At first, thought Perlmann, there would be a pause. Evelyn Mistral understood now why Perlmann had wanted to keep his Russian a secret. He saw her laughing face as she spoke of her complicity. The confusion would only set in later on when she had worked out that his secrecy had been illogicaclass="underline" if it was Leskov that he wanted to surprise, why couldn’t the others know? And if the game of hide-and-seek was supposed to be part of the surprise prepared for Leskov’s arrival, why had he been playing it weeks before the telegram, when he could not have known that Leskov was on his way? But those questions had never been asked.
It would be Achim Ruge, Perlmann imagined, who would ask the crucial, annihilating question. He would pose it quite dryly and – a sign of tense foreboding – savor his Swabian pronunciation: what was the title of Perlmann’s translation that he had got so wrong? the personal past as linguistic creation, Leskov would say. A crass and somehow incomprehensible error of translation, but still a beautiful title, much more so than his own, and apt. He would ask Perlmann’s permission to use it in future, of course with the appropriate reference to him.
It would have gone quiet at the table, Perlmann thought, incredibly quiet. He saw the others pausing as they ate, and staring at their plates. They couldn’t believe their ears; what followed on from this information was too monstrous to contemplate. At first they didn’t look at each other, each one of them wondered whether there mightn’t be another, harmless explanation.
‘So you think,’ Millar asked after a while, speaking dangerously slowly, ‘that the text headed the personal past as linguistic creation is a text that you wrote and Perlmann merely translated?’
‘Erm… yes, that is the case,’ Leskov replied uncertainly, confused and alarmed at Millar’s tone and the jerky, jabbing movements that he made with his knife.
The renewed silence must have been deafening.
‘That is incredible,’ murmured Millar, ‘simply incredible.’ Catching Leskov’s quizzical eye he went on: ‘You see, Vassily, it is a sad fact that we have all, each individual one of us, been given a copy of this very text. Admittedly, Phil’s name isn’t on it, but we were led to believe it was his contribution to tomorrow’s session. He hasn’t handed out any other text, or done anything to rectify the situation. There is also the fact,’ he might have added, ‘that the text was distributed at a point in time when no one knew of your arrival, not even Phil himself. All of this forces us to assume that Perlmann wanted to deceive us by presenting your text as his own. Plagiarism, then. Unimaginable, but there is no other explanation for it. And now we can no longer be surprised that he hasn’t appeared at dinner.’
It took Perlmann for ever to take the first bite of the sandwich. He chewed and chewed; each movement of his jaw was an achievement. The smoked salmon and egg didn’t taste of anything, and the obstruction that had formed in his throat could only be overcome by pushing very hard with his eyes closed. Of course, it was Millar who had voiced the thought. Perlmann’s old hatred flared, and despair made it even darker than usual. He set the bread back down on the table and started taking small sips of his whisky.
He didn’t dare to imagine Leskov’s face after the revelation of the truth, which had started working away in him after his first shock. The many curious features of the journey suddenly returned to his mind, and assembled themselves into a pattern: Perlmann’s irritation at the airport; his agitation at the wheel and his taciturnity; the strange route; the nausea; the insane driving in the tunnel and the lame explanations afterwards. Leskov couldn’t prove anything, even though he had been watching Perlmann like a hawk. There hadn’t been a single false move, nothing that would have clearly and irrefutably revealed an intention to commit murder. That someone, at a moment when a wide car had to be driven through a bottleneck, should have taken his hands off the wheel and closed his eyes, was careless, negligent and even more irresponsible than speeding. It wasn’t even superficially comprehensible, and pointed to a darkness in the driver’s personality. But it wasn’t a trace – not a shadow of proof – of premeditated murder. That much was clear to Leskov, too, so he wouldn’t tell anyone; such an accusation was too monstrous. Even in confidence he wouldn’t be able to accuse him. He couldn’t prove that Perlmann’s story about nausea and a morbid fear of bulldozers were outright lies. And yet Perlmann was quite sure that this evening – now, at this moment – Leskov knew everything. It was completely out of the question for him ever to meet this man, who would regard him as a murderer, ever again.
When Perlmann’s hand accidentally brushed the edge of the table, the bandage on his finger came off. It was only now that he noticed that his finger was very swollen. Around the bruised spot it was yellow and green, the skin was tense and hot. And now his head was itchy again as well. He took out the box of sleeping pills, held them under his jacket, looked furtively around and took one from it. After a moment’s hesitation he broke it in two and washed one half down with mineral water.
They would all be waiting for him in silence when he stepped into the Marconi Veranda tomorrow morning.
‘You’ve all got this text now,’ he would be able to say with a smile. ‘I hope you didn’t mistake it for my own, even though my name isn’t on it. By now I am sure you will know that it is a text by our Russian colleague, which I have translated. I had it distributed because it was to serve as the starting point for an idea I should like to develop now. And it is a happy coincidence that Vassily himself can now be here. I expect a great deal from this.’
It would be an audacious bluff. Perlmann grew quite dizzy at the idea, and that dizziness merged with the start of the effect of the pill. They wouldn’t believe a word he said, not a single word. They knew he was a fraud, a con man, and now they were also getting to know him as an ice-cold liar. He would never summon the strength to return each of their contemptuous stares with harsh defiance, forcing them into a state of uncertainty. They would only be uncertain if he now proceeded to deliver a thoroughly original, brilliant lecture. But he had nothing to say, not a single sentence. He would stand up there at the front like someone mutely gasping for air.
Or should he sit up there and in dry words, stony-faced, tell the truth? What words would he use? How many sentences would he need? Where would he look? And when he had said it, what then? Could one, in fact, apologize for such a thing? Was it not almost mockery simply to say, ‘I’m terribly sorry’ and then get up and go? And where to?