The Interpreter (23 page)

I left Mirko Stolojan's house on foot; it was not yet two o'clock, but already the sun was going down, and thick white mist was rolling in from the sea, settling over the shoreline but stopping at the woods. Anchored at the edge of the bay, the cruise ship was now nothing more than a ghostly, shapeless presence. A siren hooted in the distance and the harbour lights started flashing. Suddenly seized with a burst of panic, I stumbled through the pebble-strewn sand, but the effort caused my head to swim and I had to pause for a moment on the grass. In the goods yard I at last found a taxi to take me back to the hotel, where I found the foyer in a state of uproar; people were talking at the tops of their voices, and the smoke was as thick as the mist outside. Seated on the sofas, several photographers were fiddling with their cameras; a reporter was heaving his cinecamera onto his shoulder. Seeing me coming in, the porter gestured at me in alarm from behind his desk. I was about to go over to him, when I found myself surrounded by black-uniformed police. Cameras flashed, photographers clustered round me, jockeying for position; I could hardly breathe. I tried to fight my way towards a chair, but a man with fleshy pink lips burst through the cordon of policemen and pushed his way towards me threateningly, grabbing me by the elbow and dragging me into the manager's office.

‘Are you Mr Tibor Preda?' he asked in German, leafing through my passport.

‘That's me,' I lied.

‘Inspector Zabukas, border police.' He handed me back my passport and clasped his hands behind his back.

‘Mr Preda, I must ask you to come with me,' he said in a solemn tone, summoning two other policemen with a flick of his fingers. I allowed myself to be led out without a struggle, already thinking of new headlines in the Swiss and Romanian papers. I'd be back on the front page with a new photograph, the new clean-shaven face of the Beast of Bukovina, this time with handcuffs. I would inspire new editorials, crowds of journalists would be waiting for me at Bucharest. I'd see Magda again – in a courtroom. They'd question us, try us and sentence us; in the dark confines of some godforsaken prison, they might even rough us up – out of sheer rage, by way of punishment, to make us confess to other crimes we didn't commit. I'd end up in some stinking cell where, stricken with illness and brought low by violent treatment, I might find death at last. It was better that way; that was how things should end.

We left the office and went out into the street, dodging the photographers who were waiting for us in the foyer; the man with fleshy lips was walking beside me, with the policemen following. We crossed the road and walked towards the sea. I wondered what our final destination would be; I was expecting to be bundled into a police car and driven off to the police station, sirens blaring, but instead we were walking down the beach. The mist was thicker than ever, and everything was enveloped in the early darkness; the outlines of the narwhals were still just visible in the dark water, though there seemed to be fewer of them. I wondered whether some of them might have managed to make it into the open sea, borne off on the outgoing tide. The man with fleshy lips was walking straight towards them. A wooden footbridge had been laid on the shore, spanning the pool and reaching out into the shallows; I made out several dim figures standing by a narwhal – one of them was the elderly man with the red beard. Beside him, two policemen were unrolling a rope which they then fixed to pickets planted in the sand. It was only then that I saw Burke, awkwardly sprawled over the narwhal, knees bent, arms thrown out; its tusk had skewered his stomach, to reappear, reddened with blood, between his shoulderblades. His expression was one of amazement, even slight amusement; or perhaps incredulous, amazed to have met such a death.

‘Do you know this man?' the inspector asked me curtly.

‘Yes, he's called Klaus Burke; he's my travelling companion,' I answered faintly. The inspector held out his arms, as though to apologise.

‘We can't understand how this could have happened! There are no witnesses. It must have been at about one o'clock; the mist had already cleared, and the tide was beginning to turn. Perhaps the creature was trying to ease itself off the sea bed, and felt threatened,' he suggested in some agitation.

The man with the red beard now joined us, shaking his head.

‘That's not possible. This morning that one was already dead!' he objected. Then, turning to me, he added:

‘When we met. Remember?'

He waded a few steps into the water towards the creature, then bent down to run his hand over its pectoral fin.

‘Anyway, a beached narwhal can't use its tusk; it's a physiological impossibility!' he shouted, lifting his nose and thrusting his hips forwards in imitation of a narwhal's slithering gait. The inspector put his hands into his pockets and looked at him severely.

‘Take him away!' he said to the policemen, who were standing some distance away, holding a stretcher.

I glanced with some distaste at Burke's crumpled body as they lifted it clear of the tusk; meeting his glassy stare, I thought perhaps he had met the death that he desired.

I returned to the hotel in some bewilderment. The foyer was deserted; the waiters were picking up the dirty glasses and emptying the ashtrays. I went up to my room and stretched out on the bed, trying to sleep, but I lay awake, tossing and turning, until it was very late. Sensing I had a fever, I wrapped myself up in all the covers I could find and then at last I did sleep a bit, though very uneasily. I was sweating, but my flesh had come out in goose pimples from the cold. I was woken by the sound of rain on the roof; day was breaking, my fever seemed to have abated and my forehead felt unexpectedly cool, though I still felt weak. I threw off the drenched covers and went over to the window: the sea was grey and foam-flecked, fanning out over the beach in broad frothy waves. The cruise ship was still there, lights ablaze, funnels smoking; it hooted twice, as though preparing to depart. I was desperately thirsty; I took a long drink of water from the tap, then took off my clothes and had a wash, noting that my reflection in the mirror was yellower and more stooped than ever. There were yellowish marks around my eyes; my teeth were chattering, though whether from cold or fear I wasn't sure. I went down to the restaurant, downed a coffee and went out for a listless walk along the beach, my head thronged with a ragbag of thoughts I couldn't piece together. Memories of my year-long wanderings were paraded before me like snaps in a photo album, the last one being the awful lifeless mask that was Burke's face. The streets were empty; a few coloured umbrellas were opening up on the landing stages near the aquarium. I wandered back to the hotel without the faintest idea of what I was going to do.

After Klaipeda, the only place left on the list was Tallinn: the last stage of my journey, the dead end of the maze in which I was lost. I was trying to escape the maelstrom for which I was headed, but I knew there was no way out. I thought back to the mysterious house on Perkelos Gatve, and a shudder ran down my spine; perhaps Burke had been murdered, and his murderer was now hot on my trail. I looked around me at the houses, the blocks of flats, the unlit windows, and imagined a gun pointing in my direction, an eye patiently seeking me out in the crosshairs. No, my death was never going to be that easy; the diabolical captain of my fate would never have been satisfied with so little. Almost reassured, I went back to the hotel with the intention of trying to get some sleep before making a decision. I told the man at the reception desk that I was leaving; I didn't want to admit as much to myself, but I knew I would be going on to Tallinn. I paid the bill and went up to my room; as I pushed the door open, I saw something on the floor. It was a picture postcard of Klaipeda; on the back, in spidery, nervous writing, was one word:
Toompea
.

I pushed the door closed with my foot and paced up and down the room, scrutinising the postcard down to the last detail: it was a view of the harbour, the very same one I could see from my own window. I peered out through the rain-streaked glass: the bay, the aquarium, the landing stages, the seafront. All that was missing on the postcard was the ship. Smoke was now pouring from both funnels and I could make out the dim outlines of the queue of cars driving up the gangway and into the hold, their headlights reflected in the puddles. Suddenly the sun burst through the clouds and the coppery sunlight lit up the side of the ship.
Toompea
, I read on its riveted sheet metal, and at that moment the hooter sounded again, as though it were hailing my discovery. I rushed downstairs without even bothering to take my luggage.

‘The ship!' I shouted in the direction of the porter, making him jump. ‘The
Toompea
, when does it leave?'

‘This morning.'

‘And where's it headed for?'

‘Tallinn!'

I hurtled towards the quay at breakneck speed, dashing across the road between the honking cars and through the passenger terminal until at last I found myself beside the ship. The anchor chain was being weighed with a deafening clang, the ropes were being lifted from the moorings, but the gangway was still open. The sailor on duty didn't play hard to get: he pocketed the wad of dollars I offered him, and a few minutes later I was on deck, puffing and panting, watching Klaipeda receding into the distance and finally disappearing altogether, eclipsed by the grey furrows of the sea.

I stayed holed up in my cabin until late in the afternoon; only when I saw the light fading through the porthole did I dare venture up on deck. The sailor had brought me a travel document stating that I had embarked at Kiel; he had taken down my passport details, and also demanded another few hundred dollars, since he had to square it with the man in the ticket office in order that everything should appear in order. I sat down in the bar on the lower deck, which was quieter than the others. I was hungry, but didn't dare go to the restaurant; I was afraid that whoever had lured me on board the
Toompea
might be setting me a trap. I was hoping somehow to recognise my mysterious pursuer before he noticed me. I peered through the glass into the neighbouring restaurant, scrutinising every face, even those of the waiters, while bolting down peanuts to take the edge off my hunger. That night I barricaded myself into my cabin, and set the alarm clock to wake me every hour, at which point I would check the door and even the screws on the porthole.

The following morning, the sea was calm and bright. It was a peerless June day, white foam was dancing on the tips of the green waves at the ship's side; people leaned over the handrails, lifting their faces to the warm, light wind. Children were playing, elderly couples were having their photographs taken on the sun-drenched decks; there was a party mood afoot. I too wanted to join that carefree crowd, and went to sit on a bench on the lower deck, out of the wind, from which there was a view of a distant coastline: possibly Latvia, I thought.

In the afternoon the light changed, the blue of the sea became more intense and a strong wind got up. The crowd on deck thinned out and most people drifted off inside; through the glass I could see small family groups seated in front of cups of steaming chocolate. Only a few couples were now left in the deckchairs. I too went inside. Wandering around along the upper decks, I found myself in the corridors outside the first-class cabins; I checked the swimmers jumping off the diving boards in the swimming pool, ambled around among the fruit machines in the casino, where elderly ladies, their handbags clutched close to their chests, were stubbornly sending coloured images whirring in the hopes of seeing a flood of coins suddenly pouring out of the chrome funnels. But I had absolutely no pointer as to which of these unknown faces might be that of the man who had drawn me aboard the
Toompea
and, without such knowledge, I might be walking straight into the fatal trap which would be my undoing. I couldn't imagine what form my death would take – whether I too would be transfixed by a narwhal's tusk, charred to a cinder in the boilers in the engine room or drowned at sea, my body mauled by the propellers. At all events, I'd had enough of waiting, so I resigned myself to the idea of revealing myself; that was the only way to make something happen. I went into the restaurant and sat down at a table in the middle; I ate my meal slowly, peering round me in search of a face, a glance. I chose fine wines and complicated dishes, requiring the attentions of several waiters; to prolong my stay, I also ordered coffee, liqueurs and cigars. Smoke and alcohol caused my mind to glaze over; I was so tired that I could hardly see. But I carried on studying the room, staring so blatantly at my fellow diners that I alarmed the ladies and puzzled the men in their blue suits. Finally, hoisting myself wearily out of my seat, I decided to go out on deck again, choosing a sunny spot in the bows, where the wind was at its strongest, and the waters were severed majestically by the prow of the great ship as it made its way eastwards. On the deck below me a sailor was rolling up some ropes; seagulls were hovering patiently in search of food. People were starting to come out again; children were playing, women were sunbathing in deckchairs, their eyes screwed up against the sun.

Suddenly a girl ran towards the handrail, shouting as she did so. The sailor dropped his rope and looked out to sea, shielding his eyes with his hand. I too got up to cast a look over the expanse of glittering water: some distance from the ship, in a strip of sea that looked calmer than the rest, I saw a shoal of narwhals darting in and out of the darker water, their long tusks glittering fiercely, like a barrier of gigantic thorns slung over the sea; they were ducking, then re-emerging, perfectly aligned. I noticed another shoal, nearer the horizon, swimming slowly in serried ranks, their tusks all pointed in the same direction, as though engaged in some mass migration, their backs glinting in the late afternoon sunlight. Some were lighter in colour, almost white; others were black, with leathery, lumpy noses.