The Gordian Knot Read Free Page A

Translation Service. Is this Monsieur Polger?”
    “Yes.”
    “A few weeks ago we opened a translation agency in Cadenet, and business has picked up faster than we expected. We’re looking for translators, and you came to our attention. Are you available?”
    Georg was now wide awake. Only his voice was still unsteady. “You would like me to … I mean, if I’m available, to work …? Yes, I believe I am.”
    “Great. We’re at rue d’Amazone, right across the square where the statue of the drummer boy is—you’ll see the sign on the building. Why don’t you stop by?”

4
    GEORG WAS READY TO GO THERE RIGHT AWAY . But he stopped himself. He also stopped himself on Wednesday and Thursday. He decided to go to the Bulnakov Translation Service on Friday morning at ten. Jeans, blue shirt, and leather jacket, a folder under his arm with samples of the work he had done for Monsieur Maurin: he carefully choreographed the scene—he would show that he was interested in working for them, but wouldn’t indicate how much depended on it.
    Everything went smoothly. Georg called on Friday morning and made an appointment for ten. He parked on the square near the statue of the drummer boy, walked up the rue d’Amazone, and at five past ten rang the bell beneath the plaque that said BULNAKOV TRANSLATION SERVICE .
    The door on the third floor was open. There was the smell of paint, and a young woman was sitting at her typewriter in the freshly painted reception area. Brown hair hanging to her shoulders, brown eyes, and, as she looked up, a friendly glance and the hint of a smile.
    “Monsieur Polger? Please take a seat. Monsieur Bulnakov will see you right away.”
    She said
Polgé
and
Boulnakóv
, but with an accent Georg couldn’t quite place.
    He had barely sat down on one of the brand-new chairs when a door flew open and Bulnakov, all effervescence and affability, came bursting into the room, ruddy-cheeked and sporting a tight vest and loud tie.
    “How wonderful that fate has brought you to our doorstep, my young friend. May I call you ‘my young friend’? We’ve gotten so many jobs we can barely keep up with them, and I see you’re carrying a big folder of work that you are toiling over—but no, a young man like you wouldn’t be
toiling
—I’m sure you can do these translation jobs with a flick of the wrist. You’re young, just as I was once, correct me if I’m wrong!” He was holding Georg’s hand in both of his, squeezing it, shaking it, not letting go even after he had dragged Georg into his office.
    “Monsieur Bulnakov …”
    “Let me close the door to my
sanctum
, and speak a few words of introduction—oh, what the hell, let us segue in medias res without further ado. What we do here is technical translation: handbooks for word processing, bookkeeping, systems for client- and customer-tracking, and so on. Small, convenient, friendly programs, but nice thick books. Know what I mean? I take it you have experience with technology and computers, that you can handle both English into French and French into English, and that you can work fast? Working fast is the be-all and end-all in this business, and if your dictaphone and ours aren’t compatible, we’ll provide you with one. Mademoiselle Kramsky will type everything up, you’ll give it a quick once-over, and voilà!
Cito cito:
wasn’t that the motto of your Frederick the Great? You’re German, aren’t you? Although, now that I think of it, the motto might not have been your Frederick the Great’s but our Peter the Great’s. Anyway, who cares, same difference. You haven’t said a word, is anything wrong?”
    Bulnakov released Georg’s hand and closed the door. Here in his office there was also the smell of fresh paint, and a new desk, a new chair, a new seating area, and along the wall two built-in niches piled high with folders. Above them technical drawings were pinned to the wall with thumbtacks. Bulnakov stood in front of his desk looking at