So he’s a happy family man, I thought, rushing home to his wife and children. Later I discovered that it wasn’t like that at all, as I shall chronicle in due course. His long years of hard work did not stop him from being despised at the office. If our friend Hamdi found the tiniest typographical error in one of Raif Efendi’s translations, he’d at once call the poor man in, and sometimes he’d come over to our room to upbraid him. With other clerks he was always more circumspect; knowing that each and every one of them owed their jobs to family connections, he had no wish to cause trouble for himself. If he allowed himself to go red in the face and rail against Raif Efendi in a voice loud enough for the entire building to hear, simply because a translation was a few hours late, it was because he knew the man would never find the courage to stand up to him – that much was easy to see. Can there be any sweeter intoxication than exerting power and authority over one of your own kind? It is, nevertheless, a rare pleasure, to be calculated with care, and enjoyed only with a particular sort of person.

Now and again, Raif Efendi would fall ill and absent himself from the office. Most often it was a common cold that kept him at home. But a long-ago bout of pleurisy had made him exceedingly cautious. A light case of sniffles and he would shut himself away, and when he came out again, he’d be wearing many layers of vests. He’d insist on keeping all the windows in our office shut, and when evening fell, he’d wrap himself in scarves up to his ears, not leaving the office until he’d pulled the collar of his thick, worn coat as high as it would go. But even when he was ill, he did not neglect his work. A messenger would deliver to his home any documents in need of translation and collect them a few hours later. Even so, whenever Hamdi or the director gave him a talking to, they seemed to be saying, ‘And don’t forget how much mercy we show you, you snivelling child! No matter how often you call in sick, we still keep you on!’ They never lost an opportunity to throw it in his face: if the poor man came back after an absence of several days, they would, instead of wishing him well, make barbed remarks: ‘So, how’s it going? You’ve knocked this on the head at last, I hope!’

In the meantime, I too had begun to lose patience with Raif Efendi. I did not spend much time at the office. I spent most of my time going with my bag of documents from bank to bank, or to the several government ministries whose orders we’d taken; every now and again, I’d stop by my desk to organize my documents before going through them with the director or his assistant. But even so, I’d come to despair of this tiresome blank of a man who sat so lifelessly across from me, endlessly translating, unless he was reading the German novel he’d tucked away in his drawer. He was, I thought, too timid ever to dare to explore his soul, let alone express it. He had, I thought, no more life inside him than a plant. He rolled in every morning like a machine and did his work, only stopping to read those books of his with needless caution, and then he’d buy a few things at the store and go home. As far as I could see, this numbing routine had, over many years, been interrupted only by his illnesses. According to my new friends, he had lived like this for as long as anyone could remember. No one could remember his ever getting excited about anything. Even in the face of unfounded and uncalled for accusations, he would give his superiors the same calm, blank look; when he asked a secretary to type up a translation, and later, when he thanked her for having done so, he would always do so with the same foolish smile.

One day another translation was late, simply because the typists gave little importance to Raif Efendi’s work. Hamdi came into our room, looking very stern: ‘How much longer will we have to wait? I told you it was urgent. I told you I was about to leave. But still you haven’t translated that letter from the firm in Hungary!’

The other, rising swiftly from his chair, cried: ‘I’ve finished my translation, sir! The ladies just haven’t found the time to type it up. They were given other work to do!’

‘Didn’t I tell you that this letter took priority over everything else?’

‘Yes, sir, and I told them that too!’

Again, Hamdi raised his voice: ‘Instead of talking back to me, just do your job!’ On his way out, he slammed the door.

And Raif Efendi followed him out, to go and plead with the typists once more.

Meanwhile, I thought about Hamdi, who had not graced me with a single glance during his performance. Soon the German translator came back in, to bow his head over his desk once again. As always, his composure astounded and infuriated me.