Read Online The Interpreter by Diego Marani, Judith Landry - Free Book Online
Authors: Diego Marani, Judith Landry
Ads: Link
white coat – and the sound of rubber soles creaking over the parquet. Then the door opened suddenly, flooding the dim room with electric light from the waiting room.
Leaving Dr Barnung’s language clinic, I found myself obsessed by the thought of the interpreter. I became more or less convinced that the disease from which I was suffering was a form of infectious madness, an illness that was endemic among interpreters, a lethal strain which would reshape and transform itself like influenza among the Chinese. Lacking sufficient linguistic defences, suffering from poor German and protected only by my French, I must have caught it from that man who was himself infected by a verminous pullulation of foreign languages. Unprotected by the antibodies of a thousand other grammars, for me such a disease might have effects that would be devastating. I started picturing linguistic infections and epidemics; my mouth felt like a breeding ground for germs. I looked at the people in the airport waiting room who were speaking foreign languages as though they were so many spreaders of the plague. And now I understood how the interpreter must have suffered when he saw his life crumbling under the blows dealt him by that wily illness, which was destroying the most precious part of him, the well-honed instrument of his profession. He had tried to explain the phenomenon to himself as best he could, dreaming up far-fetched theories, seeking senseless explanations which had inevitably ended up disconcerting and infuriating his superiors. Loneliness and fear had done the rest. I began to feel a desire to track him down, to apologise to him and make up for the harm I had unintentionally caused him by offering my help. I had become like him: we were dogged by the same ill luck. But, by persuading him to put himself in Dr Barnung’s hands, I could still rescue him from the abyss of madness. In my dreams, as the cure progressed, I imagined a rare and open friendship growing up between us, nourished by gratitude, a lasting closeness which had no need of the complex underpinnings of love. My redeeming of that luckless man would be my own redemption. But perhaps, at the same time, I realised that, by now, his company alone could afford me some relief, that his was the only presence I could still bear to have beside me.
In the weeks that followed, I too was obliged to give up work. The personnel department sent me before a medical tribunal, which coldly noted my impairment and left me no alternative. My heart strangely light, I saw documents piling up on my desk containing the same time-worn phrases as those which Stauber had drawn up in connection with the interpreter, but this time no one objected to signing them. Within a few days I had received notification of my dismissal for health reasons; my colleagues shot me sombre glances in the corridors and my secretary would lower her voice on the phone when I went into the office. Suddenly I no longer had anything to do; the pages of my diary remained blank and I spent my days in a state of suspended animation. My superiors summoned me to hear a farewell speech and receive an award, but I neither answered their invitation nor attended the event. For once, Irene would have been proud of me. I received a letter from the administration requiring me to remove my personal effects from my desk and cupboard by five o’clock in the afternoon of Wednesday 23rd September at the latest, to return my identity badge to the Security Office and to take the parking permit off my windscreen. Felix Bellamy, grade one international functionary, destined for a brilliant career, had been wiped off the map.
Dr Barnung’s warning remained lodged in my mind, and I had now decided to put myself in his hands. I felt that the woes that had beset me were more important than my work and my career, that they spoke of a secret force which must be treated with the utmost respect and commitment. Before setting out for Munich, though,
Leaving Dr Barnung’s language clinic, I found myself obsessed by the thought of the interpreter. I became more or less convinced that the disease from which I was suffering was a form of infectious madness, an illness that was endemic among interpreters, a lethal strain which would reshape and transform itself like influenza among the Chinese. Lacking sufficient linguistic defences, suffering from poor German and protected only by my French, I must have caught it from that man who was himself infected by a verminous pullulation of foreign languages. Unprotected by the antibodies of a thousand other grammars, for me such a disease might have effects that would be devastating. I started picturing linguistic infections and epidemics; my mouth felt like a breeding ground for germs. I looked at the people in the airport waiting room who were speaking foreign languages as though they were so many spreaders of the plague. And now I understood how the interpreter must have suffered when he saw his life crumbling under the blows dealt him by that wily illness, which was destroying the most precious part of him, the well-honed instrument of his profession. He had tried to explain the phenomenon to himself as best he could, dreaming up far-fetched theories, seeking senseless explanations which had inevitably ended up disconcerting and infuriating his superiors. Loneliness and fear had done the rest. I began to feel a desire to track him down, to apologise to him and make up for the harm I had unintentionally caused him by offering my help. I had become like him: we were dogged by the same ill luck. But, by persuading him to put himself in Dr Barnung’s hands, I could still rescue him from the abyss of madness. In my dreams, as the cure progressed, I imagined a rare and open friendship growing up between us, nourished by gratitude, a lasting closeness which had no need of the complex underpinnings of love. My redeeming of that luckless man would be my own redemption. But perhaps, at the same time, I realised that, by now, his company alone could afford me some relief, that his was the only presence I could still bear to have beside me.
In the weeks that followed, I too was obliged to give up work. The personnel department sent me before a medical tribunal, which coldly noted my impairment and left me no alternative. My heart strangely light, I saw documents piling up on my desk containing the same time-worn phrases as those which Stauber had drawn up in connection with the interpreter, but this time no one objected to signing them. Within a few days I had received notification of my dismissal for health reasons; my colleagues shot me sombre glances in the corridors and my secretary would lower her voice on the phone when I went into the office. Suddenly I no longer had anything to do; the pages of my diary remained blank and I spent my days in a state of suspended animation. My superiors summoned me to hear a farewell speech and receive an award, but I neither answered their invitation nor attended the event. For once, Irene would have been proud of me. I received a letter from the administration requiring me to remove my personal effects from my desk and cupboard by five o’clock in the afternoon of Wednesday 23rd September at the latest, to return my identity badge to the Security Office and to take the parking permit off my windscreen. Felix Bellamy, grade one international functionary, destined for a brilliant career, had been wiped off the map.
Dr Barnung’s warning remained lodged in my mind, and I had now decided to put myself in his hands. I felt that the woes that had beset me were more important than my work and my career, that they spoke of a secret force which must be treated with the utmost respect and commitment. Before setting out for Munich, though,
Similar Books
