and to which everything flowed back, that inner center that he always carried around with him. Again and again Perlmann attempted to withdraw entirely into that center, and find his footing at its midmost point, to put a small bit of difference between him and the overwhelming, overarching feelings of guilt and shame, a distance that would have allowed him to say: So I am something else, too; you can’t judge me in the light of this single offence. But attempt after attempt failed. Guilt and shame remained hot on his heels; wherever he turned, they followed him into the innermost depths like a shadow. He tried to duck away, and to keep taking a step back and inwards, but there was no escape. He said to himself, pressing his fists to his temples, that he, too, had a past, and that there were things in it that he had done properly. But even that was useless, the feelings that held him as if in a stranglehold refused to accept that appeal, that defense, as valid.
Exhausted by all his vain attempts to assert himself, it seemed simply impossible that he would survive even the next second, which appeared to be taking an infinity to come. And that was something quite different from the prolongation of time that took place in the anxiety and uncertainty before making a decision. Then time was extended towards a goal. You knew that the tension would ease sooner or later, even if the outcome was not a good one, and that you would then return to the normal flow of time, its normal pace. Now, however, there was no goal and no uncertainty, which meant there was no longer any hope, either, that he would soon be able to yield to the natural self-evidence and inconspicuousness of temporal flux. His own private time beyond all present, which had emerged the previous morning from his fatal resolution, had dissolved into nothing somewhere beyond the tunnel, and he yearned to return to ordinary, shared time. But that wasn’t possible now, either. Because that ordinary time led into an open future, while his future was no longer open. The discovery of the deception by the others in a sense closed off his time. It walled it up. It brought time to an end as something in the course of which his own experience could develop. Time now was only this: a sequence of weary, extended moments stripped of possibility. Each individual one of those moments was to be awaited in its pure passing, one moment after the other, in all eternity and without any hope. It was hell.
He wished he could fall into a profound unconsciousness that lacked any center of experience, so that there was no longer anyone whose presence was illegitimate. But Leskov could phone him up or knock on his door at any minute. Leskov had been distracted when he had been given the text, but by now he was in his room and no longer had to worry about his luggage. Perhaps he would take a shower first, get changed and then look out on to the bay again. It could also be that he was excited about dinner with all of his colleagues, and would at first simply put aside the text. But it was equally possible that he had immediately unrolled the papers in the elevator and cast a first glance at it. The altered title would have protected Perlmann for an instant, but even then Leskov might not have immediately recognized it as his text. It was in English, after all, and hence estranged from itself. Later, a barrier of disbelief would have formed in Leskov’s mind, and then, gradually, dissolved as he went on reading, until the initially vague sense of familiarity would have condensed into certainty. That could be now. Right now.
On the way back to the hotel Perlmann had imagined Leskov working out the whole truth in an instant. But, he thought now, that was not the obvious thing to assume. Since Perlmann’s name was not on the text, for a moment Leskov would not suspect him of plagiarism. Instead he would assume that Perlmann had arranged the perfect surprise for him: first telling him on the way there that the Russian text had been still far too difficult for him, then handing him, without further comment, the translation that he had, in fact, produced. Leskov could not help but feel flattered – almost overwhelmed, in fact, by the idea that someone like Philipp Perlmann might take all that time to translate such a long text. He would find the work significant, outstanding; there was no other possible explanation. Excited and filled with gratitude, Leskov would pick up the phone or come up to his room. Perlmann could almost hear him knocking at the door already. On the other hand it might have occurred to him what a shame it was that it wasn’t a translation of the second, far superior version. He would reach into the outside pocket of his suitcase, and freeze. He would be flummoxed, then rummage around in the whole case, again and again. But he wouldn’t suspect anything. On the contrary, once again he would be extravagantly grateful for Perlmann’s gift, because now he would at least be able to present this version. And again Perlmann felt as if he could already hear Leskov’s footsteps in the corridor.
He couldn’t stay there. He would have to pretend to be deaf and let each individual ring, every individual knock wash over him. And Leskov would try it for a long time, and again and again, because according to Signora Morelli’s information Perlmann hadn’t left his room. Perlmann got up and, without really noticing, he was glad that for the time being he had a goal, even if only a vague one.