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and my own, catapulted two lives out of their orbits, into the dark and empty cosmos which is the dwelling place of things that never happened, of those mistaken paths which God, seeking to escape from his own abominable creation, bethought himself to take and then forswore.
    From that day onwards, I had no peace. That man was pursuing me: he went out of his way to bump into me, to catch my attention, even for a moment, and harangue me with his pleas; he would plonk himself down in my secretary’s office and refuse to budge until I’d heard him out, but then of course I’d have to tell him the same old things: that my decision was forced upon me, that everything militated against him. The psychiatrist’s report, and his own behaviour in office, as recorded by Stauber, left no way out. I encouraged him to resign himself, pointed out that he would be well provided for and that now at last he had all the time in the world for his research. But he wouldn’t listen to reason and repeated his entreaty as he always did.
    ‘Quash the decision! You’re the only one in a position to do so! It’s no skin off your nose!’
    After a while, I stopped paying him any attention. When the secretary announced his arrival, I’d leave the office by the other door, but he wouldn’t give up. He carried on hounding me, and wherever I was in the building, I knew that sooner or later I’d see him looming in front of me. It had become an obsession. He’d wait for me as I came out of meetings, follow me down corridors and start calling out my name, elbowing people out of his way to catch up with me. I’d even given up my quiet lunches in the canteen in order to avoid him; I’d get on a tram and go and eat in a bistro frequented by boatmen. He’d send me illegible letters which I usually threw straight into the bin; he’d slip messages under my door. I would even find him waiting for me early in the morning at the closed door of my office or outside the lifts. He would pursue me like a beggar, he’d clutch me by the arm, reiterating his wearisome complaints.
    ‘You’ve given me a death sentence! This way I’ll really go mad! Don’t you see that they’re fooling you? That it’s nothing but lies?’
    Sometimes he would even pretend to be someone else in order to make contact with me; he would telephone my secretary and disguise his voice, hoping not to be recognised. On some mornings I’d find a date pencilled into my diary, some appointment with a representative of the international association of conference interpreters, or with a journalist from some well-known newspaper, and who would I find in front of me but that man, pig-headed and recalcitrant as ever, disguised by a false name. On each occasion, something imperceptibly different about him – a wrinkle, the set of his mouth – prevented me from recognising him straight away; confused and embarrassed, I would hesitate; consumed by doubt, I would stare at the figure approaching my desk, taking stock of its clothes, its shoes, its bearing, trying to discern some sign that would give a clue as to its identity. Was this really the person who figured in my diary? Or was it the interpreter in one of his many disguises? Fearing to offend some innocent in his place, I would lose precious time. Only when we were practically nose to nose would I recognise him: it was that smell that gave him away, that sudden waft of glue and bitter sap. But it was too late now: there he was, sitting in front of me, fiddling with the papers on my desk as though to thrust his way in among the thoughts that were currently on my mind. And there we’d go again, with him imploring me to reinstate him.
    ‘I need to do simultaneous translation! I need to hear all the languages together! This is the only place where I can do that. Do you see what I’m saying? You’re a good man – let me at least sit in during a conference, I promise not to talk, with the microphone off no one will notice me. Just let me