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

I was waiting for a sign, a time that seemed propitious: autumn, perhaps, season of mellow fruitfulness. I would lock myself up within the walls of Dr Barnung’s clinic as though in a monastery. Part of me sought such segregation, I was prepared to give myself wholeheartedly to the antiseptic practice of solitude. I told myself that I would be tempered by such spiritual gymnastics, it would make me stronger, better, more able to bear all that life still held in store for me. But, at the same time, I felt a growing desire to have news of the interpreter, to know what had become of him. From a more practical viewpoint, by now convinced that we had been struck down by the same malady, I hoped that by tracking him down I would gain a clearer idea of its course, alleviate its symptoms, perhaps even discover an antidote. Maybe he was already cured and could give me some advice; or maybe he had been entirely overwhelmed by it and was already imprisoned in a maze of incurable madness. Whatever his fate, it interested me.
    With the help of a clerk who worked in the personnel department, I managed to get the interpreter’s last address. I knew the road in question; it was in a modern part of the city near the station, where the buildings were mostly furnished flats rented by businessmen and adulterous husbands. The window of the interpreter’s apartment looked out over a small square containing an unkempt garden, and it bore a notice with the words ‘To Rent’. Feigning an interest, I knocked at the door of the porter’s lodge to ask to visit it; puffing and panting, a woman took a set of keys off a hook and pointed to the lift.
    ‘You’ll see, it’s a pigsty! He’s left all his stuff there, and what a state it’s in! They’d better get a move on and clear it out!’ she grumbled, pressing the button to the third floor.
    ‘I could tell from the start that he wasn’t quite right in the head! I’ve got an eye for such things!’ she said, waving her index finger around by way of warning.
    ‘Of course, I was younger in those days, and looked at men more carefully,’ she added, attempting a flirtatious gesture and lifting a hand to her hair while glancing in the mirror; then, clasping her hands behind her back, she leaned against the wall and carried on:
    ‘He’s lived here for over twenty years! You might say that we grew old together but, believe it or not, he never addressed a word to me. He’d talk to himself, or into a tape recorder, but never to another human soul!’
    She glanced at me out of the corner of her eye.
    ‘Anyone can talk to themselves, everyone has their troubles, as I myself know since my husband died. But what he did couldn’t be described as talking! And at night, too! It sounded as if he were talking in his sleep! It must have been all the queer languages he knew; his head must have been churning like an upset stomach!’ she added, putting on a smile.
    The door, when it opened, did indeed reveal a monumental mess: piles of books on the floor, clothes draped all over the place, over the bedhead, from doorhandles, from those on the dresser. The bookshelves, the worktop in the little kitchen and the windowsills were crowded with empty mineral water bottles, all of the same make, their green reflections visible on the walls; pairs of shoes, dozens of them, all English and all black, were lined up on the carpet.
    ‘They’d better not think they can ask me to clean up this lot! They’ll have to get the pest control people in first!’ she protested, running her hands over her apron and looking around despairingly.
    ‘And all this post! What’s he hoping for? That we’ll have it all sent on to him?’ she went on, pointing to a pile of letters and periodicals on the floor.
    ‘Didn’t he leave an address?’ I asked.
    ‘Address, my eye! He just went away, it must be four months ago by now. And that was the last we saw of him!’
    She made a quick tour of the room, then paused at the door to