The Interpreter by Diego Marani, Judith Landry Page A

perhaps to the intriguing company of such weird people, prey to irrational machinations, morbidly devoted to their sufferings, flaunting their traumas, however horrible, with pride. Magnetic and awesome as he was, Dr Barnung himself held a secret attraction for me; indeed, his very presence in the common room after supper filled all of us with excited alarm. He rarely visited the various therapy departments, and his appearance always caused something of a stir; one section would compete against another, talking up his visits, obsessed by interpreting their meaning. Fridays were particularly tense, because hypnosis sessions were held on Saturdays, and the doctor would pass among his patients with an air of gravity, like a priest among his acolytes, as though calling for concentration, dedication, a deep, sincere commitment to his healing powers. We acclaimed him wordlessly – all that we did was buzz with sheer excitement, clustering around him as he passed, expressing our mute submission. We were putting ourselves in his hands, giving ourselves over to his arcane knowledge, not in order that he might cure us, but so that he might help us to preserve, intact, the illnesses that he himself had entrusted to us. Delicate and fragile as rare plants, they grew within us, sucking away at our will; we did not yet know it, but gradually they would take on our features, replace us, and it would be we who would disappear, as unexpectedly as the burning of a fever, a tightness in the chest, a passing twinge.
    Over those first weeks, I came to understand that illness makes people more corporeal; I felt myself to be all body, and looking at myself in the mirror, beneath the transparent film of my epidermis, I felt I could see my organs functioning – swollen glands, purplish in colour, hard bulbs, pockets containing something granular, unpleasant to the touch, veins turgid with dark juices – everything in me was visible. In the grid of my brain I could even follow the intricate course of my thoughts, their rapid flicker behind my eyes, brief flashes partially obscured by my brainpan.
    Ortega had been right – Colonel Kwiatkowski was extremely warm-hearted, although eccentric. He took a shine to me and would ask me to join him after supper for a game of chess, although that was just a blind – what he really wanted to do was talk.
    ‘Believe you me, Mr Bellamy, you don’t come here to be cured, but to wallow in your illness. Languages are not a cure, they are a drug! I knew a patient who was doing preparatory Russian, a green uniform, in a word, who learned five languages for no reason at all, and none of them Slavic! No, he learned Italian, German, Danish, Greek and English. Doctor Barnung had diagnosed maniacal psychosis, to be cured with an intensive course of Italian, with German as a support language, as usual. After having learned Italian to perfection, he could have been discharged, but he asked Barnung for a few sessions in Greek: to strengthen the basis of his Italian, he said. The others followed, and over time the cure became a drug. I myself haven’t heard from him for months, but in the gym they’re saying that he’s managed to wangle himself an isolation course in Japanese! Clearly, a man like that is not interested in a cure!’
    I listened to Kwiatkowski’s stories in fascination and amusement, even when Ortega was standing behind him, shaking his head with a mournful smile. One evening the colonel suggested a stroll in the courtyard. To get rid of Ortega, he had involved him in a game of cards but had then slipped away, leaving his place to Vidmajer. It had just stopped raining; a cool breeze was blowing, scented with leaves, and Kwiatkowski’s few hairs were rippling over his head, making him look even odder than ever; he walked with his usual martial bearing, his hands clasped behind his back, his chin thrust forwards. As soon as we were alone, though, in the crystalline evening light, he gave me an agitated