Antonio Tabucchi

Letter from Casablanca

LETTER FROM CASABLANCA

Lena,

I don’t know why I begin this letter talking to you about a palm tree when you haven’t heard anything about me for eighteen years. Perhaps because there are many palm trees here. I see them from my hospital window waving their long arms in the torrid wind along the blazing avenues that disappear in whiteness. In front of our house, when we were children, there was a palm tree. Maybe you don’t remember it because it was pulled down, if my memory does not fail me, the year the event took place — in 1953, therefore, I think in summer. I was ten years old.

We had a happy childhood, Lena. You can’t remember it, and no one could talk to you about it. The aunt with whom you grew up can’t know about it. Yes, of course, she can tell you something about Papa and Mama, but she can’t describe for you a childhood that she didn’t know and which you don’t remember. She lived too far away, up there in the north. Her husband was a bank clerk. They considered themselves superior to the family of a signalman, a level-crossing keeper. They never came to our house.

The palm tree was pulled down following a decree by the Minister of Transport which maintained that it impeded the view of the trains and could provoke an acccident. Who knows what accident that palm tree, grown so high, could provoke, with a tuft of branches that brushed our second-floor window? From the signalman’s house, what might be slightly annoying was its trunk, a trunk thinner than a light pole, and it certainly could not impede the view of the trains. Anyway, we had to pull it down, nothing could be done about it, the land wasn’t ours. One night at supper Mama, who from time to time had grand ideas, proposed to write a letter personally to the Minister of Transport, signed by all the family, a kind of petition. It went like this:

Dear Mr. Minister: In reference to the circular number such-and-such, protocol such-and-such, concerning the palm tree situated on the small piece of land in from of the signal house number such-and-such for the Roma-Torino line, the family of the signalman informs Your Excellency that the above-mentioned palm tree does not constitute any obstacle to the view of the trains in passage. We beg you, therefore, to leave the above-mentioned palm tree standing, it being the only tree on the land apart from a roadside pergola of vines over the door and it being much loved by the children of the signalman, especially being company for the baby who, being by nature delicate, is often confined to bed, and at least can see a palm tree through the windowpane rather than only air, which makes it sad, and to bear witness to the love that the children of the signalman have for the above-mentioned tree, sufficeth it to say that they have christened it and do not call it palm tree, but call it Josephine, owing this name to the fact that we, having taken them once to the cinema in the city to see The Talking Dead with Totò, in the film they saw the famous French Negro singer of the above-mentioned name who danced with a most beautiful headgear made of palm leaves, and since, when there is wind, the palm tree moves as if it is dancing, our children call it their Josephine.

This letter is one of the few things that remain to me of Mama. It is the rough copy of the petition we sent. Mama wrote it in her handwriting in my composition notebook and so, by fortuitous chance, when I was sent to Argentina, I took it along without knowing it, without imagining the treasure that that page would become for me later.

Another thing that remains to me of Mama is an image, but you can hardly see her. It’s a photograph that Signor Quintilio took under the pergola of our house around the stone table. It must be summer. Seated at the table there are Papa and Signor Quintilio’s daughter, a thin girl with long braids and a flowered dress. I am playing with a wooden gun, and I am pretending to shoot at a target. On the table there are some glasses and a bottle of wine. Mama is coming out of the house with a soup tureen. She has just entered the photograph that Signor Quintilio has just clicked. She came in by chance and was moving. For this reason she is a little out of focus and in profile, and it is difficult even to recognize her, so much so that I prefer to think of her as I remember her. Because I remember it well, that year. I am speaking of the year in which the palm tree was pulled down. I was ten years old, it was surely summer, and the event happened in October. A person possesses perfectly the memory of when he was ten years old, and I will never be able to forget what happened that October. But Signor Quintilio — do you remember him? He was the bailiff at a farm about two kilometers from the signal house, where in May we used to go to pick cherries. He was a happy, nervous little man who always told jokes. Papa made fun of him, because under fascism he had been Vice-federal, or something of the kind, and he was ashamed. He would shake his head, say that it was water under the bridge, and then Papa would begin to laugh and give him a slap on the back. And his wife — do you remember her? Signora Elvira, that big, sad woman. She suffered terribly from the heat. When she came to dinner with us she brought a fan. She sweated and panted, then she sat outside under the pergola, asleep on the stone bench with her head leaning on the wall. Nothing woke her, not even the passing of the freight trains.

It was splendid when they came Saturday after supper. Sometimes Signorina Palestro came too, an old maid who lived alone in a kind of dependent villa on the farm, surrounded by a battalion of cats. She had a mania for teaching me French because as a girl she had been tutor to the children of a count. She always said, “Pardon,” and “C’est dommage,” and her favorite exclamation, used in all situations to underline an important fact or simply if her glasses fell, was “Eh, lá, lá!” Those evenings Mama sat down at the little piano. How she held herself at that piano was a testimony to her upbringing, to her well-to-do girlhood, to her chancellor father, to summers spent in the Tuscan Apennines. What stories she told us about her vacations! And then she had graduated in domestic science.

If you knew, during my first years in Argentina, how much I wished I had lived those vacations! I wanted them so much and I imagined them so vividly that sometimes a strange witchcraft came over me, and I remembered vacations spent at Gavinana and at San Marcello. We were there, Lena, you and I, as children. Only you, instead of being you, were Mama as a little girl, and I was your brother and I loved you very much. I remembered when we went to a stream below Gavinana to catch tadpoles. You — that is, Mama — had a net and a funny big hat with a brim like those of the Sisters of St. Vincent. You ran straight ahead, chattering, “Run! Run! The tadpoles are waiting! What fun!” and it seemed to me to be the funniest rhyme, and I laughed like crazy. Bursts of laughter prevented me from following you. Then you disappeared into the chestnut wood near the stream and shouted, “Catch me! Catch me!” At that point I did my very best and caught up with you. I took you by the shoulders, you gave a little cry, and we fell down. The ground was sloping and we began to roll over, and then I embraced you and whispered to you, “Mama, Mama, hug me tight, Mama,” and you hugged me tight. While we rolled over, you had become Mama as I knew her. I smelled your perfume, I kissed your hair, everything intermingled — grass, hair, sky — and at that moment of ecstasy the baritone voice of Uncle Alfredo said to me, “Now then, niño, are the platinados ready?” They were not ready, no. I found myself in the wide-open jaws of an old Mercedes with a box of tacks in one hand and a screwdriver in the other. The floor was studded with blue spots of oil mixed with water. “Whatever is this boy dreaming of!” Uncle Alfredo said good-naturedly, and gave me an affectionate slap.

It was 1958 and we were in Rosario. Uncle Alfredo, after many years in Argentina, spoke a strange mixture of Italian and Spanish. His garage was called “The Motorized Italian,” and he repaired everything, but mainly tractors, old Ford carcasses. As an emblem, next to Shell’s shell, he had a leaning tower of neon which, however, was only half-lit because the gas in the tubes was used up, and nobody had ever had the patience to replace it. Uncle Alfredo was a corpulent man, full-blooded, patient, a gourmet, with a nose furrowed by many tiny blue veins, and a constitutional tendency to hypertension — everything exactly opposite of Papa. You would never have said that they were brothers.

Ah, but I was telling you about those evenings after supper at our house, when visitors came and Mama sat down at the piano. Signorina Palestro went into ecstasies over waltzes by Strauss, but I liked it much belter when Mama sang. It was so difficult to make her sing. She acted coy, she blushed. “I don’t have a voice anymore,” she said smiling, but then she gave in at the insistence of Signora Elvira. She, too, preferred ballads and songs more than waltzes. And finally Mama surrendered. Then there was a great silence. Mama began with some amusing little songs in order to enliven the atmosphere — something like Rosamunda or Eulalia Torricelli. Signora Elvira laughed delightedly, somewhat breathlessly, emitting the cluckings of a brooding hen and lifting her enormous chest, while she cooled herself with her fan. Then Mama executed an interlude at the piano without singing. Signorina Palestro requested something more challenging. Mama raised her eyes to the ceiling as if searching for inspiration or ransacking her memory. Her hands caressed the keyboard. It was a dead hour for trains, there would not be disturbing noises. From the window wide open to the marsh came the sound of crickets. A moth battered its wings against the net, trying in vain to enter. Mama sang Luna rossa, All’alba se ne parte il marinaro, or a ballad by Beniamino Gigli, Oh begli occhi di fata. How lovely it was to hear her sing! Signorina Palestro’s eyes were shining, Signora Elvira even stopped fanning herself, everyone was watching Mama. She wore a rather filmy blue dress. You were sleeping in your room, unaware. You haven’t had these moments to remember in your life. I was happy. Everyone applauded. Papa overflowed with pride. He circled around with the bottle of vermouth and refilled the guests’ glasses, saying, “Please, please, we’re not in a Turk’s house.”

Uncle Alfredo always used this curious expression, too. It was funny to hear him say it in the middle of his Spanish sentences. I remember we were at the table. He liked tripe alia parmigiana very much and thought that the Argentinians were stupid because they appreciated only the steaks from their cattle. Helping himself abundantly from the big steaming soup tureen, he told me, “Go and eat, niño, we’re not in a Turk’s house.” It was a phrase from their childhood, Uncle Alfredo’s and Papa’s. It went back to who knows what ancient time. I understood the concept: it meant that this was a house in which there was abundance, and in which the owner was generous. Who knows why the contrary was attributed to the Turks? Perhaps it was an expression that dated from the Saracen invasions. And Uncle Alfredo really was generous with me. He brought me up as if I were his son. Moreover, he had no children of his own. He was generous and patient, just like a father, and probably with me plenty of patience was necessary. I was an absent-minded, sad boy. I caused a lot of trouble as a result of my temperament. The only time I saw him lose his patience it was terrible, but it was not my fault. We were having dinner. I had precipitated a disaster with a tractor. I had had to execute a difficult maneuver to get it into the garage. Maybe I was inattentive. And then at that moment Modugno was singing Volare on the radio, and Uncle Alfredo had put it on at full volume because he loved it. I had scraped against the side of a Chrysler going in and had done a lot of damage.

Aunt Olga was not bad. She was a talkative, grumbling Venetian who had remained stubbornly attached to her dialect. When she spoke, you understood almost nothing. She mixed Venetian with Spanish — a disaster. She and my uncle had met in Argentina. When they decided to marry, they were already elderly. In fact, you couldn’t say they had married for love. Let’s say it had been convenient for both of them — for her, because she gave up working in the meat-canning plant, and for Uncle Alfredo, because he needed a woman to keep his house in order. However, they were fond of each other, or at least there was liking, and Aunt Olga respected him and spoiled him. Who knows why she came out with that sentence that day? Maybe she was tired or out of sorts. She lost her patience. I am sure it was not really the case. Uncle Alfredo had already reprimanded me earlier, and I was mortified enough. I kept my eyes on my plate. Aunt Olga, point-blank, but not in order to hurt my feelings, poor thing, almost as if she were confirming something, said, “He’s the son of a madman — only a madman could do that to his wife.” And then I saw Uncle Alfredo get up, calmly, his face grown white, and give her a terrible backhanded slap. The blow was so violent that Aunt Olga fell from her chair, and in her fall she grabbed the tablecloth, pulling it with all the dishes after her. Uncle Alfredo left slowly and went down to the garage to work. Aunt Olga got up as if nothing had happened, began to pick up the dishes, swept the floor, put on a new tablecloth because the other one was a mess, set the table, and appeared at the stairwell. “Alfredo,” she shouted, “dinner’s ready!”

When I left for Mar del Plata I was sixteen years old. Sewed inside my vest I wore a roll of pesos, and in my pocket a business card from the Pensione Albano—“hot and cold running water”—and a letter to the proprietor, an Italian friend of Uncle Alfredo’s, a friend of his youth. They had arrived in Argentina on the same ship and had always kept in touch. I was going to attend a boarding school run by Salesian Italians who had a conservatory, or something of the kind. My aunt and uncle had encouraged me. By this time I had finished the lower schools. I was not cut out to be a garage mechanic, this was immediately evident, and then Aunt Olga hoped that the city would change me. One evening I had heard her say, “Sometimes his eyes scare me, they’re so frightened. Who knows what he saw, poor boy? Who knows what he remembers?” I’m sure I was a little worrying in my way of doing things, I admit. I never talked, I blushed, I stammered, I often cried. Aunt Olga complained that the popular songs, with all those stupid words, ruined me. Uncle. Alfredo tried to arouse my interest by explaining camshafts and clutches to me, and in the evening he tried to persuade me to go with him to the Caffè Florida, where there were many Italians who played cards. But I preferred to stay next to the radio to listen to the music program. I adored the old tangos of Carlos Gardel, the melancholy sambas of Wilson Baptista, the popular songs of Doris Day, but I liked all music. And perhaps it was better for me to study music, if that was my inclination, but far away from the prairie, in a civilized place.

Mar del Plata was a bizarre and fascinating city, deserted in the cold season and crowded in the vacation months, with huge white hotels, twentieth-century style, that in the off season emitted sadness. In that period it was a city of exotic seamen and of old people who had chosen to spend their last years of life there and who tried to keep each other company by taking turns at making appointments for tea on the terraces of the hotels or at the coffee-concerts, where shabby little orchestras caterwauled popular songs and tangos.

I stayed two years at the Salesian conservatory. With Father Matteo, an old man, half-blind, with deathly pale hands, I studied Bach, Monteverdi, and Palestrina at the organ. The classes of general culture were held by Father Simone for the scientific part and Father Anselmo for the classical part, in which I was particularly gifted. I studied Latin willingly, but I preferred history, the lives of the saints, and the lives of illustrious men. Among those particularly dear to me were Leonardo da Vinci and Ludovico Antonio Muratori, who had gotten his education by eavesdropping under the window of a school, until one day the teacher had discovered him and told him, “Come into the classroom, poor boy!”

In the evening I returned to the Pensione Albano. Work awaited me because the monthly allowance that Uncle Alfredo sent me was not enough. I slipped on a jacket that Señora Pepa made me wash twice a week and stationed myself in the dining room, a room painted pale blue with around thirty tables and pictures of Italy on the walls. Our clients were pensioners, business agents, an occasional Italian immigrant to Buenos Aires who could permit himself the luxury of spending fifteen days at Mar del Plata. Signor Albano ran the kitchen. He knew how to make pansoti with walnuts and trenette al pesto: he was Ligurian, from Camogli. He was a follower of Peron. He said that he had lifted up a nation of lice. And then Eva was enchanting.

When I found steady work at the “Bichinho” I wrote Uncle Alfredo not to send me my allowance anymore. It wasn’t that I was earning enough salary to fritter it away, but, well, it was enough for me, and it didn’t seem fair that Uncle Alfredo was fixing tractors in order to send me a few pesos every month. “O Bichinho” was a restaurant-nightclub run by a plump, cheerful Brazilian, Senhor Joño Paiva, where you could have supper at midnight and listen to native music. It was a place with pretensions of respectability and considered itself to be different from the other shady night clubs, even if whoever went there to look for company found it easily, but with discretion and with the complicity of the waiters, because the prostitution was not so exposed. Everything had a respectable appearance — forty tables with candles. At two tables in the rear of the room, near the coatroom, there were two young women sitting in front of a plate that was always empty, sipping an aperitif as if waiting for their order to arrive. And if a gentleman entered, the waiter guided him skillfully and asked him discreetly, “Do you prefer to dine alone or would you like the companionship of a lady?” I was an expert at these games because my job was at the rear of the room, while Ramón attended to the tables near the platform for the show. To make those propositions you needed tact, good manners. It was necessary to understand the client in order not to offend him. And who knows why by intuition I immediately understood the client? In short, I had a flair for it, and at the end of the month my tips were greater than my salary. Besides, Anita and Pilar were two generous girls.

The high point of the show was Carmen del Rio. Her voice was no longer what it had been, of course, yet she still constituted an attraction. With the passing of the years the hoarse timbre that gave charm to her more desperate tangos had weakened, had become more limpid, and she tried in vain to regain it by smoking two cigars before her performance. But what was spectacular about her and what she knew would send the public into a frenzy was not so much her voice as a combination of resources: her repertory, her movements, her make-up, her costumes. Behind the curtains of the platform she had a little room crammed with rubbish and a majestic wardrobe with all the clothes she had used in the Forties when she was the great Carmen del Rio. There were long chiffon dresses, marvelous white sandals with very high cork heels, feather boas, tango singers’ shawls, one blonde wig, one red one, and two raven black ones parted in the middle and with large chignons with white combs, as in Andalusia. The secret of Carmen del Rio was her make-up. She knew it. She spent hours making herself up. She did not neglect the smallest detail: the tinted base, the long false eyelashes, on her lips the glittering lipstick she had used in earlier days, the very long fatal fingernails painted vermillion.

She often called me because I helped her. She said that I had a very light touch and exquisite taste, I was the only person in the night club whom she trusted. She opened her wardrobe and wanted me to advise her. I went over the repertory for the evening. For the tangos she knew what to wear, but the makeup for the sentimental songs I chose. Usually I went for the light, filmy, pastel dresses — I don’t know, apricot, for example, which was enchanting on her, or a pale indigo that seemed to me unbeatable for Ramona. And then I did her nails and eyelashes. She closed her eyes and stretched out in the easy-chair, surrendered her head to the head-rest, and whispered to me as if in a dream, “Once I had a sensitive lover like you. … He spoiled me like a baby. … His name was Daniel…. He was from Quebec…. Who knows what became of him….” Close up and without cosmetics Carmen looked her age, but under the spotlight and after my make-up she was still a queen. I overdid the base and the grease-paint, naturally, and for face powder I insisted on a very pink Guerlain, instead of the too-white Argentine brands which gave prominence to her wrinkles. And the result was sensational. She was most grateful to me. She said that I pushed back the clock. And for her perfume I converted her to violet — much, very much, violet — and on principle she had protested, because violet is a vulgar perfume for schoolgirls. And she didn’t know that on the other hand it was this contrast that fascinated the public: an old defeated beauty who sang the tango made up like a pink doll. It was this that created the pathos and brought tears to the eyes.

Then I went to do my work at the rear of the room. I circulated among the tables with a light step. “More carabine-ros a la plancha, señor?” “Do you like the rose wine, señorita?” I knew that while she was singing, Carmen was searching for me with her eyes. When with the boss’s gold cigar lighter I lit the cigarette which some client had just finished inserting between his lips, I made the light shine a minute at heart level. It was an agreed-upon signal between Carmen and me. It meant that she was singing divinely, that she went right to the heart. And I observed that her voice vibrated even more and gained warmth. She needed to be encouraged, the splendid old Carmen. Without her, “O Bichinho” would have been nothing.

The night Carmen stopped singing there was panic. She did not give up of her own accord, obviously. We were in her dressing room, I was doing her make-up, she was stretched out in the armchair in front of the mirror. She was smoking her cigar, keeping her eyes closed, and all of a sudden the powder began to get sticky on her forehead. I realized that she was sweating. I touched her: it was a cold sweat. “I feel bad,” she murmured, and said nothing else. I put my hand on her chest, took her pulse, and couldn’t feel it any longer. I went to call the manager. Carmen was trembling as if she had a fever, but she did not have a fever. She was icy. We called a taxi to take her to the hospital. I helped her to the back entrance so the public wouldn’t see her. “Ciao, Carmen,” I said to her. “It’s nothing. I’ll come to see you tomorrow,” and she attempted a smile.

It was eleven o’clock. The clients were having supper. On the platform the spotlight made a circle of empty light. The pianist played softly in order to fill the void. Then from the room came a little impatient applause. They were demanding Carmen. Senhor Paiva, behind the curtain, was very nervous. He sucked his cigarette anxiously, called the manager and told him to serve some champagne gratis. Probably the idea was to keep the public in a good mood. But at that moment a little chorus chanted, “Car-men! Car-men!”

And then I don’t know what came over me. It wasn’t something I thought about. I felt a force that drove me into the dressing room. I turned on the make-up lights around the mirror. I chose a very tight-fitting sequined dress with a slit up the side, of the deliberately showy sort, some white shoes with very high heels, black elbow-length evening gloves, a red wig with long curls. I made up my eyes heavily, with silver, but for my lips I chose a light lipstick, an opaque apricot. When I went out on the platform the spotlight struck me in full force. The public stopped eating. I saw many faces staring at me, many forks remaining suspended in the air. I knew that public, but I had never seen it from up front, arranged in a semi-circle like this. It was like a siege.

I began with Caminito verde. The pianist was an intelligent type. He immediately understood the timbre of my voice, provided me with a very discreet accompaniment, all in low notes. And then I nodded to the electrician. He put on a blue disc. I grasped the microphone and began to whisper into it. I let the pianist do two intermezzzos to prolong the song because the public didn’t take its eyes off me. And while he played I moved slowly on the platform and the cone of blue light followed me. Now and then I moved my arms as if I were swimming in that light and stroked my shoulders, with my legs slowly spreading apart and my head swaying so that my curls caressed my shoulders, as I had seen Rita Hayworth do in Gilda. And then the public began to applaud excitedly. I understood that it had gone well and I took the counteroffensive. In order not to let the enthusiasm die down, I attacked another song before the applause ended. This time it was Lola Lolita la Piquetera, and then a Buenos Aires tango of the Thirties, Pregunto, that sent them into delirium. It was applause that Carmen had had only when she was at her best. And then an inspiration came to me, a whim. I went to the pianist and made him give me his jacket. I put it on over my dress and as a joke, but with much sadness, I began to sing the ballad of Beniamino Gigli, Oh begli occhi di fata, as if it were addressed to an imaginary woman for whom I was pining for love. And little by little, while I was singing, that woman whom I was evoking came to me, recalled by my song. At the same time I slowly took off the jacket. And while I was whispering into the microphone the last line, “della mia gioventú cogliete il fiore,” I was abandoned by my lover, but my lover was the public, who stared at me with rapture. And I was myself once more, and with my feet I pushed away the jacket that I had let fall to the platform. And then, before the enchantment ended, rubbing the microphone on my lips, I began to sing Acércate más. An indescribable thing happened. The men got up on their feet and applauded, an old man in a white jacket threw me a carnation, an English officer at a table in the first row came up on the platform and tried to kiss me. I escaped to the dressing room. I felt I was going crazy with excitement and joy. I fell a kind of shock all over my body. I shut myself inside, I panted, I looked at myself in the mirror. I was beautiful, I was young, I was happy. And then I was overtaken by a whim. I put on the blonde wig, I put around my neck the blue feather boa, letting it drag on the floor behind me, and I returned to the platform in little elflike skipping steps.

First I did Que será será in the Doris Day manner, and then I attacked Volare with a chá-chá rhythm. Wiggling, I invited the public to accompany me by beating time to the rhythm with their hands. And when I sang “Vo-la-re!” a chorus answered me “Oh-oh,” and I “Can-ta-re,” and they “Oh-oh-oh-oh.” It was like the end of the world. When I returned to the dressing room, I left behind me excitement and noise. I was there, in Carmen’s easy-chair, crying with happiness, and I heard the public chant, “Name! Name!” Senhor Paiva came in, speechless, beaming, his eyes shining. “You have to go out and tell them your name,” he said. “We can’t calm them down.” And I went out again. The electrician had put in a pink disc that flooded me with a warm light. I took the microphone. I had two songs that surged in my throat. I sang Luna rossa and All’alba se ne parte il marinaro. And when the long applause died away, I whispered into the microphone a name that came spontaneously to my lips. “Josephine,” I said. “Josephine.”

Lena, many years have passed since that night, and I have lived my life as I felt I had to live it. During my travels around the world I have often thought of writing to you and never had the courage to do it. I don’t know if you have ever known what happened when we were children. Perhaps our aunt and uncle weren’t able to tell you anything. There are things that cannot be told. Anyway, if you already know or if you come to know, remember that Papa was not bad. Forgive him as I have forgiven him.

From here, from this hospital in this far-away city, I ask you a favor. If what I am willingly about to face should turn out badly, I beg you to claim my body. I have left precise instructions with a notary and the Italian Embassy so that my body may be returned home. In such a case you’ll receive a sum of money sufficient to execute this and an extra sum as recompense, because in my life I’ve earned enough money. The world is stupid, Lena, nature is vile, and I don’t believe in the resurrection of the flesh. I believe in memories, however, and I ask you to let me satisfy them.

About two kilometers from the signal house where we spent our childhood, between the farm where Signor Quintilio worked and the town, if you take a little road between the fields that once had a sign saying “Turbines” because it led to the suction pump for the reclaimed land, after the locks, a few hundred meters from a group of red houses, you come to a little cemetery. Mama rests there. I want to be buried next to her and to have on the tombstone an enlarged photograph of me when I was six years old. It’s a photograph that remained with aunt and uncle. You must have seen it who knows how many times. It’s of you and me. You are very small, a baby lying on a blanket, I am sitting beside you and holding your hand. They dressed me in a pinafore and I have curls tied with a bow. I don’t want any dates. Don’t have an inscription put on the stone, I beg you, only the name. But not Hector. Put the name with which I sign this letter, with the brotherly affection which binds me to you, your

Josephine

SATURDAY AFTERNOONS

He was on a bicycle,” said Nena. “He wore a knotted handkerchief on his head. I saw him very well. He saw me, too. He wanted something here at home. I understood him. But he went by as if he couldn’t stop. It was exactly two o’clock.”

Nena then wore a metal contraption on her upper teeth, which persisted in growing crooked. She had a reddish cat that she called “My Belafonte” and spent the day singing “Banana Boat” to herself — or preferably whistling it, because thanks to her teeth the whistle turned out very well, better than mine. Mama seemed very annoyed, but usually she didn’t yell at her. She limited herself to saying, “Leave the poor animal in peace.” Or, when you saw that she was very sad and was pretending to rest in the armchair, and Nena ran into the garden under the oleanders, where she had installed her own pied-à-terre, Mama would appear at the window pushing back a lock of hair that was stuck to her with perspiration, and wearily, not as if she were scolding but almost as if it were a private lament, a litany, she would say to her, “Stop whistling that nonsense. Does it seem right to you? You know that respectable little girls shouldn’t whistle.”

Nena’s pied-à-terre consisted of the blue canvas deck chair which had been Papa’s favorite and which she had propped against two terra cotta pots of privet to make a wall. On the lawn, which served as the floor, she had arranged all her dolls (her “little friends”), the poor Belafonte tied on a leash, and a red tin telephone, a present which Aunt Yvonne had given me the previous year for my Saint’s Day, and which I had then passed on to Nena. I had never liked it very much anyway. It was a stupid toy and absolutely inadequate for a boy of my age. But you had to have patience and be polite, said Mama. Aunt Yvonne didn’t have any children — not because she hadn’t wanted them, poor thing — and she didn’t have the slightest notion of what toys were suited to a boy. To tell the truth, Aunt Yvonne didn’t have the slightest notion of anything, not even of what to say in certain circumstances. She was so careless that she was always late for appointments, and when she came to our house she always left something on the train. “But even so, there’s no harm done,” said Mama. “It’s a good thing you forgot something, otherwise what would become of us?” And Aunt Yvonne smiled like a guilty little girl, looking very embarrassed at all the luggage that she had deposited in the entry, while in the street the taxi tooted to remind her that she still had to pay.

And so, characteristically, she had committed “an unpardonable gaffe,” as she had said, making the situation worse, while Mama sobbed on the divan. (But then Mama had forgiven her at once.) When she had arrived at our house immediately after the misfortune, she had announced herself by a telephone call which old Tommaso had answered, from which she had taken leave by saying, “Regards to the young gentleman officer.” And that stupid Tommaso had repeated it, crying like a calf. But what would you expect him to do? He was arteriosclerotic, and I had always heard it said that even as a young man he hadn’t been very smart. He had repeated it while Mama talked with the notary in the living room that infernal day in which she had had to think of everything, “of everything except what I really wanted to think of, alone with my pain.” But the fact was that Aunt Yvonne had repeated that leave-taking for years. It was a joke that went back to 1941, when Papa and Mama were engaged. He was an officer at La Spezia. So that she and Aunt Yvonne could have a vacation, he had rented a little villa in Rapallo, the proprietor of which was a very polite lady who did not miss an opportunity to emphasize her aristocratic origins, however questionable. She loved to make conversation while she watered the garden when Mama and Aunt Yvonne were outside on the terrace and, taking leave, she always said, “Regards to the young gentleman officer,” which made Aunt Yvonne break into giggles, promptly leave the terrace, and laugh herself silly.

So Mama, those summer hours after dinner, while she lay in an armchair with her eyes covered with a handkerchief, heard Nena whistling “Banana Boat,” sighed, and let it alone. “What do you want her to do, poor treasure?” I had heard Aunt Yvonne say. “If she’s not happy at her age, when do you expect her to be? Let her alone.” And Mama, with her eyes glistening, had nodded, wringing her hands. It was the first of May and Aunt Yvonne had come to say good-bye. She was contrite in her careless way. She said, “My dear, you realize there’s nothing else we can do. What do you expect? Rodolfo can’t stay here any longer. You know they all pounce on him like jackals. A day doesn’t go by that it isn’t in the financial pages. No one can live like this, not even the president of the Bank of Italy. And then you know the job in Switzerland is a prestigious thing. We haven’t had any children, unfortunately. Up to now his only satisfaction has been his career. I certainly can’t interfere with the meaning of his life — it would be inhumane. But Lausanne really isn’t the end of the world, is it? We’ll see each other at least once a year. In fact, we’ll surely be here in September, and when you want to come our house is always open.” It was a Sunday morning. Mama had put on a little black veil because she was already ready for Mass. She stayed motionless on her chair and stared beyond Aunt Yvonne, who was sitting opposite her, beyond the buffet in the living room, which was behind Aunt Yvonne, and slowly nodded her head yes, calmly, with resignation, and with an air of understanding and tenderness.

Sundays had become much sadder without Aunt Yvonne’s visits. At least when she came there was a bit of movement, even confusion, because she descended upon us unexpectedly, and the telephone rang as long as she remained in our house and even afterwards. Furthermore, she wore a kitchen apron that turned out to be very funny over those classy outfits that she wore — long silk skirts, chiffon blouses, a super chic little hat with an organza camellia — and dolled up in that way she declared that she would prepare a French delicacy — Versailles mousse, for example — because the food in our house was “horrifyingly mundane.” Then it happened that at the last minute Mama had to resort to horrifyingly mundane veal scallops with lemon and buttered peas because between one telephone call and another Aunt Yvonne would have finished the mousse at four o’clock in the afternoon, and Nena and I, impatient, were going around the kitchen stealing breadsticks and cubes of cheese. But even so, all that turmoil brought about at least a little bit of happiness, even if later on it fell to Mama to wash six or seven pyrex bowls. But anyway, the mousse kept until the next day and it was truly delicious.

For all of May and part of June the days passed quickly enough. Mama was extremely busy with her azaleas, which that spring were very slow. They seemed reluctant to show themselves, as if they, too, had suffered with all the family. “Flowers are so sensible,” said Mama, working the soil. “They are perfectly aware of what is happening. They’re sensitive.” And I was very much occupied with the third declension, kinds of parisyllabics, and the imparisyllabics. I never succeeded in remembering which took an um and which took an ium. The teacher had said, “This boy has done badly since the beginning of the year. He confuses all the declensions, and then what do you expect, dear lady? Latin is a precise language. It’s like mathematics. If one’s not cut out for it, one’s not cut out. He is much better in free composition. In any case, he can make up the work with study.” And so I had spent the whole month of May trying to make up, but evidently I had not made up enough.

June passed fairly well. The azaleas finally flowered, even if not as majestically as in the preceding year. Mama was very busy building them a little greenhouse out of mats, “because the sun bothers them,” it made them wither in the twinkling of an eye, and she placed the pots in the bottom of the garden by the boundary wall, where the sun beat down only after five o’clock.

Poor Tommaso bustled around like mad in spite of the tremor in his hands and the step that was no longer what it once had been. He tried to be as useful as he could. He cut the grass with the sickle, gave egg yolks to the lemon trees in pots on the terrace, even tried to sulphur the pergola of grapes, infested with parasites, in front of the garage door. However, he did more harm than good and realizing this he seemed terrified, although without reason. But it was difficult to make him understand this, and he spent the day repeating to Mama not to send him to the nursing home, for the sake of the young gentleman officer whom he had loved like a son, because at the nursing home they would keep him in bed and make him pee in a urinal. His cousin, whom he had gone to visit on Sunday, had told him this, and he rather preferred to die. He had never married. The last time his mother had seen him naked was when he was fourteen years old, and the idea of a young lady making him pee in a urinal sent him into a panic. Then Mama’s eyes grew shiny. She told him, “Don’t talk nonsense, Tommaso. You’ll die here — this is your home,” and Tommaso would have kissed her hands, but Mama drew back and told him to stop complaining, that she had enough sadness already, and he should think instead of pulling up that couch grass thriving under the privet and making the plants die.

The worst days came at the end of July when a heat wave like nothing that had been felt in years broke out. The morning was quite bearable. I put on my roller skates and got a little exercise on the brick avenue that went from the front door to the boundary wall. Mama was busy with dinner. At times she even kept the radio on, and this was a good sign — but only talk programs like the news or “Our Listeners Write to Us.” And if there were songs, she immediately changed the station. But the hours after dinner were sultry and monotonous, heavy with sadness and silence. Even the faraway drone of the city quieted. It seemed that on the house and on the garden a bell of misted glass descended in which the only surviving living things were the cicadas. Mama sat down in the armchair in the living room with a damp handkerchief over her eyes and leaned her head back. I was at the little desk in my anteroom — from where I could see her if I stretched my neck — trying to imprint on my mind nix-nivis and strix-strigis in order to take the make-up exam in September. Nena I could hear messing about in her pied-à-terre singing “Banana Boat” to herself or else shuffling along the avenue because she was taking her Belafonte for a walk as far as the main gate, poor beast, and she whispered to him, “Let’s go see a bit of the world, dearie,” as if in front of our house there was who knows what? But the avenue at that hour was completely deserted, not that it was much frequented at other times either. From the street there, beyond the clearing where the first villas sprang up, you could see the city immersed in a flickering haze, and on the left the avenue ended in the yellow countryside punctuated by trees and isolated farm houses. Toward five o’clock, but not every day, the little ice cream cart passed, with a large chest made like a gondola on which were painted the view of San Marco and the inscription Venetian Specialities. There was a little man who pedaled with great difficulty, blew into a brass trumpet to attract attention, shouted at the top of his lungs, “Two cones, fifty francs!’’ And then there remained silence and solitude.

From the time, after it happened, when Mama had taken to locking the gate so that no one could come in and we could not go out, even to see the ice cream man was better than nothing. My teacher had said that it would have been opportune to have me take private lessons, but Mama had replied that it seemed a bit difficult. We all led a very retiring life, she hoped she understood, and that if it had not been for the tradesmen, she would even have had the telephone cut off. She kept it only for that necessity or if sometime one of us fell sick, and furthermore she kept it off the hook all day because she couldn’t stand its ringing. This was perhaps an excessive precaution, because whoever would have telephoned after Aunt Yvonne moved to Lausanne?

Nena had taken harder than I did Mama’s new habit of not going out anymore, but she didn’t have my luck of being able to fill the after-dinner hours with the plurals in ium. She had nothing to do, poor little thing. In the elementary school they don’t take make-up exams in September. For a little while she tried to while away the time in her pied-à-terre, or she dragged her Belafonte on his leash as far as the gate in order to see a bit of the world. But then she got fed up, she even lost the desire to sing “Banana Boat’’ and she came on tiptoe up to my window and said to me, “I’m bored. Come to my pied-à-terre a little while and play 'Visiting.’ I’ll be the lady and you be the architect who comes to court me.” I sent her away in a low voice so as not to disturb Mama, and if she insisted I told her, strix-strigis strix-strigis, which was an offense she understood very well, and she went away with a furious look, sticking out her tongue at me.

But Mama wasn’t asleep and I knew it. I was aware that at times she cried silently with her head bowed. I would see two tears slide down her cheeks under the handkerchief that covered her eyes. And her hands in her lap, apparently motionless, were imperceptibly trembling. Then I would close my Latin grammar for a while, stare lazily at the sepia-colored Minerva on the cover, and then slip out into the garden by the screen door of the back-kitchen and through part of the garage in order not to be involved in Nena’s stupid games in which I would have to be the architect. On that side the grass was rather tall because Tommaso was not able to cut it, and, immersed in the sticky heat, feeling the savoy cabbage brush against my bare legs, I liked to walk there, as far as the metal grating of the low wall that bordered on the open country. I would go to look for lizards, which nested in that part and which sat on the stones motionless in the sun with their heads raised and their eyes pointing at nothing. I even knew how to catch them with a reed snare which a schoolmate had taught me to make, but I preferred to observe those small bodies, uncomprehending and suspicious of the least little noise as if absorbed in an undecipherable prayer.

I often felt like crying, and I didn’t know why. The tears ran down without my being able to do anything about them, but I wasn’t sure if it was because of my Latin — by then I knew the parisyllabics and the imparisyllabics from memory. Mama was right after all — for these things there’s no need to take lessons or leave the house, a little study is enough. It was just that I felt like crying. And then I sat on the wall watching the lizards and thinking about the previous summer. The memory that made me cry the most was an image of Papa and me on a tandem, he in front and I behind, and Mama and Nena following us on a tandem shouting, “Wait for us!” In the background was the dark pine grove of Forte dei Marmi and in front of us the blue of the sea; Papa wore white trousers, and whoever arrived first at the Balena bath would be the first to eat bilberry ice cream. And then I couldn’t hold back the sobs and I had to cover my mouth with my hands so as not to let Mama hear. My repressed voice was a weak muttering that was like the sound Belafonte made when he refused to be dragged along on his leash. And the saliva, mixed with tears, soaked the handkerchief that I desperately stuffed in my mouth, and then I felt like biting them — my hands — but slowly, very slowly, in nibbles. How strange! At that point everything was mixed up, and I tasted on my palate, sharp, very distinct, with an unequivocal aroma, the flavor of bilberry ice cream.

It was that taste that succeeded in calming me. I felt suddenly exhausted, without strength to cry anymore, to move, to think. Around me in the grass the gnats buzzed and the ants walked by. I seemed to be in a well. I felt an enormous weight inside my chest. I couldn’t even swallow. I remained staring beyond the hedge at the pall of heat that dimmed the horizon. Then slowly I got up and went into the kitchen again. Mama was still pretending to sleep in the armchair, or maybe she really was asleep. I heard Nena scolding her Belafonte. She said, “You silly thing! How is it possible you don’t appreciate a bow like this? Why do you insist on ruining it, silly? None of the other cats have one.” I raised the latch of the window screen and called to her in a low voice, “Pst, pst, Nena! Come into the house and we’ll have a snack. Do you want bread or ricotta? Or would you rather have jam? I’ll open a jar.” And she ran cheerfully, leaving Belafonte, who tried in vain to untie the bow from his neck, in the lurch. She was completely satisfied that I had finally remembered her. Perhaps she still had the hope she would succeed in convincing me to be the architect.

Mama usually came alive around six. She walked through the house putting in order whatever there was to put in order, moving a knickknack an inch or two, smoothing a wrinkled lace doily under a vase. Then she came into the kitchen, washed the dishes that she had not had the heart to wash after eating, and set about to get supper, but without any hurry because there was nothing else to do all evening. Tommaso would not return before ten o’clock. They would give him some soup at the nursing home, where he spent all his days now because his cousin was sick and the young ladies let him stay with him the whole day. “Indeed, they’ll do a favor for anyone who’ll do their sweeping for them,” said Mama disdainfully.

It was the nicest part of the whole day. At least we were together with Mama. We finally talked a little, even if il wasn’t really a proper conversation, but there was always some small satisfaction. The radio, for example, which could be turned on, and even if it broadcast songs, Mama didn’t change the station as long as the volume was low and provided that Nena implored, “Please, Mama, give us a little music.” And how could you resist her when she made her voice both cajoling and sad? But I preferred a gentleman who talked about the whole world and evoked the capitals which were represented in my geography book. How I liked to stay and listen to him! He would say, “Today in Paris General DeGaulle in consultation on the Suez problem …” and I closed my eyes and saw the Eiffel Tower of my book, slender and all openwork, the pyramids, and the Sphinx with her face gnawed by the weather and the desert dust.

In bed I found it hard to fall asleep. I remained with my eyes open staring at the glimmer from the windowpane, listening to the regular breathing of Nena, who slept peacefully. Before going to bed Mama came to make an on-the-spot investigation, because Belafonte often slipped under Nena’s bed and then during the night slept curled up at her feet, and Mama said that it was not hygienic. But by this time Belafonte succeeded in getting away with it because he understood the method and got out from under the bed only when the house was perfectly quiet. I didn’t say anything, even though I didn’t like Belafonte, because it was obvious that Nena needed a little company.

So, in the dark of the bedroom, while Nena slept and Belafonte purred or scratched the sheet with his claws, I remained listening to the noise of the trains that whistled as they left the city. Often I imagined going away. I saw myself get on one of those trains at night, stealthily, when the train slowed down because of work in progress on the roadbed. I had a tiny suitcase with me, my watch with the luminous hands, and my geography book. The corridors had soft carpets, the compartments were lined with red velvet and had white linen headrests, there was an odor of tobacco and upholstery, the few travelers slept, the lamps were low and light blue. I settled myself in a deserted compartment, opened my geography book, and decided that I would go to one of those photographs. Sometimes it was “The City of Light from the Top of Notre Dame,” sometimes “The Parthenon in Athens at Sunset.” Bui the photograph which attracted me the most was the port of Singapore, swarming with bicycles and with people in cone-shaped hats, and strange-looking houses in the background. Vapors from the heat of a hazy dawn woke me. Through the strips of the Venetian blinds, the first rays of the sun drew on the floor a yellow staircase that climbed obliquely up the fringes of Nena’s bedspread.

I had no desire to get up. I knew that I was again about to begin a day identical to the others: cod-liver oil, bread with butter and jam, coffee with milk, the morning lost in waiting for dinner, and finally the interminable hours after dinner, my Latin, Mama dozing in the living room, Nena singing “Banana Boat” to herself in her pied-à-terre dragging Belafonte behind her. All this until that afternoon when Nena crossed the garden at a run, stood under the living room window, called, “Mama! Mama!” and made that statement. It was a Saturday afternoon. I remember the day because Saturday morning the grocer came, stopped the delivery van in front of the main gate, and unloaded what Mama had ordered by telephone. That particular morning he had also brought the caramel puddings that Nena adored. I would have liked them, too, but I tried to control myself because they hurt the cavity in my molar and I had to wait until September to go to the dentist because Aunt Yvonne was coming for a week in September and she would take care of it. Can you imagine for one moment Mama being willing to take me down to the city? I was concentrating on studying Jupiter-Jovis, which had an infamous declension, even though it fortunately lacked the plural, and so at first I took no notice of the statement. Besides, Nena often came to bother me or to distract Mama with sentences like, “Hurry, quick, Belafonte hurt himself!” or “Mama, when I’m grown up can I make my hair blue like Aunt Yvonne’s?” And if you consented to listen to her, heaven help you — she would begin to be impertinent and wouldn’t stop. The best thing was to discourage her from the beginning by pretending not to hear. So that time it took me perhaps a minute to realize what she had said. I had my head in my hands and was desperately repeating the ablative. Nena’s statement seemed like more of her usual nonsense. But all of a sudden I felt a blast of heat rise to my forehead. Then I began to shake, and I realized that my hands were trembling on the Minerva of my Latin grammar, which had closed by itself.

I don’t know how long I remained motionless, with my hands inert on the book, unable to stand up. It seemed that a glass bell had descended over the house and plunged it into silence. From my table I could see Mama, who had got up from the armchair and was leaning on the windowsill, very pale. The handkerchief had fallen to the floor. She supported herself on the windowsill as if she were about to fall, and I saw her move her mouth as she talked to Nena, but by a strange magic I heard nothing. Her slowly moving lips looked like the mouth of a fish in the agony of death. Then I made a sudden movement, the little table my knee had bumped groaned on the floor, and it was as if I had pushed a button — the sound returned around me, I heard again the concert of the cicadas in the garden, the whistle of a train in the distance, the buzzing of a bee which attacked the screen, and Mama’s inexpressive voice, automatic and distant, saying, “Come into the house now, love. It’s too hot. You need to take a nap. You can’t stay out there in that humidity — it’s not good for children.”

It was a strange afternoon. Nena resigned herself without raising objections to rest on the divan, something that had never happened before, and when she woke up she stayed quietly in the kitchen drawing pictures. That day I wasn’t able to study Latin no matter how hard I tried. I forced myself to concentrate on the adjectives with three endings and I repeated them stubbornly, but my mind was far away. It ran as if crazed after that statement of Nena’s that perhaps was my misunderstanding, that surely was my misunderstanding, and Mama would tell me was a misunderstanding if only I would ask her. But the fact is that I had no desire to ask her.

On Monday a letter arrived from Aunt Yvonne, and we were very close to tears. She was not coming to visit us in September as she had promised when she left. She and Rodolfo went to Chamonix, not because they liked Chamonix: “I can’t stand the mountains, you know, they make me sad, but everyone comes here in the summer, all of Rodolfo’s colleagues, I mean. And if you don’t have at least a minimum of social life here, I mean if you don’t put yourself forward a little, they look at you as if you’re a baboon. They already have a superiority complex about Italians. If you even hint that you don’t like the chic places, you’re laughed at, no one looks at you anymore. Rome was really almost better, except for the bother and the salary. At least there was sun there. The climate here is infamous…”

Perhaps it was because of that letter that Mama’s silences began, or maybe because of that nonsense that Nena had said — who knows? — but more probably because of the letter. Not that Mama was moody, and not even melancholy. Rather she was absent. You saw that something occupied her thoughts. You said to her, “Excuse me, Mama. May I have the caramel pudding that was left over from dinner?” or whatever, and she didn’t answer you. After a few minutes she said, “Oh, did you ask me something?” And her eyes were fixed far away beyond the kitchen window on the avenue that ended in the country, as if someone were about to arrive. And you repeated the same question to her as before: “I asked you for the leftover pudding, Mama.” But the answer didn’t come this time either, only a vague gesture in the air that could mean, “All right, do whatever you want. Don’t you see that I’m thinking of something else?” And so even the desire for the dessert left you, so what sense was there in sitting down to eat the caramel pudding? Wasn’t it better to go and study Latin in order to occupy your mind a little?

I learned the fourth declension perfectly. It’s true that it didn’t present the same difficulties as the third — you can’t even compare them. Even the directions in the first paragraph said so: “The fourth declension does not present particularities of any kind, save for rare exceptions to be learned from memory, for which see paragraph four,” and I very nearly felt like mourning the third declension. If that week I’d at least had a really difficult thing to learn, I’d be distracted a little, but with that stupid domus-dornus I did nothing but think of that statement of Nena’s, of Aunt Yvonne who wasn’t coming, and Mama’s silences. In my notebook I wrote little sentences like silentium domus triste est, which I then cancelled out with many little crosses connected to each other like barbed wire. It was a method my desk-mate had taught me. He called it “erasure by barbed wire,” and I liked it very much.

After that exceptional day in which she had taken an afternoon nap, Nena had resumed her habits and again spent the afternoons in the pied-à-terre. But she didn’t sing “Banana Boat’’ anymore, she realized that it wasn’t right. And by then she didn’t come under the window anymore to bother me or to invite me to be the architect who was courting her. She resigned herself to being alone in the garden. Who knows how bored she was, poor Nena. Now and then, glancing from the window, I saw her intent on combing Belafonte with a large pink comb that had arrived for her from Lausanne together with some hair curlers and a drier with batteries that blew real hot air. They came in a little box on which was pictured a doll covered with curls and the inscription La petite coiffeuse. But she played wearily, as if against her will, and who knows how much she wanted to come to invite me to be the architect? And I, too, at times would have liked to close that stupid book, go to her and tell her, “I’ve decided to be the architect who’s courting you. Let’s play. Don’t be so quiet. Why don’t you sing a little ‘Banana Boat’ that I like so much?” And instead I remained with my forehead in my hands, looking at the faraway countryside that quivered in the thick summer air.

But the next Saturday something new happened. It was two o’clock in the afternoon. Mama was in the armchair with the blinds closed. I was doing an exercise entitled Dumus Aurea, all full of adjectives with three endings referring to substantives of the fourth declension — a torture. Nena must have been near the main gate. Perhaps she had taken Belafonte for a stroll. I lost sight of her for a few minutes. I saw her arrive out of breath, emerging from the corner of the house on the veranda side. Then she stopped dumbfounded, looked behind her, hurried on a short distance, stopped, turned around again. The noise of the gravel under the soles of her sandals was the only sound in the afternoon silence. At first she seemed undecided which window to choose. Then she rejected Mama’s window, maybe because the blinds were completely closed. She came under my window, called me, but did not pronounce my name. She said only, “Listen! Listen! Please listen!” And her voice was imploring, but not like it was when she was teasing for something. Now she was really different. I had never heard Nena like this before. It was as if she were crying without crying.

I don’t know why I didn’t go to the window. Or rather I know perfectly well because I felt it. I understood with a great sense of emptiness and loss what she would have told me, and I knew that what she would have told me would have been unbearable. It wouldn’t do to listen to her. I might have begun to shout and hit out at her wildly, to pull those stupid pigtails of hers she was so proud of. And then I would have begun to cry uncontrollably, without any more fear of being heard, to sob as much as I wanted to. I remained silent, holding my breath. We were very close to each other — a few inches. Only the window screen separated us. But Nena did not reach the windowsill and she couldn’t look inside. I hoped with all my strength that she would believe I was asleep, and I touched the metal of the inkpot with the calendar as I did every time I wanted something to happen, for good luck. Nena quieted down and I heard her deep, excited breathing, then the sound of her footsteps on the gravel. I realized that she was heading for the veranda door. I took off my shoes and socks, avoiding making the least noise, went to the window, and closed the blinds. I opened the door of the passage just a crack and lay down on the bed. From that position I would be able to hear everything, even if they talked in low voices. If I had put my eye to the crack in the door, I would have been able to see Mama in the armchair, but I preferred not to risk my face being seen. It was enough for me to stay and listen, even though I already knew everything.

This time Mama cried. Maybe she couldn’t stop herself, I don’t know, probably she was in a moment of great weakness. Anyhow, it wasn’t like the first time when she had reacted almost indifferently. She drew Nena into her arms and said, “My little treasure,” and then she put her away again and dried her tears, emitting little smothered sobs, like someone swallowing. And then she asked her if I knew about it, and Nena said, “He’s sleeping.” “Better so,” said Mama. “Leave him in peace. He’s so busy with his Latin, poor dear, he studies all day.” And then she sighed. “But why do you tell me these things, Maddalena? Don’t you understand how much pain your mother has?” I plunged my face into the pillow so they wouldn’t hear me. Nena’s chattering was muffled when it reached me, but I already knew much of what she reported, that she said, “Why, yes. Why is it so, Mama? I swear to you, he was on a bicycle. He had a knotted handkerchief on his head. He wanted something here at home. I understood him. I saw him very well. He saw me, too, but he went by as if he couldn’t stop. Please believe me, Mama.”

I don’t know how that week went by. Fast, that’s it, it went by fast. I should have done a review exercise of all the exceptions, but I let it go. On my paper flourishes appeared, absurd scribbles behind which I lost myself, barbed wire with which I cancelled a statement that came to me obsessively, without stopping. Next week Nena will take a cap and a note from Mama. I even translated that sentence into Latin, and in that language it seemed even more bizarre, as if the strangeness of that language underlined the absurdity of its significance, and it frightened me.

But I didn’t say anything to them nor let them know I understood. Apparently my behavior was the same. In the morning I watered Mama’s azaleas. The garden was pleasant then. It still smelled of the nighttime cool, the sparrows hopped from one branch of the oleanders to the other, and the cicadas had not yet begun their crying. You could see the city distinctly in the clear air, and all around there was something happy and light. After dinner I helped Mama clear up as usual, and when I had finished I said, “I’m going to do homework.” I went into my bedroom, closed the door of the anteroom, half-closed the shutters, stretched out on the bed, and looked at the ceiling, where the slats of the Venetian blinds drew a rainbow in light and shade. I had no desire to think. I closed my eyes but I did not sleep. Under my eyelids passed the most diverse images. I arrived in the port of Singapore. How curious! It was identical to the photograph in my book. The only difference was that I was in the photograph, too. And Saturday came very quickly.

That morning I said nothing, did nothing, tried to let myself be seen as little as possible. Mama was in the kitchen and I was in the living room. She came into the living room and I went into the garden. Nena went out to the garden and I went into the bedroom. But they did so only to show that their behavior was normal, which complicated things terribly because they forced me to pretend that I didn’t notice anything. The worst moment of this game of hide-and-seek came when I suddenly went into the kitchen, thinking that both of them were outside, and surprised Mama while she was passing a note to Nena. That stupid thing turned all red and hid the note behind her back, but it was so obvious that I couldn’t pretend I hadn’t noticed it, otherwise they would really have become suspicious, so I had to resort to a shameful pretense and said carelessly, “It’s useless for you to hide the letters from Aunt Yvonne. I know she writes to you and not to me. You’ve always been her favorite.’’ And then Mama said, “Stop it! Don’t fight because of jealousy. It’s a mortal sin between brother and sister.’’ And I felt relieved, but my shirt was soaked with sweat.

Immediately after dinner I said that I was going to take a nap, that I felt very lazy, it must be the humidity, and my declaration was received with much understanding. From my bed I heard them clattering around in the kitchen, but it was all a sham. In reality, they were talking very softly. I heard an indistinct chatter. Anyway, I was indifferent, I had no interest in deciphering what they were saying.

Nena went out at precisely quarter to two, exactly as the clock was striking one and then the three little pings for the forty-five minutes. I heard the creaking of the back-kitchen screen door and the light shuffling that went away on the gravel toward the main gate. And this caused in me distressing anxiety because I realized that I, too, was waiting, and there was something both absurd and dreadful about it, like a sin. The clock struck twice and I began to count: one — two — three — four — five — six — seven — eight — nine — ten. I felt it was the most stupid thing I could do but I couldn’t stop myself, and while I was thinking of the absurdity of that counting I continued to count by accenting the seconds, as if for good luck, a kind of protection — from what I didn’t know, or rather I didn’t have the courage to admit. When I reached one hundred and twenty I heard Nena’s footstep. I judged that she was still far away, at the beginning of the avenue. On her return she avoided the gravel, but I heard her just the same. I got up on tiptoe, bathed in sweat, and through the slats of the blinds I saw her approach slowly with her eyes lowered. She had on her face an expression of sadness that I had never known — Nena who was always so happy. In one hand she held a hat and in the other a piece of paper which she worried between her index finger and her thumb. Then I returned to bed and went to sleep.

And it was as if I woke up the following Saturday. Because that week hurried away very rapidly in its slowness, lined with silence, interwoven with the glances that Nena and Mama exchanged, while I tried to be present as little as possible with the excuse that the make-up exercises took me all afternoon. But in reality they didn’t take me any time at all, because my notebook was full of barbed wire.

The morning of the following Saturday Mama made ravioli with ricotta. We hadn’t eaten ravioli with ricotta for a long time. We had almost forgotten it. For months we had eaten only food that was horrifyingly mundane. Mama got up early. I woke up at six and heard her moving quietly in the kitchen, working. It was a pleasant morning. When Nena and I got up we found the table covered with strips of pasta already ready to be cut into shapes like a shell, which then had to be filled with ricotta. We had to have our coffee and milk on the little radio table, then we threw ourselves into cutting the pasta. Actually, it was Nena who cut the shape, I filled it with a spoon and passed it to Mama, who saw to the closing of the edges with a little fold and a light pressure of her fingers, with great caution, because if you pressed too hard the filling squirted out and the tortello was ruined.

“Today we’ll have a little party,” said Mama. “It’s a special day.” And then, without knowing exactly why, I felt again that blast of heal inside my chest that I had felt when Nena had made that statement. And then I began to sweat and I said, “How hot it is already this morning.” And Mama said, “Well, of course, today’s the third of August. Remember this day — today is Saturday, August third.” And I said, “If you don’t mind, Mama, I’ll go to my room for a little while. If you need any help, call me.” I don’t know why I didn’t go outside. Maybe it would have been better. The humidity had not yet descended on the garden. I could have checked the state of the pergola — that is, do something. But I preferred the shade of my room.

Mama was happy during dinner, too happy. The ravioli was delicious and Nena wanted two plates of it, but Mama seemed to be in a hurry for us to finish and frequently looked at the clock. At quarter past one we finished dinner and Mama cleared away hurriedly. She said, “We’d better leave the dishes for later. Now let’s all go and rest. It will do you good, too. We all got up too early this morning.” Nena, contrary to her custom, did not make a fuss and went straight to the divan in the dining room. Mama settled herself in the living room in her usual armchair, with the blinds closed and a handkerchief over her eyes. I lay down in my clothes, without turning down the bed, to wait. In the silence of my room I heard my heart beat tumultuously, and I felt that that dull noise could be heard even in the other room.

Perhaps I dozed off, but probably for just a few minutes, then I jumped at the sound of the clock which struck quarter to two and I stayed motionless, listening. I got up when I heard the creaking of the armchair in the living room. It was the only noise. Mama was truly quiet. I waited a few seconds behind the blinds. I realized that I was trembling, but certainly not from cold. I had to grit my teeth so they would not chatter. Then the back-kitchen door slowly opened and Mama went out. At first I didn’t think it was really she. How strange! It was the Mama in that photograph on the chest of drawers, where she was arm in arm with Papa. Behind them was the Basilica of San Marco and below was written “Venice, April 14, 1942.” She wore the same white dress with the big black polka dots, the shoes with the funny straps fastened around her ankles, and a white veil that covered her face. On the collar of her jacket she wore a blue silk camellia, and slipped over her arm she carried a crocodile purse. In one hand, delicately, as if she were carrying a precious object, she held a man’s cap that I recognized. She walked slowly as far as the entrance to the avenue, between the large pots of lemons, with a graceful gait that I had never seen. To watch her like this from behind, she seemed much younger, and only then did I realize that Nena walked exactly like her, with a slight swing and the same position of the shoulders. She disappeared around the corner of the house and I heard her footsteps on the gravel. My heart beat harder than ever. I was all sticky with sweat. I thought that I ought to get my bathrobe, but at that moment the clock struck two, and I couldn’t take my hands off the windowsill. I moved two slats of the blind slightly in order to see better. It seemed an interminable time. “How long she’s staying!’’ I thought. “Maybe she won’t come back.”

And at that moment Mama emerged from around the corner. She came forward with her head held high, staring in front of her with that distracted, faraway look that made her resemble Aunt Yvonne, and on her lips there lingered a smile. She had slipped her purse over her shoulder, which gave her an even younger look. At a certain point she stopped, opened her purse, took out a little round box of powder with the mirror inside the cover. She released the hook and the box opened by itself. She took the powder puff, rubbed it on the powder, and, looking at herself in the mirror, she slowly powdered her cheeks. And then I felt an enormous desire to call her, to tell her, “I’m here, Mama.” But I couldn’t say a word. I was aware only of a very strong taste of bilberries that filled my mouth, my nostrils, that invaded the room, the air, the whole world.

HEAVENLY BLISS

To Isabella G., who talked to me in Rome about “Heavenly Bliss”

Until the day I met Madame Huppert, I had never heard of Ikebana. I was very much on the defensive that afternoon. I had prepared myself psychologically to tell a lot of little lies if it seemed to me “promotional.” At that time I considered little lies as a necessary ingredient in order to appear interesting, to escape from mediocrity, and I trained myself to tell them without constraint. All things considered, I found myself quite convincing when I lied, perhaps more so than when I told the truth. But faced with a direct question, without pretext, without even the glimmer of who or what Ikebana was, all my admirable inclinations toward falsehood crumbled inexorably, and I was forced to admit my ignorance.

For the interview, Madame received me on the terrace. She was lying on a very austere, cushionless, reed deck chair, of the yoga-meditation type and was dressed in a delicious pale blue kimono. Up until the last moment I had been undecided whether to wear my blue pleated skirt with my red pullover, the “adolescent-of-good-family-who-belongs-to-the-tennis-club” type, or my nut-brown tweed suit with the beige shin. Then I had decided on the suit, not without certain misgivings over the resolution because the season was not really ideal for a heavy tweed like mine. That year a dazzling October seemed untiringly to prolong a summer that had been magnificent, and the last tourists were still going around the lake shore in shorts, as if they wanted to absorb the sunshine.

But for heavens sake! After all, that suit had cost me almost all my salary, in spite of the fact that I’d bought it on sale at the end of the previous winter, and then I hadn’t had a chance to wear it yet. It was a Saint Laurent divided skirt, Forties-type squared shoulders with stiff padding, and wide lapels with two buttons like a man’s. A super chic item: in Vogue Deborah Kerr wore an identical one, leaning on the veranda of her ranch. But in that stupid school whoever would have appreciated a Saint Laurent like mine? My colleagues arrived in the morning dolled up in an appalling way. Only their aprons and hair curlers were missing. I might as well put on the Saint Laurent for the interview with Madame. At least someone would be able to appreciate it. At least I presumed so, and I thought I knew why. I say, a villa like Madame’s was not in keeping with those stupid creatures, the rich grocers’ wives type who had infested the hills around the lake with villas in taste that could compete with Disneyland and who swooped down on the gallery at the end of the season when the owner organized AN AUCTION WITHOUT PRECEDENT and carried away some daubs of paint that would make a horse faint in order to hang them on the walls of their small-town mansions. Furthermore, it was enough to look at the wrought-iron gate from which led two straight rows of cypresses, the arabesque towers in early twentieth-century style, each with its own lightning rod, the Italian garden, the terrace flooded with bougainvillea. And then I thought that even a simple announcement in the newspaper could be enough for a shrewd person to understand something about the class of a lady. The job offers, which I looked through avidly on Saturday, were full of rude and insinuating, or at best dull and predictable, proposals, where “the possibility of a brilliant career” masked the squalor of selling encyclopedias for deficient children door to door. An announcement like this one requiring a secretary: “Intelligence, discretion, culture. French indispensable,” didn’t happen very often.

I considered that these were four qualities which I possessed unequivocally. It’s a pity that the principal of the school, terrorized because I talked to the boys about the Nude Maja, and the owner of the gallery, who thought only of fleecing the ladies from Varese, didn’t agree. Too bad for them.

To say that Madame was charmante may seem trifling, but serves to convey the idea. If she was fifty years old, she carried her age in an excellent manner; if she was forty, she carried it with dignity. But I was inclined toward the first hypothesis. She had hair of a blonde so unnatural that one ended up by accepting it immediately, because blatant deceit is much more acceptable than pretended deceit. (At that time I had a whole theory based on the scale of deceit.) And, thank heaven, she didn’t have a permanent. On principle I had nothing against permanents, for goodness sake, but the fact is that my colleagues came to school with such painful permanents that I’d ended up detesting them.

Madame began a very lengthy conversation in French. Evidently she used French to verify my knowledge of the language, as was requested in the advertisement, but in that regard I felt myself impregnable, thanks to Charleroi, even though I was careful not to say so. However, I did nothing to disguise my strong Belgian accent, even though it wasn’t difficult for me to do so: it was only a question of tonics and gutturals.

We began with literature. Very discreetly Madame informed herself of my tastes, not without letting me know hers, in order to put me at ease, which were Montherlant of La reine morte (“so human and all-consuming,” she said) and the enchanting melancholy of Alain-Fournier. Pierre Loti, however, was not to be disregarded. He was redeemed, especially by his Rarnuntcho. She was sure that sooner or later someone would have done it, perhaps even an American critic: the Americans had an unquestionable flair for the rêpechages. To tell the truth, Loti brought back to me the memory of the stuffy smell of the classrooms in the Sacred Heart School in Charleroi, where Pécheurs d’lslande was one of the few reading books allowed, but I tried to agree. I had spent eight years erasing the school in Charleroi from my existence and it would not have been to Madame’s liking to bring those memories back to me. I could have aimed at the intellectual, risking Sartre, one of whose stories I had read (it was horrible, however) but I preferred to proceed cautiously and said Françoise Sagan who, after all, had something to do with existentialism. And then I mentioned Hemingway’s The Snows of Kilimanjaro (I’d seen the film with Ava Gardner) and Louis Bromfield’s Rain. Madame asked me if I knew the tropics. I said no, “unfortunately,” but that sooner or later I must; I had always lacked the opportunity. And then we went on to painting.

Here I went on at great length because it was my field, and if I told some falsehoods it wasn’t entirely for “promotional” motives but only to embellish a little. I said that I’d graduated from the state institute of art two years before (which was true) but that Italy was intolerably narrow-minded. What was offered to a young artist in Italy? Substitute teaching in a middle school.

Fortunately in the summer I could cultivate my interests by working in a local art gallery (I ardently hoped, while I said it, that she had never gone there); only that at the end of the tourist season the gallery closed and the town plummeted again into a cultureless void. And so, me voilà.

I thought that the moment for more precise questions had arrived. In particular I feared that Madame would question me about my ability to type, an ability which I considered indispensable for every secretary. Mine was nonexistent. The rare times when I had to write a letter, down at the gallery, it took me all afternoon (I typed only with my right index finger) and even after much application the results were not very impressive. Instead, Madame didn’t seem in the least disposed to ask me “technical” questions. She seemed to have her mind very much occupied with painting, and it didn’t seem right to discourage her.

At first we talked about Bonnard’s yellows — I don’t remember why, probably because of the autumn light and the golden spot of chestnuts that we could see on the side of the mountain across the lake. Then I grew crafty and went for the fauves, the “big game.” Matisse was out of the question, of course. I took that for granted. But personally I felt Dufy more, the Dufy of the seascapes, the geraniums, the palm trees of Cannes. — With Dufy — I said — the happiness of the Mediterranean sings on the canvas. — On the wall next to the desk in the salon of the “Palette of the Lake,” the owner kept a calendar which had a Dufy reproduction for each month. I was a veteran of thirty consecutive afternoons from five to nine (thirty-one for July and August) for every reproduction. In the summer months the “Palette of the Lake” never closed. Let’s say, to be more precise, that Dufy even came out of my ears. But in the gallery the view varied between the Dufy reproductions and the idiotic faces of the women who admired the daubs hung on the walls, and to whom, according to the owner, I had to direct welcoming smiles into the bargain. It’s logical that I preferred Dufy. I knew him from memory.

I asked Madame what she thought of Bal à Antibes (it was the reproduction for June) with those splashes of blue and white for the sailors in the foreground in the midst of the turmoil of colors. And the light blue enchantment of La mer (July) with those sails (I really said this) like little bursts of laughter. And the harmony of the pastels in Plage de Sainte-Adresse, the 1921 one, I thought, (August) didn’t it make her think of a little symphony? Madame agreed. However, I said preemptorily, I thought Jardins publiques à Hyères (September) was unsurpassable. I found it “definitive.” For me, after that picture, Dufy did not exist any longer. (And this was the absolute truth.)

The calendar had a certain effect, on Madame, who was not sparing of her compliments to me. And then — oh, well — I said with all the ease that the act seemed to merit that in order to study the fauves I had gone “on purpose” to Paris. Naturally, I refrained from saying that I knew Paris well, because all my knowledge resulted from a school field trip with the nuns when Papa was working in the mine at Charleroi. It had been a four-day bus trip, with brief stops for bread and bathroom, then on board again and another round of En passant par la Lorraine under the inflexible joy of Sister Marianne who, fearing long conversations and long silences, both messengers of mischief, resolved the dilemma with the jollity of a healthy song. Of Paris I retained the dreadful memory of the Musée de I’Histoire de France, of the Pantheon, of my feet swollen like hot water bottles, and of my first menstrual period, which had started after a memorable walk the second night of our stay. The last day Sister Marianne had piloted us to the Louvre for a fifteen-minute visit, just long enough to put our noses in front of Corot and Millet, and at the booth at the exit each one of us had had to chip in to buy a reproduction of The Angelus, which during the trip home Sister Marianne had then stuck up on the rear window of the bus. I was thirteen years old, I felt ugly, unhappy, and misunderstood, and for the entire trip I dreamed of a cruel vendetta: One day I would become a great painter with a grand studio in the Latin Quarter. Sister Marianne would come to beg me on bended knee to go and fresco the refectory of the school in Charleroi where the great artist had done her first work. But I would answer haughtily that it was just, not possible, I had to prepare for my triumphal exhibition at the Grand Palais, Paris rendered me homage, the whole world claimed my paintings, and even the President of the Republic would be present.

— And Ikebana? — said Madame. — Do you like Ikebana? — I answered that “decidedly” I did not know him. (I felt stuck, and chose to be dry and definitive.)

— A pity, — said Madame, — but it’s not important. I’m sure you will learn to love it. Please put the bottle of gin nearer to me and call to Constance to bring me another tonic water.—

While she waited for the tonic water, Madame asked me absent-mindedly about my hobbies, if by chance I had a passion for oenology. Ah, yes? Splendid. She did not, she preferred cocktails. But the engineer, yes, her husband, had a passion for wines as a good Italian — an adoptive Italian, but Italian nevertheless — oh, for rare wines, of course. She would have liked to learn something more about them, too, but she certainly couldn’t insist that the engineer give her lessons, he was always traveling, always so consumed by his business, poor dear. But, by the way, my French was excellent.

I answered that yes, it was indeed true, my poor papa had taken my education very much to heart, in spite of not ever having a free minute in his life — he was in mining. The governess had required French, obviously, old, dear, austere Francine (I was slightly moved by her memory) who had been practically a mother to me. She was a Walloon. This unequivocal Belgian acccent that once I detested and that today I found delightful I owed to her. Oh, no, no, my mother didn’t leave me an orphan. It was only that Mama was so fragile, so delicate, and then her piano gave her no rest.

Madame pushed the cart with the aperitifs toward my armchair and invited me to help myself.

— And so school does not interest you? It is not your vocation?—

I said that as far as a vocation was concerned, I might even have followed it, but I had been graduated for two years already, and it still fell to me to do substitute teaching. And, dear God, I was almost twenty years old. I explained the concept of substituting, which Madame appeared to totally ignore, and to be concise said that the following week, when the teacher I was substituting for had finished her maternity leave, the principal would tell me that the school was very grateful for my most valuable assistance, good day and goodbye. And while at one time the pregnant ladies to be substituted for had sprouted like mushrooms, nowadays people think twice before having children, what with the cost of living, just imagine. I don’t know if she kept abreast of the statistics relative to births in Italy.

Dusk was falling over the lake, and from our position it really was a painting, anything but Dufy. The terrace overlooked the garden, full of lemon trees and cypresses, furrowed by the geometry of the boxwood hedges which outlined the pebbled avenues. The town, on the spur that jutted into the lake, was already in shadow, and on its roofs lingered vague streaks of pale blue light. The last light of day was for the landing stage opposite the gale and for the towers of the villa, which were warm yellow, toasted by time. The swallows made a marvelous uproar, going crazy low in the sky. Madaine was explaining to me that she was very much afraid of being bored during the winter, used as she was to Paris. She couldn’t say she exactly needed a secretary, let’s say rather a companion. Yes, some letters now and then to certain Swiss galleries from which she bought, and things of that kind. But fundamentally she was looking for a person of good taste with whom to exchange impressions, with whom to talk about intelligent matters. “Naturally,” she did not insist that I decide on the spot, I could give my answer tomorrow. But “naturally,” food and lodging. Would I like to have a look at my eventual bedroom? She called Constance.

For all the rest of October Madame was very busy in planning a non-realistic Ikebana, an extremely delicate balance of autumn shades. The base was an antique gold-colored Belle Epoque vase, a 1906 glass, with a long, slender neck.

Madame left the responsibility of naming the composition up to me. All the fanciful compositions were titled, because one of the purposes of Ikebana was just to solicit names, to make concrete in words the sensation that the composition had excited in our souls. What struck me the most in that composition was “its heart of light,” I said, and Madame affirmed that she couldn’t have found a better name herself. To tell the truth, I began to possess a certain competence in this area. I had literally devoured Ikebana: I’art des fleurs, Les fleurs et Vantique tradition japonaise, Ikebana et Hai-Kai, and finally La peinture japonaise, a magnificent volume on glossy paper, all reproductions. At night, on the advice of Madame, I read Kawabata, who was “so Zen from the first to the last page.” It bored me to death, with all those idiotic women gazing sadly at winter landscapes, but I refrained from saying so in order not to appear materialistic. Madame detested materialism, and Kawabata was “un petit souffle who caressed the plains of the soul.”

With my October salary, which Madame insisted on paying in full even though I had not begun work at the beginning of the month, I bought myself a jacket of dark green buckskin, which I felt much in need of, and accessories in very red tortoise: powder box, comb, and cigar lighter combined. With advanced money I purchased a most elegant writing case, which seemed to me to be indispensable for a secretary of a certain level, and which contained a tiny silver papercutter, a lacquered fountain pen, a bottle of very blue ink, and a little packet of writing paper in splendid light yellow-colored rice paper with matching envelopes. I found that my room acquired a more intellectual aspect. I made some small changes in the arrangement of the objects. I moved the lamp made from the jade vase from the chest of drawers to the table near the window, I arranged next to it the objects I had bought, and I got a real desk. To finish it off, I arranged in broad view the Poésie complète by Vittoria Aganoor Pompilj and La vie des abeilles by Maeterlinck, which I had bought at a stall.

At the beginning of November Madame entrusted to me two tasks which perfectly justified my acquisition of stationery. A catalogue had arrived from a gallery in Zurich in which two prints by Utamaro were mentioned without any specifications. I had to ask for information, dimensions, prices, possibly photographs. And then I had to go to a shop in Sanremo so that it would send us by its usual method the bulbs for transplanting indicated by such-and-such abbreviations in its catalogue.

To the gallery in Zurich I wrote a stiff, polite letter, in elegant handwriting, on my rice paper. I begged them to be very detailed in their answer, to indicate the price in Swiss francs, to send at least two colored photographs measuring 16 by 24. Finally I let drop the possibility of an immediate purchase depending upon the quality of the works, and I carefully signed myself Lisabetta Rossi-Fini, secretary to Madame Huppert. I thought that for my signature I could quite rightly begin to use Mama’s last name and Papa’s, joined by a hyphen. After all, I was the daughter of them both; I did not use names that did not belong to me.

At the shop in Sanremo, in addition to the bulbs, I ordered a dozen blue carnations which I’d seen in the catalogue and which had fascinated me. The carnation is a simple, popular flower which signifies frankness and sympathy. But that greenhouse variety of intense blue that faded into violet on its curly edges was truly unusual. They seemed exotic, mysterious flowers, something like orchids without possessing their cold vulgarity.

In those days Madame was valiantly occupied in the realization of a Gashu, a traditional moribana, for which is necessary, more than the gifts of sensitivity and creativity, exact knowledge of the ancient Japanese painting which inspired the moribana. The moribana is a type of Ikebana created in a large, flat vase, usually rectangular or round. My collaboration on the moribana, to tell the truth, was limited to the search for the primary materials, given that I had to take a rather boring walk in the hills around the lake to search for walnut trees and juniper shoots. It had rained recently and the ground was not exactly ideal for sylvan strolls. Perhaps because of the pollen and the decaying leaves, I developed an annoying irritation of the ankles which caused me to scratch for a week.

The gallery in Zurich answered by return mail. It sent the photographs of the Utamaros, regretting that the colors were not very true and that the shape was not what I had requested, but they were all that it had in its file. They showed two small water colors: one rather obvious female figure and one insect on a water lily pad, all in tones of green and brown, over which Madame enthused. The information from the gallery, in addition to the dimensions and prices, was as follows: “Utamaro, 1754–1806. Num. 148/a: Femme de Yedo, 1802 environ, gouache sur papier de Chine, etat de conservation parfait. Num. 148/b: Libellule sur nenuphar, 1790 environ, gouache sur papier de Chine, quelque legere tache d’humidite sur le dos.”

It was pure chance that evening that, before going to bed, I glanced at the chapter in Peinture japonaise dedicated to the work and school of Utamaro. The first discrepancy with the Swiss catalogue to arouse my attention was the date of death, 1797, which I confirmed in Madame’s Larousse. I found it most peculiar that such a reliable gallery could make such a foolish mistake, and I set out to search further. Decidedly the gallery was not in luck. My book devoted ample space to a follower of Utamaro, a certain Torii Kiyomine (nineteenth century), rich in talent and in mellow drawing, but without the melancholy grace of the master, who had dedicated his painting to the life of the courtesans. I understood immediately that the Swiss had made an even graver blunder, and it did not seem opportune to drop the matter.

That same evening at my desk I composed a masterpiece of a letter which the next day underwent Madame’s approval. Stating beforehand that the person for whom it was my duty to write was an international expert on Japanese painting and that the humble signer of the letter did everything possible to assist her in her research, I politely begged to observe the following: 1)I found it truly odd that Utamaro’s date of death, accepted by common consent, of the most authoritative contemporary scholars as 1797, had been arbitrarily shifted a good nine years. 2) Such an inaccuracy, which was evidently not a typographical misprint, provoked an even more lamentable error: the Maestro would have to have painted a work even though he was already deceased. 3) The female figure of No. 148/a in the catalogue, indicated as Femme de Yedo by Utamaro, was in reality a courtesan by Torii Kiyomine, as was attested (even for those unable to read the ideograms to the left of the figure) not only by the volute hem of the dress and the obviously nineteenth-century position of the figure, but the unequivocal high, black, wooden-soled sandals which emerged from beneath the kimono. I let it be understood rather wickedly that the clients of the gallery would certainly be alarmed about the guarantee of the works in their possession if they were by chance to become acquainted with such a deplorable blunder. I permitted myself to suggest, therefore, a prompt errata corrigé in the catalogue, which would reassure “all of us.” And finally I proposed the purchase, in addition to the authentic Utamaro, for which I was prepared to pay the fair price, of the courtesan by Kiyomine also, for half the requested price. I signed myself, with cordial regards, Lisabetta Rossi-Fini, secretary to Madame Huppert.

At the beginning of December, Monsieur Huppert returned from a long trip on the Ivory Coast with a precious gift for Madame. It was a stone statuette that represented a man squatting and holding a curious old-fashioned rifle. He explained that stone sculpture is extremely rare in Africa because it requires an artisan organization possible only in certain civilizations with a fairly well-developed social structure. For example, that piece came from the Mintadi people in the Upper Congo and decorated the ancient necropolis. It was a reliquary image of great antiquity, as the 1514 chronicles of Alfonso the First, King of the Congo, already attested. But the greatest value, at least for me, was the bracelet that the statue was wearing on its wrist, a very thin strip of gold with a row of tiny diamonds, simply splendid. — This, however, is a modern piece — smiled the engineer as he slipped it on Madame’s wrist. I thought it very delicate.

Monsieur Huppert was a polite man, exquisitely kind, a little shy, and looked happy that Madame had found some agreeable company “who would make her convalescence less oppressive,” as he said. Excluding the day of Monsieur Huppert’s arrival, I always had supper with the Hupperts. It was a custom begun when I had first come to the villa, and to Madame it seemed inopportune to interrupt it. Besides, I busied myself with the table, the flowers (every evening I composed a tiny Ikebana, simple and graceful), the wine. That stupid Constance had no gift of delicacy, even though she was a delight as a cook, and certainly in matters of taste one couldn’t count on her. As for Giuseppe, well, it was really a miracle to get him to work in a striped jacket and white gloves. He held the tray as if he were handling a pair of pruning shears. But you had to be indulgent with him: after all, he’d been hired as a gardener.

The conversation usually concerned Monsieur Huppert’s passion, that is, the Dark Continent, for which he nurtured a love that bordered on idolatry. His work of importing the best materials on behalf of important European firms had allowed him, in ten years of travel, to consider Africa as his chosen land. And to hear his stories, Africa still seemed the continent of Livingstone, of Stanley, and of Savorgnan di Brazza, so well did Monsieur Huppert understand its most secret heart, its most mysterious witchcraft, its less touristy itineraries. Listening to him talk I seemed to delve again into my schoolbooks or into the dreams of my childhood, into the tales of Tarzan, the adventures of Cino and Franco, the films of Ava Gardner and Humphrey Bogart. He knew all the trails off the beaten track, for instance, which safaris to choose among those which left from Fort Lamy and Fort Achambault, which seasons to avoid in order not to fall into the bedlam of rich Americans seeking thrills. He knew the best guides in Nairobi, the paleolithic dwellings of Olor-Gesalie, the rock paintings of Cheke, the mysterious ruins of Zimbabwé, which some believed were the mythical King Solomon’s Mines. But he also knew the fascination of the Victoria Falls, the luxury of the N’gor Hotel at Dakar, the picturesque cottages on the slopes of Kilimanjaro where the rich Rhodesians spent their vacations, the emerald golf courses of South Africa. During supper I remained silent listening to him tell stories. What else could I do, after all? And once in my room I took down muddled notes in a notebook that I’d entitled Voyage en Afrique. I created an ideal tourist itinerary for a trip on which I was certain sooner or later the Hupperts would invite me to accompany them. I was aware, with perfect objectivity, that my prestige was clearly in ascent. Among other things, the victory over the gallery in Zurich, which had responded congratulating me and accepting my conditions, scored an indisputable point in my favor.

When the telephone call came from Monsieur Delatour, I was alone in the house. The Hupperts had gone shopping in town (Madame had to buy some Christmas decorations) and had entrusted the villa to me, as by this time they did when they went out. In such cases I answered the telephone, signed receipts for possible registered mail, paid the tradesmen, gave instructions to Constance for supper.

More than surprised, Madame became greatly agitated when she learned of Monsieur Delatour’s arrival the next day. She said that it was a catastrophe, my God, we had nothing in the house, we were out of everything, and then, was he coming alone or with Madame Delatour? I didn’t know? But, holy heaven, it was jondamentale, it was so embarrassing to receive guests uncivilly, and then the Delatours! Oh, how foolish not to have bought flowers in town, there wasn’t even material for a decent Ikebana.

The next day was a feverish one; in the morning Madame tried to compose a Shinsei with pine and magnolia leaves, but she thought it turned out poor and clumsy, and she took it apart. I suggested a good-omened Jushoku to her, with chrysanthemums, fern, and a branch of kaki, Japanese persimmon. It had the advantage of being a simple composition, and then the kaki from the garden, with its shiny red fruit, was really splendid. For a base we used a modern, very elegant Turkish blue vase from Venini. The composition came out satisfactorily, although as a centerpiece it was really nothing to rave about. At best, it might go well on the chest of drawers in the dining room, or rather on the buffet. Flanked by the fruit, it looked picturesque, but nothing more.

The blue carnations which I had ordered from the shop in Sanremo arrived unexpectedly to save us. I’d almost forgotten them; they had slipped my mind. A small delivery van from the shop came to bring them, along with the bulbs. That they were not a natural color an expert eye noted at once. I’ve never understood if the coloring substance was absorbed through the ground or if the flowers were sprayed. In any case, they arrived in perfect condition, very fresh, truly providential. Madame and I made our excuses to the engineer, we hoped he understood, that day we really couldn’t keep him company at dinner. We had a very quick snack of sandwiches and grapefruit juice and proceeded immediately to the Ikebana. We aimed for grandeur. To tell the truth, the composition wasn’t very orthodox, but probably Monsieur Delatour wasn’t an expert in this area, and we allowed ourselves some liberty. Our moribana provoked a little épater with its milk-white Celadon tray, the ferns, and the blue spot of the six carnations in the middle. But as a centerpiece it had a very strong personality, so much so that it set the tone for all the rest. The rest I had to hurriedly deal with all by myself, because Madame retired to her room for her maquillage, and I succumbed to dreadful doubt over the choices. I decided on a very elegant, unpretentious theme: a very simple while linen tablecloth, nineteenth-century Dutch porcelain, crystal stemware. I finished at seven o’clock, exactly when I heard a car screech on the gravel driveway. From the window I saw that it was a dark blue Bentley with a driver, but I didn’t have time to see how many persons there were in the back seat. In any case, I had no time to waste. I had just barely an hour left to rush to my room and make myself presentable. The responsibility of the flambé at supper had been entrusted to me as had Madame’s evening gown. I hadn’t had time to try it yet, but I was sure that it would age me greatly. And I was worn out.

Madame was a treasure to introduce me as her “artistic secretary, Mademoiselle Rossi-Fini.” It helped me to find the self-composure I’d needed. Not that I felt embarrassed, let’s be quite clear about this, but I don’t deny being a little excited, yes. And then the Delatours weren’t exactly the kind of people who put you at your ease, especially Madame Delatour. As a young girl, she must have been gorgeous. Now she cultivated a kind of austere beauty, à la Grace Kelly, but more haughty and cold: very thin eyebrows, ash-blonde hair pulled back at the nape of her neck, the stretched face of women who go to Swiss clinics. On the other hand, the years gave Monsieur Delatour a touch of charm, as happens sometimes to men who aren’t very good-looking: silvery temples, lines and crow’s-feet around his eyes, a light tan, blue eyes. He was a Von Karajan type, but more solid, less esthetic.

Giuseppe entered bringing the avocado cocktails. In their silver cups the pistachio green of the avocado cubes sprinkled with a very light coating of shaved ice and with a drop of ketchup looked magnificent. Oh, a trifle (I pretended to be evasive, emphasizing that I was pretending to be evasive), old Francine had taught me to make it. Papa was so fond of avocados, actually he adored all exotic fruit, perhaps for esthetic reasons, who knows? (He had a terrible esthetic sense, Papa did.) An artist? No, no, he was in mining. (Ah, yes, really a terrible esthetic sense.) Actually, a certain exotic fruit is an authentic pleasure for the eyes, no? Don’t a pineapple, a papaya, a guava, an avocado put together make in their own way an Ikebana? An Ikebana without a title, that’s all.

— And what is this one called?—

Madame Delatour’s question caught us by surprise, an authentic cold shower. In the haste to prepare it, in the agitation of the unexpected arrival, Madame and I had certainly not thought to give it a name. I was silent, waiting for Madame’s answer. Instead, Madame elegantly extricated herself with an inviting gesture toward me. — Please, dear, you tell her, — it meant. — I don’t want to deprive you of this pleasure.—

I groped desperately in the search for a title worthy of the occasion. Madame Delatour’s eyes pierced me like two pins, searching and skeptical. — Bliss … Heavenly Bliss, — I said. — It’s a traditional moribana, — I continued in one breath. — It means the enchantment that is born in the soul of the masters of the house upon the arrival of welcome guests.—

Madame Delatour finally let her glacial expression melt. Her drawn face relaxed (it seemed to me to be uglier, I must say) and opened in an affable smile. She was about to surrender. I left it to Giuseppe, who was coming in with the cart, to conquer her once and for all. The roast pheasant, gently laid on the flambé tray, was superb. Before entrusting me with the cart, Giuseppe drew out the tail feathers which ornamented the tray, uncorked the champagne, and opened the cognac with impressive calm, and only then did he say — Monsieur Delatour, there’s a telephone call for you from Paris. — He had some unexpected talents, the good Giuseppe, perhaps I had underestimated him. In the meantime the ladies had united against Monsieur Huppert in regard to hunting. Proceeding from the pheasant the conversation had come to hunting in general, and Monsieur Huppert, somewhat rashly, had confessed his passion for safaris.

— What! — (Madame Delatour spoke in her detached tone of voice but was visibly scandalized.) To shoot down a gazelle, that mass of élan vital contained in the gracefulness of a slender body, to kill that marvel of creation, was not this a crime against nature?

Monsieur Huppert tried to explain, without too much enthusiasm, that on safaris not only gazelles were killed, or at least not exclusively. He appealed to the thrill of danger, of man pitted against the animal, he even cited Hemingway. But he was clearly at a disadvantage. And then he was isolated. I refrained from getting into the situation. It seemed risky to me.

Monsieur Delatour returned with a rather worried expression, sat down distractedly, seemed to be far away. The conversation resumed with a certain weariness. It was just the moment to flamber. It would revive the atmosphere a little. — Oops, — I said, carrying the match from the fireplace like a torch. — The infidel is condemned to the funeral pyre. Justice is served! — It seemed an appreciable witticism to me, but nobody laughed. I made a fiasco.

— At Dakar didn’t you make the contacts we had decided on? — Monsieur Delatour suddenly asked, staring at Monsieur Huppert.

Monsieur Huppert started slightly, was silent for a moment as if uncomfortable, drank a sip of champagne. — I’ll explain later, — he said. — It wasn’t very easy this time.—

— I don’t believe it’s necessary, — continued Monsieur Delatour. — I have received some very confidential information from Paris, and you know from which source. — He spoke in a dry, neutral tone, without a shade of courtesy, as if he had never seen Monsieur Huppert. — The Germans settled the deal, as was foreseeable. Now we can leave everything in the warehouse to age.—

The cognac on the pheasant was burning merrily, with a sizzling blue flame full of promise. The recipe called for at least one minute of flame, but probably it didn’t last that long; I hadn’t put on much cognac. On the other hand, it was better this way. I felt it was just the moment to come to the point: the eye had had its share, now it was the stomach’s turn. I carved hurriedly and called Giuseppe to serve. Madame Delatour took a morsel of breast hidden under a truffle. She was on a strict diet, the embalmed beauty. Damn! Madame Huppert, perhaps not to embarrass her guest, followed her example. When Giuseppe offered me the tray, I remained undecided whether to do the same. There was an upper thigh with two threads of meat of much reduced dimensions that might do well enough, inasmuch as after supper I’d always be able to pay a little visit to Constance. Then it struck me that Giuseppe and that greedy Constance would have made a clean sweep of the leftovers, happy as clams that the gentry had such small appetites, and I served myself a generous slice of breast. As I said, I’d eaten practically nothing since morning, the sandwich for dinner had only tickled my stomach, the day had been stressful … and, after all, I deserved that pheasant.

— I don’t know if you’re aware of the problems that your lack of timeliness is causing us, — Monsieur Delatour said in the same tone as before.

Monsieur Huppert said that he was aware of them.

— Good, — continued Monsieur Delatour. — Now try to translate these problems into dollars.—

Probably Monsieur Huppert did the translation mentally, because he grew pale; the fork with the truffle remained in mid-air. His forehead was beaded with a veil of perspiration.

— Monsieur Huppert, — said Monsieur Delatour in a cutting tone — are you aware that we pay you to sell? You cease to sell, we cease to pay.—

I blessed Giuseppe, who came in with dessert. It was a frozen pineapple mousse garnished with candied cherries, Constance’s masterpiece, which I knew from memory: I was crazy about it. When Giuseppe served me, I whispered to him to bring more champagne. (I had providentially put two more bottles in the fridge an hour before.) And to do it at once. Then I got up to light the fire, not without remarking that that evening I felt exactly like a vestal. Vestal or pyromaniac, the choice was up to them. Madame Huppert had a good laugh, and Monsieur Delatour joined her. The atmosphere was frankly brightening. I thought that there was nothing better than a good fire in the fireplace to relax the nerves. And then Giuseppe came in with the bucket of ice and the Dom Perignon wrapped in a snow-white napkin (impeccable, the old Giuseppe — he was behaving like a maître d), drew the cork from the bottle with a pop, and refilled the glasses.

— You are aware, — said Monsieur Delatour again to Monsieur Huppert (but now his voice was more relaxed, more conciliatory) — you are aware, I hope, that if you want to regain the lost territory at this point, the only remaining choice is X-21. Moreover, if you had followed my advice, you’d have settled the terms last year.—

Monsieur Huppert did not yet seem completely restored from the slight dispute. He was still pale; I noticed that his lips trembled imperceptibly. He talked with his eyes lowered, on the defensive, that fool Monsieur Huppert. It seemed he was going to purposely ruin the whole evening, which until this moment had been very precariously restored.

— But it’s not possible … — he mumbled. — You understand, Monsieur Delatour … it’s not a question of it being a whim of mine … I mean it’s a thing …—

As I anticipated, Monsieur Delatour lost his patience once and for all, blood surged to his face, his neck muscles tensed. Monsieur Huppert’s obstinacy had succeeded in ruining the evening.

— It’s a thing…? — he said, trying to control himself. — It’s what kind of thing?—

— Let’s say that it leads to imprisonable falsifications, — said Monsieur Huppert.

— Oh! — murmured Monsieur Delatour sadly. — Progress has its own risks, dear Monsieur Huppert, don’t you think so? Civilization is always paid in some way. One doesn’t pass with impunity from caves to refrigerators.—

Monsieur Huppert was silent, staring stubbornly at the pineapple mousse which he’d left on his plate. There was a very long moment of silence. The only sound was the crackling of the fire in the fireplace.

Monsieur Delatour assumed a conciliatory, almost good-natured tone. He spoke as if to a child who had committed some unintentional foolishness. — Never mind what I told you about not conquering the market with your methods. I don’t want to teach you your job, for God’s sake, but after all you can’t claim to sell certain products accompanied by certificates of guarantee. How many other times have you brought those poor people the refined products of our civilization without writing treatises of ethics on them? …. You need good manners … you understand … delicacy…. Find a name that’s a little innocuous and … conventional, that’s it, and possibly attractive. They’re primitives, believe me. Monsieur Huppert, the primitives love poetic names, mythical names. Don’t consider leaving any signed documents, it’s always better to leave … how do you say? … a pseudonym.—

His eyes wandered around. His gaze rested on the fireplace, on Madame Huppert who was watching the fire, on me who was staring at him, on the champagne, on the Ikebana in the middle of the table.

— For example, — he whispered insinuatingly, in the tone of someone who has had an excellent idea — for example, begin by selling them a million dollars’ worth of “Heavenly Bliss.’’—

Just at that moment Giuseppe appeared to ask if he should serve the coffee.

— In a few minutes, — said Madame. — We’ll have it by the fire.—

DOLORES IBARRURI SHEDS BITTER TEARS

He was a happy child, really happy. He was always laughing, so happy, and he even had a sense of humor. For instance, my sister Elsa was crazy about jokes, she knew a hundred of them, and when he saw her he would run up to her and cry, Aunt Elsa, a joke! Aunt Elsa, a joke! And he would laugh, but as if he were amused, like an adult. Perhaps he really got that happiness from Elsa, who was so vital, even too much so, maybe a little reckless, but at least she enjoyed her life, after all, in her own way. Affectionate, too. And he remained that way when he was grown-up. Happy, well, no, but very affectionate. Never once did he forget my birthday, even when he was far away, always something, a rose from Inter-Flora, a telegram … Would you like to see his telegrams? I have them here in this little Droste cocoa tin. Look, from 1970 to today there are eight telegrams. This one here, for instance, is from four years ago. Listen, it says He thinks of you with gratitude for the life that you gave him. Yes, it’s signed Piticche, we called him that. It’s never come out in the newspapers, nobody knows it, it’s something kept in the family. For us it was a pet name. I’d be grateful if you’d be quiet about it, too. Afterwards in the newspapers it comes between quotation marks after his real name: “called ‘Pilicche.’” It’s awful, don’t you think? How do you get people to understand that Piticche’s a pet name? Even you don’t understand it. If only I could explain to you the origin of the name, its meaning, but no one can understand what it means to me. In names there’s the time spent together, persons who have died, things done together, places, other names, our life. Piticche means little one. He was really tiny when he was young. He was blond, look at this photograph, he’s four years old — not that one, he’s eight there — this one here crouching near Pinocchio. Don’t you see that Pinocchio is taller than he is?

At our house there was a lemon tree. It grew espaliered against the facade facing south. Its branches reached the window of the upper floor. He spent his childhood playing with a Pinocchio, this one here in the photograph. “Oh, ho! Here comes Pinocchio! …” I still hear his voice repeating that refrain down there in the courtyard. At that time Rodolfo was already sick, I spent a lot of time in the bedroom taking care of him. His little voice came to me through the window. He was always playing with Pinocchio, it was his only company. He usually made him die, hanging him from the lemon tree as the cat and wolf disguised as brigands do in the book, and then he would make him a little grave of earth with a cross of reeds, but naturally he hid Pinocchio somewhere else. Then the fairy with the dark blue hair would arrive and go and cry over the tomb of her Pinocchio — that is, over the flower bed by the lemon tree. I was the fairy. He would watch me mischievously, because it was all arranged between us. I would kneel down in front of the lemon tree and cry, “Pinocchio, my poor little Pinocchio, I’ll never see you again, oh! oh! oh!” And then I would hear a weak voice, because the pretense was that it should seem to come from under the ground, which said, “My beautiful little sister, do not be in such despair. If you love your Pinocchio, he’s alive!” I would look around in amazement, searching for that voice, and see him standing like a puppet on his matchstick legs, thrusting out his arms to me, moving them like a marionette, and I would run to hug him and hold him tight to my breast. And while this scene was going on, he was laughing crazily, jumping up with his hands behind his back and doing a kind of ballet, singing, “Oh, ho! Here comes Pinocchio!” And the game was over.

Yvette gave him his name, Piti, but it was he who called himself Piticche, pointing to his chest. It was ’49. Elsa had brought Yvette and Gustave, she’d found them in the station at Livorno some years before. They didn’t know where to go. They had with them four frying pans and a Siamese cat they called Mayer that died a month later. He was a beekeeper in the Ardenne. They escaped to the south without a plan, just to escape, otherwise they’d have been deported. Elsa told them they could come, to our house, soup was always a good remedy. They said they’d go when the front had passed, then they stayed for four years. They were refined persons, they became like relatives. Yvette died last year. They have a son, a dentist in Marseilles, she was pregnant later when they returned to France…. Am I straying from the subject? I know that I’m straying. Let me stray, then I’ll come to the point.

I’m sure we loved him very much. Do you have children? Do you love your children? I know, there is more than one way. Look, it was ten years before we had him. We’d done everything. I had a fibroma, not that it bothered me, but if I wanted a baby I had to have an operation. It was ’39, there wasn’t penicillin then, I got septicemia. To save me they gave me paraffin injections in the thigh so the infection localized there — an abscess comes and the surgeon cuts it. I have legs full of scars. He was born in ’46, it wasn’t a good time to be born. Many were born in ’46, the soldiers came home, those who hadn’t died. No, Rodolfo didn’t get his illness in the war, he returned healthy, only a little thinner. He got sick the first time in ’51. Who knows why? If we knew why we get sick, we wouldn’t get sick. But he lasted a long time, until ’61—ten years. A little longer, in fact, he died in December. Excuse me if I cry. I didn’t want to cry, but the tears come down by themselves. It’s good for me to cry? You’re right, it’s good for me to cry.

The film I liked best among the few I’ve seen was called Roman Holiday—I remember that one as if it were yesterday — with Gregory Peck, and I liked Gregory Peck very much. I don’t remember the actress, she was very good. I know it doesn’t interest you, but it has something to do with it, I’m just telling you that Rodolfo had promised that all three of us would take a trip to Rome. He seemed to be better, there were years when he seemed to recover, we made a lot of plans for a long time, Rodolfo even bought a map so he could study the two-day tourist itineraries. I won’t repeat it to you, but I could, I remember it perfectly. Then all of a sudden Rodolfo needed dialysis, there wasn’t any money to go to Rome, so we went to see Roman Holiday. We even took the boy, though maybe it was a boring film for an eleven-year-old. However, we did see a lot of the famous places in Rome. There was one very funny scene when they go to visit some historic buildings and at a certain point he puts his hand into the mouth of a big stone mask on the porch of a church, and the legend says that if someone tells a lie, the mouth bites off his hand. He turns toward her — oh! it was Audrey Hepburn — and I think he tells her, “I love you,” and at that point he gives a cry and pulls out his arm without his hand, because he’s hidden it in the sleeve of his jacket, and they both laugh and hug each other.

We were always close to him. He never lacked affection, if this is what you were thinking. We were a very united family and he never gave us any worry, with Rodolfo in that condition, only comfort. He was so intelligent and particularly gifted in school, he was always an exceptional student — diplomas, medals, prizes. I didn’t want to send him to the lyceum, it didn’t seem to me a school appropriate to our situation. Afterwards what can a person with a lyceum certificate do? On the other hand, with a diploma in bookkeeping or surveying it’s always possible to find a job. But it was his professor who prevented me from doing it. He said that it was a crime, it really was, a boy of exceptional intelligence with A’s in Italian and Latin — to send him to a technical school was a crime. Besides, I never had to spend anything for his studies, not even later. He always supported himself with his splendid intelligence. He’s a little poet, his professor told me. This he got from Rodolfo. You say also his political ideas? Lei’s not talk nonsense. When Rodolfo died, he wasn’t yet fifteen years old. What ideas is it possible to think about at that age? Of course Rodolfo had his political ideas, they were well-known, I’m proud of them, yes. He was in the Resistance, of course, and also the war in Spain with the International Brigades, he took part in the battle of the Ebro. He knew the great people of that time — Longo, El Campesino, La Pasionaria. He always talked about this, you know, they were his favorite memories, especially in his last years. When he talked about La Pasionaria he called her Dolores, or else Ibarruri, as if she were an intimate friend. I see him again on the divan, he spent the afternoons on the divan with a lap robe. He was emaciated, hollow cheeks, the shadow of my Rodolfo…. And Piticche stayed to listen to him with his eyes watchful, he liked his father’s stories very much. Then they sang some Spanish songs together that Rodolfo knew, Piticche had learned them right away, too, “Gandesa,” for example: Si me quieres escribir ya sabes mi paradero, en el frente de Gandesa primera linea de fuego … No, he was not a communist, he was a libertarian socialist. He said that La Pasionaria had been a friend, too, that they had fought side by side, that she was an exceptional woman. Then they had had a furious quarrel, she said ugly words to him, and he retorted that one day she would cry bitterly over the mistakes she had made. He talked about it with much pain. He said that she had sold herself to the Russians, that she had committed atrocities against her comrades.

He was a dreamer, my Rodolfo. This he taught our son. And then he loved culture, books, he read a lot of them in his life, a kind of adoration. He said that in every book there’s always a man, and that to burn a book is like burning a person. He taught him the pleasure of reading … and writing, too. They wrote each other letters. They played a game, it was a beautiful game, I mean I think it was a very poetic thing. They read the books and then they wrote letters to each other as if each of them were a character in the books that they’d read, imaginary characters or historic personages. It was the last year of Rodolfo’s life. They wrote each other dozens of letters. Whoever received a letter read it at supper that evening. For me they were very beautiful moments. Excuse me if I cry. Rodolfo received many letters from Livingstone — Piticche liked being Livingstone so much — and then from Huckleberry Finn, from Kim, Gavroche, Pasteur. They were written with much maturity. I must have them somewhere, someday I’ll set out to look for them. And yet he was only fifteen years old, a child.

Rodolfo died in December of ’61, I know that I already told you. He spent his last days very upset, but not because of his illness. He was tormented by what was happening in the world, that is in Russia, I wouldn’t know exactly, I know that Khrushchev had revealed the atrocities committed by his predecessors, and he was in anguish. He didn’t sleep anymore, even the sleeping pills had no effect on him. Then one day a letter arrived for him. The return address said: “La Pasionaria, Moscow.’’ And inside was written: “Dolores Ibarruri sheds bitter tears.”

So, that was my son. What did they do to him? I saw his photo in the newspapers. They slaughtered him, and I couldn’t even see him. They wrote that he did … I don’t have the courage to say it … dreadful things. Did they say dreadful? However, you’ve heard another story, the story of a person you don’t know. I’ve talked to you about my Piticche. I’d be grateful if you didn’t mention this name in your newspaper. Excuse me if I cry. I didn’t want to cry, but the tears come down by themselves. It’s good for me to cry? You’re right, it’s good for me to cry.

THE LITTLE GATSBY

The evenings were slow, lingering, bloodstained by magnificent sunsets. Hot, languid nights followed, punctuated by the green sob of the lighthouse on the other side of the gulf. You’d like my story to begin like this, right? You’ve always had a certain predilection for the stereotyped. Under your docile and discreet refinement — your charme—you’ve always hidden a veneer of bad taste which perhaps deeply belonged to you. And yet how you hated ‘bad taste”! It disgusted you. And the banal, the everyday, they were monstrous things. Well, then, I can begin my story this way. Of course I loved the villa. The evenings were slow, lingering, bloodstained by magnificent sunsets. Hot, languid nights followed, punctuated by the green sob of the lighthouse on the other side of the gulf. I was at the window. I always slept very little. You never noticed. I would get up and stand at the window behind the curtains. Sometimes around two o’clock a light breeze arose which rippled the surface of the water. It slipped above the overheated tiles of the portico and reached my face almost tepid, comforting. There was always some ship that glided into the windowpane, freighters for the most part, I think, guided by the call of the lighthouse. In the background, on the left, the harbor teemed with lights. It seemed to be waiting. For what? Was I waiting for something? The minutes passed slowly. The breeze blew the awnings. Desire flowed in my blood. With difficulty I managed to control it. I leaned on the windowsill overlooking the sea. The coast was a promise. Its lights glittered. It was like a holiday. I repeated to myself that my story was inside me. One day I would have written it. I would have sat down, as in a dream, at the table, without even looking at the white sheet of paper that was in front of me, and the story would have gushed out like a spring of water. And then I would have written as if by magic. The words would have arranged themselves on the page as if enchanted, drawn by a magnet called inspiration. Would you expect that I had thought this way, leaning at the window? I never thought so, naturally. It never crossed my mind. I wouldn’t have written another line.

There was something else much more urgent. I murmured the beginning of a novel. Yes, of course, if it’s fine tomorrow, said Mrs. Ramsay. But you’ll have to be up with the lark. The wind moved the awnings, you slept, the lighthouse sobbed, the night was peaceful, almost tropical. But I would have arrived at my lighthouse soon. I felt it, it was near. It was enough to wait for it to send me a signal of light, at night, and I would have understood. I wouldn’t have let this opportunity escape (my only opportunity). I wouldn’t have spent my old age regretting missing a trip to the lighthouse. And in the meantime, I realized I was already getting old. And yet I was still young, I was a “good-looking man.” When I went down to the terrace I was aware of lingering, appreciative glances from your friends. But the age that I felt did not pertain to a registry office. It was suffocating, like a curtain over one’s face. I looked at my hands leaning on the windowsill. They were long, strong, agile. And they were old. Not you. The old age that you feared was something else. You tried to avert it with creams and lotions. You were afraid of those little spots that appear on the backs of hands. Your worst enemy was the midday sun, and when you smiled, two little menacing lines marked the corners of your mouth. You looked enviously at your guests who basked in the sun, plunged into the swimming pool, went down to the beach heedless of the saltiness. What a fool! You suffered for nothing. You were really young. This isn’t old age. You would have understood it then, you understand it now. You had a splendid body. I gazed at your legs, long, smooth legs, the only part of your body that you dared to expose to the sun. It was the Mediterranean midday. Gino wandered around the veranda serving Calvados, Bacardi, and Mazagrán. Someone stood up lazily. “We’re going down to the beach, Marline, we’ll wait for you down there …” You half-opened your eyelids, an imperceptible smile marked the corners of your mouth. Only I realized why I recognized those two little lines. You didn’t move. You remained in the deck chair immersed in a pool of shadow. Only your two legs glowed in the sun. The breeze moved the fringe on the big umbrella.

Of course I loved the villa! I liked the two mansards with their crowns of vertical wall tiles on the tiled roofs, the portico with the bell tower like that of a monastery, the white shutters renewed every summer. Early in the morning, when you were still asleep, the palm grove was full of seagulls. They came to spend the night there, leaving traces of coming and going on the sand. The afternoons were sultry, so Mediterranean, smelling of pine and myrtle. I was in the wicker chair under the colonnade, next to the little granite stairs invaded by creepers, waiting for Scottie to wake up. Around four o’clock she arrived barefoot, with pillow marks on her flushed face and a doll trailing by one leg.

“Do you like best to be called Scottie or Barbara?”

“Scottie.”

“But Scottie isn’t your real name.”

“Miss Bishop gave it to me. She says that you invented it.”

“I didn’t invent it.”

“Anyway, a friend of yours, the one who’s a writer. And when I grow up I’m going to be a little fool.”

“Did Miss Bishop tell you this, too?”

“Yes, because she says you can’t escape the destiny of all the ‘flappers.’ ”

“Of what?”

“Of the little girls, that is, but Miss Bishop calls them ‘flappers’ because a lady called Zelda said it, too.”

In the evening we talked about Fitzgerald, listening to Tony Bennett sing Tender Is the Night. To tell the truth, nobody liked the film, not even Mr. Deluxe, who really wasn’t very hard to please. But Tony Bennett had a voice “all-consuming, like the novel,” to hear him gave atmosphere, and Gino had to put on the record again who knows how many times. Inevitably I was asked for the beginning of the book. Everyone found it delicious that I knew the beginnings of Fitzgerald’s novels from memory — only the beginnings, which were a passion of mine. Mr. Deluxe, solemn as usual, invited those present, to be silent. I tried to be evasive, but it was impossible to refuse. The Tony Bennett record played softly. Gino had served the Bacardi. I stared at you. You knew that that beginning was dedicated to you, it was almost as if I had written it. You lit a cigarette and slipped it into the cigarette holder. That, too, was part of the scenery. You played the flapper, but you had nothing of the flapper about you, neither the mop of hair nor the rayon stockings, much less the soul. You belonged to another category, you could even be in a novel by Drieu, maybe, or by Pérez Galdós. You had a tragic, sense of life, perhaps it was your insuperable selfishness, like a condemnation. And then I began, amid the impatience that had already begun to manifest itself. Gino avoided serving in order not to disturb. Only the voice of Tony Bennett and the lapping of the Mediterranean could be heard. On the pleasant shore of the French Riviera, about half way between Marseilles and the Italian border, stands a large, proud, rose-colored hotel. Deferential palms cool its flushed facade, and before it stretches a short dazzling beach. Lately it has become a summer resort of notable and fashionable people; a decade ago it was almost deserted after its English clientele went north in April….

Inevitably Bishop went to change the record. The sickly sweet tones of Cole Porter’s songs swept over us. Bishop was crazy about him. She thought that Cole Porter suited Fitzgerald. Or else she put on Nat King Cole singing Quizás, quizás, quizás. Anyway, I liked King Cole’s song, too. I felt it concerned me. It caused in me a slight melancholy. Siempre que te pregunto, que cómo dóndey quándo. … I tried to go on. All of you looked past me at the sea and the lights of the coast. In the early morning the distant image of Cannes, the pink and cream of old fortifications, the purple Alps that bounded Italy, were cast across the water and lay quavering in the ripples and rings sent up by sea-plants through the clear shallows…. But something hindered me. My voice was uncertain, I heard it. Why did it pain me to go on? Was it perhaps the evening? Was it the lights of the coast? Was it Nat King Cole? I stared at the twilight, y asi passando el dia, y yo, desesperado … You could at least have made a gesture of agreement. But no, you looked at me as calmly as the others, as if you didn’t know that all that concerned me. I go well through the night, right, Martine? I told you with my eyes, for a few nocturnal moments, and then you go to sleep and sleep, sleep, sleep. The wind blows the awnings. There are lights down there on the coast … But the day, what is your Perri during the day? He’s the character in a little game, the figurine in a story.

Enough. I had no wish to recite anymore, the others also had no wish to stay to listen to me. The game was open. That beginning was enough for openers. Now Bishop was aware of Rosemary Hoyt involved in dancing a slow, very sentimental dance. I agree that she wasn’t eighteen years old any longer and in the water she wasn’t capable of Rosemary’s “sharp little crawl,” but what did that matter? It was all too mixed up. Rosemary danced with Tom Barban, who should have danced with you, but this would have happened tomorrow evening, maybe. For that evening the roles were assigned, and Mr. Deluxe was perfectly suited to the part of the adventurous, dissatisfied ex-aviator, not bad at all, moreover, maybe a little too distinguished for a legionnaire, too well-nourished. As for the other two, you didn’t need much imagination to place them. They were so irrelevant and therefore so interchangeable, the handsome Brady and his blonde. And as for you, yes, you were a splendid Nicole. You did her perfectly. You looked like Lauren Bacall, your Tom Barban said. I heard him whisper it to you. What a pain. And his clumsy attempts to hide with the edge of his jacket his erection visible under his linen pants? Intolerable. But he was Tom Barban, the legionnaire. Legionnaires are very virile, you know, dancing with a lady who looks like Lauren Bacall.

But I, who was I? I wasn’t Dick, even if I had his role — in real life, I mean. And I wasn’t Abe North either, no, in spite of my old novel. I would never have known how to write another, even if everyone pretended to think the contrary, much less would I have written the story of our painful history. I knew only the beginnings of other people’s novels from memory. I belonged to an analogous story. I was a character transmigrated from another novel, its stylization in a smaller dimension, without grandeur and without tragedy. At least my model had his own grandeur as a gangster. But my part did not foresee madness, without even a dream for which to sacrifice life, without even a lost Daisy — or worse, my Daisy was you, but you, however, were Nicole. I was a game in our game: I was your dear little Gatsby.

The night advanced with little steps. You’d have liked this sentence in my story, too, right? I’ll satisfy you: the night advanced with little steps. In fact, the tender night advanced with little steps. Now the phonograph played Charlie Parker’s “Easy to Love.” I had bought that record. Under the sobbing horn of poor Bird there was an almost happy chatter from Stan Freeman’s piano, almost smothered chuckles, a little phrasing of happiness. I would have preferred Jelly Morton, but for Rosemary he was a bore. It was impossible to dance to Jelly Morton. Well, what to do at that hour of the tender night advancing with little steps? St. Raphaël or l’Hôtel du Cap? St. Raphaël was better. What do you do at the Cap once you’ve had the Negronis? You croak from boredom. And the handsome Brady (but what was the handsome Brady’s name in real life?) agreed to any program whatsoever as long as he could make sheep’s eyes at you. His stupid little blonde would have followed him anywhere. “C’est cocasse,” she chirped, “c’est cocasse.” It was all cocasse, funny. Even Deluxe’s old Benz was cocasse, with its beige mudguards and its inner dividing windows. It had belonged to a retired Parisian taxi driver. He boasted about having bought it so cheaply. “I’m heartbroken only because he wanted to keep the taximeter. Sometimes there are people who get fond of such stupid things! …” And he laughed with all those very white teeth. He had too many teeth: deluxe teeth. Oh, was that a cheap shot?

But who was Mr. Deluxe, a refined musicologist? Come on, with that name! I think that he, too, was a little cocasse, like his Benz. “I loved your novel very much for its musicality,” he told me. What a fool. “But in your next novel — because you are writing another one, aren’t you? — in your next novel have the courage to express your love of music. Don’t be afraid of quotations, cram it with names, titles, they quickly create magical fiction. Put in the names of Coltrane and Alban Berg. I know you love Coltrane and Alban Berg, and I find myself in agreement.” He spoke of loving Alban Berg. He would have liked “to have more time to discuss it,” but then he didn’t go further than Gershwin. But how could he understand death, with that beautiful smile of his? You couldn’t understand death either, it was out of your reach for the moment. You could understand the dead, but death and the cadaver are two different things. Death is the curve in the road: to die is only not to be seen. Do you remember these lines? I said them one evening, but I deceived you. They weren’t by Fitzgerald, even though everyone believed they were. It was a false quotation, and inside myself I enjoyed the deception. We were on the coast, I think near Villefranche. I quoted the phrase and said: Fitzgerald, This Side of Paradise. Deluxe braked almost at once. He murmured something like “Sublime, sublime,” some such nonsense, and wanted us to go down to the beach. We had to take off our shoes and walk as far as the shore line holding hands, a man and a woman, a chain. It was urgent to do something lustral, they were his words, it was an homage to being, to being there, to the fact of being on the straight and narrow path of life. In short, to hell with the curves, this was the concept.

Your mother, yes, she understood death. I understood at once when I met her that she was a woman who understood death. And she also understood the same thing about me. She understood that there was a little of this in my stupid novel, and that’s why she did everything to make it become a book. She prevented me from arriving in Mentone. She freed me from the condition of “poor young aspiring writer, son of immigrants, returning to his native land with a manuscript in his pocket.” Did you think that my love for Fitzgerald was so vast as to have driven me on a pilgrimage through his itinerary? That my descriptions of his hotel in Baltimore were the result of a maniacal passion? It really isn’t so. Let’s say that I’m a reporter. I spent my early childhood in that hotel. I prefer to pass over the particulars. My father was a waiter there for twenty-nine years. He had known Fitzgerald, he had some books with his dedication, he often talked to me about him, and also about Zelda, who had liked him very much. She was fond of him because my father prepared very comprehensive drinks for her. She even put him in Save Me the Waltz under another name. Then the hotel in the course of the years had fallen into decadence, the clientele had deteriorated. They had given my father and me a room in the rear wing. After Mama’s death he wouldn’t have known to whom to entrust me. At least I was safe there, or at least so he presumed. He spent his last years serving supper to old fur-wrapped whores, to distinguished morphine addicts, to argumentative pederasts…. Here he is, my Fitzgerald. Your mother understood many things about me. And so did I about her. Would you like to know exactly what our relationship was? It’s not something you can say in a few lines. I loved her very much, I think that’s enough.

Everybody wanted St. Raphaël, and instead the evening then dragged on at the Hôtel du Cap. Maybe the Negronis were a little strong. And then there was a quantity of Gershwin for Mr. Deluxe. And then there were the Arrigos installed on the terrace. Who could resist those two? They were two perfect McKiscos, bitter and quarrelsome, too cocasse. At ten o’clock at night they were at each other’s throats. They seemed to have just emerged from Tender Is the Night. It was impossible to shake them off to go to St. Raphaël. They’ve never known they’re the McKiscos, poor things, probably they didn’t even know who Fitzgerald was. “And your novel, Perri, at what point is your novel?” Mrs. McKisco always repeated the same question. She was polite, over-solicitous. She wore very elegant scarves and a pearl shamrock on the collar of her white jacket. Mrs. McKisco was never seen without her white jacket. I said that it wasn’t going badly, yes, it truly wasn’t going badly, I was at a good point, look, the story already had everything, dramatics, I mean, but with a bit of frivolity, frivolity’s good for drama, two destinies which don’t meet, a wronged life, two wronged lives…. Despair? Of course, but in moderation. Maybe a death. Of him or of her, I didn’t know yet, or else, what can I say, a great betrayal. But principally inadequacy in life, as if nothing is enough, and a sense of waste, and with it something like non-reason, and then a perverse selfishness. Mrs. McKisco sighed with understanding, as if saying, “But to whom can life ever be enough?” She lifted her voluminous breast, the pearl shamrock sparkled. Mr. McKisco watched her grimly as if he were about to bite her. She was melancholy, incongruous, her unhappiness was of a touching simplicity. Away with you, Mrs. McKisco, I would have liked to comfort you. Rest your generous breast on my shoulder and unburden yourself, cry. It’s true, your life is wasted, your husband is an orangutan full of Pernod, you have too much money and now you ask yourself what good is money, what do you do with your paper mills. But it all goes for nothing, right, Mrs. McKisco? There were some children you would have wanted, and instead you find yourself here stemming old age and solitude. You’d like to convince yourself that children aren’t everything. You look at the lights of Cannes and want very much to cry. Come with me to the railing, let’s look at the sea. I tell you about a frivolously despairing novel and we laugh about it like crazy, all very Fitzgeraldish. He’s a writer of a single book, has had a decayed childhood which every now and then aches with acute sharp pains. In his lifetime he got away with methods that were not exactly clean. Let’s say that he’s rather a crook, but deep-down he’s good. Would you like to hear the beginning? He’d begin this way, for example: In 1959, when the protagonist of this story was thirty-five, two years were already gone since irony, the Holy Ghost of this later day, had, theoretically at least, descended upon him. Irony was the final polish of the shoe, the ultimate dab of the clothes-brush, a sort of intellectual “There!”—yet at the brink of this story he has as yet gone no further than the conscious stage…. To tell the truth, the beginning isn’t mine, dear Mrs. McKisco. Only the dates are mine, but it’s almost the same.

Toward midnight Mr. McKisco collapsed on the table. He needed to be lifted up bodily. Even Bishop was rather drunk. She gave one giggle after another, she was a happy drunk. Now she felt right in shape for a little visit to St. Raphael. Away we go, a fast run to eat a couple of shrimp. At that point I got away. I preferred to wait for you at home. In any case, within an hour you’d have returned. Would you like to know why that night of August 12 I didn’t come back? I’ve never wondered why you didn’t come back. I don’t want to know, I don’t care. But I want to tell you why I didn’t come back. It’s very funny. Because it was St. Macarius’ Day. My father’s name was Macarius. I wanted to remember him by myself, far away from your house, without interference. And then I had the photograph of Scottie in my pocket. I have it here in front of me now, too. It was taken when she was four years old. Scottie has a flowered dress, white socks, and pigtails burned by the sun. She carries a puppet in her hand, a kind of sad-eyed basset-hound. She holds it dangling by one ear. His name was Socrates, do you remember Socrates? I bought him. There’s a hole in the photograph: that’s you. And there’s the villa in the background, taken from the west side, the stairs covered with an American vine that led to Scottie’s rooms, the white door with the little pieces of engraved glass, very English. So I had the photograph of Scottie in my pocket and I sat down at a cafe. I felt really well. My plan was perfect, and then some place toward Mentone you could see fireworks. It must have been the festival of a patron saint. It seemed to me to be a good omen. For a month and a half, every Saturday evening, I crossed the border in my car. There was a customs agent, a boy from Benevento, who came on duty at exactly ten o’clock for the night shift. By this time he was used to seeing me. I went to get a cup of coffee in Italy. At half past ten I crossed the border again. “Homesick for Italian coffee, sir?’’ He greeted me with his hand to his visor. I responded to the salute. Sometimes I stopped for a brief chat. For him I was a rich man with a mania for Italian coffee. He’d never have dreamed of looking in the car. Asleep under a car robe, Scottie would have passed perfectly.

I loitered for a little while along the sea-front, watching the fireworks toward Mentone. It would have been for tomorrow evening. It was St. Macarius’ Day. The night was beautiful. I thought about my father dead in a fetid hotel in Baltimore. I stopped at the “Racé” to pick up some money. I had contacts there, but this was the last time. I needed that money to set up an honest business in Italy. Not that I lacked money, but the more I had the better: the first days wouldn’t have been easy. At the “Racé” there was a jam session with an incredible type who imitated to perfection Rex Stewart, a cornet player with Ellington in the Thirties. He was happy. He played “Trumpet in Space” and “Kissing My Baby Good-night,” imagine that. I was happy, too. I stayed a little while and then left and took a long walk because I had a desire to breathe fresh air. There. A whole life can change over a trifle. Or stay the same.

Time is perfidious. It makes us believe it never passes, and if we look behind, it’s passed too hurriedly. You’d like a sentence like this for my story, right, Marline? I give in. Time is perfidious. I look behind, it passed too hurriedly, and how slow it was to pass! Almost twenty years have gone by, and for us Scottie is still four years old. But after all, I, too, am the same age as then for you. Because I’m unattainable. In a certain sense I’m eternal, here, where I find myself. I’m beyond the curve in the road, do you understand that concept? Twenty years should have been enough to understand a concept like this. You, on the other hand, no. You’ve remained on the straight and narrow, exposed. You’ve grown old, Martine, it’s normal. At last you won’t fear the arrival of old age any longer: it’s here now. There haven’t been any signs of Bishop. She disappeared in England. But I know what happened to her: she became a half-nun, she never married, she lives in a convent in Sussex, she teaches American culture to young girls from good families. Even Deluxe has grown old, by God. He lost all his aviator’s looks. He came to see you sometimes, but it’s impossible to take up the game again, it allows him nothing more. He’s a corpulent gentleman with a blue Citroën who does business in the suburbs: farewell, Tom Barban. And even the villa, how it’s aged. I passed by it recently and imagined going in. On the boundary wall, next to the gate, there’s a little panel of blue tiles with a brigantine with blowing sails. We bought it at Ēze Village, do you remember? On the wrought-iron gate the white varnish has peeled off. Where the color has come off, because of the sun and the saltiness, in large galls that crack under the fingers, a fine, very yellow rust has formed. It must be necessary to push the double doors very hard, otherwise they won’t open because the hinges are stiff. When you finally succeed in opening the gate, after having shaken it rather impatiently, it emits a soft, prolonged squeak, like a far-away moan, in front of us. Once I happened to raise my eyes mechanically in the search for the emitter of that lament, and then I saw the sky blue of the sea. To the right of the gate, after the entrance, under a palm tree, there’s a porter’s lodge painted yellow, a little room that looks like a miniature house. Once the night watchman’s tools were kept there. Now I imagine what’s there: a baby carriage with a folding lop, as you see in photographs of the Thirties, a child’s cordless xylophone, some old records full of scratches. They’re unbearable things. It’s impossible to look at them, but it’s also impossible to get rid of them: you need to find a little room. But why do I describe to you things that you know better than I? To create a note of wastefulness in my story, a sense of dissipation? You always preferred desperate, futile lives. Francis and Zelda, Bessie Smith, Isadora. … I do what I can: it’s as much as we have at our disposal. Ah, yes, the villa has really lost its tone, it would need a good maquillage: facade, windows, garden, gratings…. But money is scarce, they lack Ferri’s discreet little business affairs, so dubious but so remunerative. You don’t eat tradition for dinner. If only you could begin to think how to utilize everything. The location is of a rate elegance, the rooms are magnificent, so deliciously art-nouveau. You could retire to the rooms that used to be Scottie’s, so you’d be even nearer to her memory — and then two rooms are enough for you by this time — and turn the rest into a hotel. A small hotel, but very elite: ten bedrooms, dining room on the ground floor with green lampshades on the tables, pianist on the terrace after supper, a lot of Gershwin, moonlight and Bacardi. The rich, middle-aged Swiss adore this kind of place. You ought to find an appropriate name, refined but witty. For instance, “Au p’tit Gatsby.” And thus you could face a tranquil old age, spending your afternoons in peace and quiet looking at the coast and thinking of the future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter — tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out. our arms farther … And one fine morning … It’s a Fitzgerald finale, of course.

VOICES

For my friend M.I., who once entrusted me with a secret

The first telephone call had been from a girl who called for the third time in three days and repeated ad infinitum that she just couldn’t cope anymore. You have to be careful in many cases because there’s the risk of psychodependence. It’s necessary to be affectionate with circumspection. Whoever calls must hear a friend on the other end of the line, not a deus ex machina on whom his life depends. Moreover, the main rule is that the caller shouldn’t get attached to one voice in particular, otherwise it creates difficult situations. This happens extremely easily with the depressed. They need a personalized confidant, they are not satisfied with an anonymous voice, they want it to be that voice, and they attach themselves to it desperately. But with the depressed of a certain type, those who have a fixed idea and with it build a wall around themselves, the situation is further complicated. They make telephone calls that freeze you, and you rarely establish contact. This time, however, it went well because I had the luck to discover something that interested her. Another rule that is usually valid for a good number of cases is to lead the conversation to a subject that interests the caller, because everyone, even the most desperate, has one thing which, deep down, interests him, even those who are most cut off from reality. Often it’s a question of our good will. You even need to resort to little tricks, devices. At times I’ve succeeded in clearing up some seemingly impossible situations with a trick with a glass, and managed to stabilize some communication. Let’s suppose that the telephone rings, you pick up the receiver, you say the usual formula or something similar, and then on the other end nothing, the most absolute silence, not even a sigh. Then you insist, you try to be tactful, you say that you know he’s there listening, to please say something, whatever he wants, whatever springs to mind — an absurdity, a curse, a cry, a syllable. Nothing. Total silence. And yet if he’s called, there’s a reason. But you can’t know it, you don’t know anything. He can be foreign, he can be mute, he can be everything. And then I take a glass and a pencil and say, Listen to me. There are millions and millions of us on this earth, and yet the two of us have met — only on the telephone, of course, without knowing each other and without seeing each other. However, we have met. Let’s not throw away this meeting. It must have some meaning. Listen to me. Let’s play a game. I have a glass here in front of me. I make it ring with a pencil—ping—do you hear me? If you hear me, do the same thing — two taps. Or if you don’t have anything in front of you, you can lap the receiver with your fingernail like this—tap, tap—do you hear me? If you hear me, answer, I beg you. Listen. Now I’ll try to name some things, things that cross my mind, and you tell me if you like them. For example, do you like the sea? To say yes, tap two times. Only one tap means no.

But there’s just no understanding what it is that interests a girl who dials the number, is silent for almost two minutes, and then begins to repeat, I can’t cope anymore. I can’t cope anymore. I can’t cope anymore. I can’t cope anymore. Like this, ad infinitum. It was pure chance, because earlier I had put on a record since, I thought, on the fifteenth of August holiday of the Assumption of the Virgin it won’t be very busy, with so many people going away. And, in fact, I’d come on duty more than two hours before, and no one had called. It was terribly hot. The little fan that I’d brought with me gave no relief. The city seemed dead, everyone away on vacation. I sat down in the armchair and began to read, but the book fell on my chest. I don’t like to fall asleep when I’m on duty. I have slow reflexes, and if someone calls I remain surprised the first few seconds, and at times it’s really those first seconds which count, because he might even hang up, and then who knows if he’ll have the courage to dial the number again? So I put on The Turkish March by Mozart, softly. It’s happy, it’s stimulating, it keeps up the morale. She telephoned while the record was playing. She was silent a long time and then began to repeat that she couldn’t cope anymore. I let her say it, because in these cases it’s a good thing to let the caller get it off his chest. He must say everything he wants and as many times as he wants. When I heard only her troubled breathing over the receiver, I said, Wait a moment, would you mind? I took off the record, and she answered, Please leave it on. Of course, I told her, I’ll be glad to leave it. Do you like Brahms? I don’t know how I’d sensed that the music could furnish the possibility of communication. The trick had come to me spontaneously. Sometimes a little falsehood is providential. As for Brahms, probably the suggestion of the title by Sagan had played in my subconscious, a title that you always carry dormant in your memory. This isn’t Brahms, she said, it’s Mozart. Mozart? I put it on. Of course Mozart, she said vivaciously. It’s The Turkish March by Mozart. And thanks to this she began to talk about the conservatory where she had studied before something happened to her, and everything went very well.

The time, then, passed slowly. I heard the bell of St. Dominic’s Church strike seven. I went to the window. There was a light haze of heat over the city. Few automobiles passed through the street. I made up my eyelashes again. Sometimes I feel pretty. Then I lay down on the couch next to the phonograph and I thought about things, about people, about life. At seven thirty the telephone rang again. I recited the usual formula, perhaps with a certain weariness. On the other end of the line there was a brief hesitation. Then the voice said, My name is Manning, but I’m not a gerund. It’s always advisable to appreciate the jokes of those who call — they reveal the desire to establish contact — and I laughed. I answered that I had a grandfather who was named Dunne, but he wasn’t a past participle, he was only Irish. And he, too, laughed a little. And then he said that he had something in common with verbs, however, that he had one of their qualities, that he was intransitive. All verbs serve in the construction of the sentence, I said. It seemed to me that the conversation permitted an allusive tone, and then you always have to encourage the attitude chosen by the caller. But I’m deponent, he said. Deponent in what sense, I asked. In the sense that I lay down, he said. I lay down my arms. Perhaps the mistake was in thinking that arms shouldn’t be laid down, didn’t he think? Perhaps they had taught us bad grammar. It was better to let arms be used by belligerent people. There were many unarmed people, he could be certain to have a lot of company. He said, He will. And I said that our conversation seemed like a table of verb conjugations. And this time it was his turn to laugh, a brief, rough laugh. And then he asked me if I knew the sound of time. No, I said, I don’t know it. Well, he said, you only have to sit down on the bed during the night when you can’t sleep and keep your eyes open in the dark, and after a little while you hear. It’s like a roar in the distance, like the breath of an animal that devours people. Why didn’t he tell me more about those nights? I had all the time in the world, and I had nothing else to do except listen to him. But in the meantime he was already somewhere else. He had skipped a connection indispensable for me to follow the thread of the story. He didn’t need that passage, or perhaps he preferred to avoid it. But I let him talk — you should never interrupt for any reason — and then I didn’t like his voice, which was slightly shrill and sometimes a whisper.

The house is very large, he said. It’s an old house. There’s furniture that belonged to my ancestors, awful furniture in the Empire style, with feet. And worn-out carpets, and pictures of surly men and proud, unhappy ladies with their lower lips imperceptibly drooping. Do you know why their mouths have that curious shape? Because the bitterness of all their lives outlines their lower lips and makes them droop. Those women have spent sleepless nights next to stupid husbands incapable of tenderness. And they too, those women, remain in the dark with their eyes open, cultivating resentment. In the dressing room next to my bedroom there are still some of her things, those that she left. A few underclothes atrophied on a footstool, a little gold chain she used to wear on her wrist, a tortoise-shell hairpin. The letter is on the chest of drawers under the glass bell that once guarded a gigantic alarm clock from Basel. I broke that alarm clock when I was a child. One day when I was sick, no one came up to see me. I remember it as if it were yesterday. I got up and liberated the alarm clock from its safe-keeping. It had a frightening tick-tock. I removed the bottom cover and methodically took it apart until the sheet was strewn with all its tiny gears. If you want, I can read it to you — the letter, I mean. In fact, I repeat it to you from memory — I read it every night: Manning, if only you knew how I have hated you all these years. … It begins like this. The rest you can deduce for yourself. The glass bell guards a massive, repressed hatred.

And then he again skipped a passage, but this time I thought I understood the connection. He said, And now how will Jimmy be? Who will he have become? He’s a man, somewhere in the world. And then I asked him if that letter was dated August fifteenth, because I had known by intuition, and he said yes, it was the very anniversary and he would celebrate it appropriately. He already had the instrument ready for the celebration — it was there on the table next to the telephone.

He was silent. I had expected he would talk some more, but he said nothing else. Then I said, Wait for another anniversary, Manning. Try to wait one more year. I was immediately aware of how ridiculous that sentence was, but at the moment I had nothing else in mind, I talked for the sake of talking, and in the end all that counted was the concept. I’ve listened to a lot of telephone callers of all kinds with the most absurd situations, and yet maybe that was the moment in which my habitual bravura vacillated, and I even felt lost myself as if I needed another person who would stay to listen to me and tell me something appropriate to say. It lasted a moment, he didn’t reply, I recovered promptly. Now I knew what I could say. I could talk about microperspectives, and I talked about microperspectives. Because in life there are all kinds of perspectives, the so-called great perspectives which everyone considers fundamental, and those that I call microperspectives which are insignificant, I admit. But if everything is relative, if nature permits eagles and ants to exist, why can’t we live like the ants, I asked, by microperspectives? Yes, microperspectives, I insisted, and he found my definition amusing. But in what would these microperspectives consist, he asked, and I set out to explain punctiliously. Microperspectives is a modus vivendi, all right? Let’s say so, anyhow. It’s a way of concentrating the attention, all the attention, on a little detail of life, of daily routine, as if that detail were the most important thing in the world. But ironically, knowing that it isn’t the most important thing in the world at all, and that everything is relative. One help is to make lists, mark down appointments, give yourself strict schedules, and don’t compromise. Microperspectives is a concrete way of attacking concrete things.

He didn’t seem very convinced, but my objective wasn’t to try to convince him. I was perfectly aware that I wasn’t revealing the secret of the philosopher’s stone. And yet just the fact that he felt that someone could be interested in his problems must serve for something. It was as much as I could do. He asked me if he could telephone me at home. Sorry, I didn’t have a telephone. And here? Certainly, here whenever he wanted. Not tomorrow, no, unfortunately. But of course he could leave me a message, in fact he had to. There was another friend in my place who’d then pass it on to me. I’d be happy if he told me what had been the microperspectives of his day.

He said good-bye to me politely in a tone of voice that seemed to say he was sorry. The evening was hot and I hadn’t noticed. At times certain conversations require frightening concentration. From the window I saw Gulliver crossing the street, coming to relieve me. Gulliver could be seen from the top of a skyscraper — it was not for nothing that we called him Gulliver. I collected my things and prepared to leave. Only then did I verify that it was ten minutes to nine. Damn! I had promised Paco that I’d be home at nine sharp, and even if I hurried I couldn’t make it until half past nine. In addition, you can imagine public transportation, which was a disaster even on normal days, on the fifteenth of August. Maybe it was better to go on foot. I went by Gulliver like an arrow, without even giving him time to say hello. He shouted something jokingly after me. I answered on the stairs that I had an appointment, and the next time come on time, please. I was leaving him the fan even though he didn’t deserve it. However, as soon as I went out the front door I saw the number 32 rounding the corner. Even if it didn’t take me as far as my house it saved me a good stretch of road, so I flung myself up. It was completely empty. The 32 empty that way makes an impression, if you think how it usually is. The driver went so slowly that the desire to say something to him came to me, but I let it go — he had such a resigned air, eyes dull. Well, I thought, if Paco is irritated, too bad for him. I certainly can’t fly. I got off at the stop in front of the big stores. I started to walk fast, but it was already nine twenty-five. It was useless to set out to run in order to arrive late anyway, all sweaty and panting like a madwoman.

I slipped in the key, trying to be quiet. The house was dark and silent, and it made an impression on me. Who knows why I thought of something unpleasant? And I let myself be conquered by anxiety. I said, Paco, Paco, it’s me, I’m back. For a moment I felt overcome by depression. I put my books and purse on the stool by the front door and went as far as the door to the living room. I still felt like saying Paco, Paco. Silence at times is a dreadful thing. I know what I would have wanted to tell him if he had been there. Please, Paco, I would have said, it wasn’t my fault. I got an extremely long telephone call, and transportation is on half-schedule today — it’s August fifteenth. I went to close the door to the small terrace in back, because there are mosquitoes in the garden and as soon as they see the light they come in in swarms. It crossed my mind that a tin of caviar and one of paté remained in the refrigerator. It seemed to me like the time to open them, and also to uncork a bottle of Moselle wine. I set out yellow linen placemats and put a red candle on the table. My kitchen has light wooden furniture and with candlelight acquires a comforting atmosphere. While I made preparations I weakly called again, Paco. With a spoon I tapped lightly on a glass—ping. Then I tapped harder—PING. The sound lingered all through the house. Then suddenly an inspiration came to me. Opposite my plate I put another placemat, a plate, silverware, and a glass. I filled both glasses and went into the bathroom to make myself tidy. And if, later, he had really returned? Sometimes reality surpasses the imagination. He would have rung with two brief repealed rings, as he always did, and I would have opened the door with an air of complicity. I set the table for two, I would have told him. I was expecting you, I don’t know why, but I was expecting you. Who knows what kind of face he would have made?

THEATRE

To Don Caetano de Lancastre, who told me a story like this

The garden of the small barracks was lost in the dark mass of the forest that besieged the clearing. It was a colonial building, with a faded pink facade and yellow shutters, which must have gone back to 1885, to the time of the skirmishes with Cecil Rhodes, when it must have constituted a decorous general quarters for the commander who controlled the western border near the Zambezi. Since 1890, when our troops had withdrawn from the Niassaland region, the barracks had no longer been a garrison. It was occupied by a reserve captain who remained there the whole period of his military service and by two Negro soldiers, two “sepoys,” elderly and silent, with their wives, whose only duty, apparently, was to act as orthopedists for the occupants of the nearby village who worked for the lumber company. The day of my arrival there had been a frenetic coming and going of limping people, although the captain had reassured me that something unusual had occurred: a pile had collapsed on the piers of the Zambezi. Usually the Negroes preferred to cure themselves on their own with their tribal methods. The Sengas were a very special type — I certainly knew this better than he — and then the medical equipment of the barracks left much to be desired: it was useless to delude ourselves.

The captain was a kind, loquacious, rather clumsy man. He called me “Excellency” and must have been my age or a little older. His accent and behavior, provincial and archaic, revealed him to be a northerner, from Oporto, perhaps, or from Amarente. His thick jaw, his bluish beard, his humble, patient eyes told of generations of peasants or mountaineers, which his short duration in the army had not succeeded in erasing. He was studying law and was enrolled in the University of Coimbra. When his African term of service was over, he would enter the magistrature. He had eight examinations to go, and in that place he had ample time to study.

He had me served a cool tamarind on the little veranda invaded by climbing vines, and began a polite, very tactful conversation from which transpired his desire for a confidential, unconstrained demeanor which, however, he was unable to assume. He inquired with compunction about my trip. It had gone very well, thank you, in so far as three hundred kilometers in a truck can go very well on such a road. Joaquim was an excellent chauffeur. I had come by train as far as Tete, evidently. No, the climate of Tete was not really one of the best. From Europe I had six-day-old news, nothing particularly interesting, it seemed to me. Theoretically I would stay twelve months, if many asked for a survey with a copy of the census for the district of Kaniemba. But perhaps ten would be enough. Thanks for the generous offer of help — probably I would need it. He would be very happy to put at my disposition the “sepoy” who knew how to write. By the way, did the barracks have an archive? Very well, we would begin from there. He had a certain experience with archives? Excellent, I would never have expected such luck. Actually my surveys would be rather rough, let’s say merely oriented toward a future census the government intended to make in the Kaniemba zone.

The tamarind was followed by a very strong brandy which the “sepoys” distilled at the barracks, and we changed the subject to talk of friendlier, less relevant things. The evening that was falling was full of disquieting sounds from the forest. The mosquitoes became terrible. A very light breeze bore the acrid odor of the undergrowth. The captain had the window netting lowered, lit the oil lamp, and asked my permission to withdraw in order to give directions for supper. Would I excuse him for leaving me alone? We would continue the conversation at the table. I excused him willingly. It did not displease me to remain in silence in the moonlight, to gaze at the night. It had seemed superfluous to tell him, but that day I had completed four years in Africa. I wanted to think about them.

In 1934 Mozambique was a colony inhabited by bizarre people and by great loneliness, with disquieting, obliging shadows, rare, phantom presences, transitory, improbable, adventurous characters. It had something of Conrad’s stories, perhaps the restlessness, the degradation, and the secret melancholy.

I had disembarked at Lourenço Marques four years earlier with a new degree in political and colonial science in my pocket, a surname that prompted bows from government officials, the memory of a brief squabble with my father which still burned me to my soul and which seemed unbecoming for a family like ours, and an appointment as “District Chief’’ in an uncivilized country — in short, colonial officer. Maybe it didn’t seem suitable even for me. But Lisbon was uncomfortable for me like a suit not my own. The Chiado, the Caffe della Brasileira, the summer holidays at Cascais in the family villa, days of youthful idleness, the horses at the Club della Marinha, the dances in the embassies — all these had become suffocating. But whatever could I do, if I wanted to live my life, with a degree in colonial science? Perhaps it had been a mistake to embark on these studies, but by this time they were completed. The choice rested with me between Lisbon’s idleness and Africa. I chose Africa. I was alone, available, unattached, and composed. I was twenty-six years old.

Inhambane, after two years in Tete, seemed almost like Europe to me, even though it was a sleepy, dirty city of ravaged beauty, passed through by transitory people. Somehow the little commercial harbor sheltered behind the Punta da Barra, where every month the steamers put into port from Port Elizabeth and Durban straight from the Red Sea, gave an illusion of civilization, constituted a remote tie to the world. A walk as far as the docks, when the little English steamers or the ship from the Lisbon Line arrived, was fairly modest comfort, but it was as much as it was possible to have. And the smoke from the ship that was moving off into the horizon awoke a nostalgia for a Europe as remote as a children’s tale, already inconstant in its memories, perhaps nonexistent.

Africa, with its immensity and its lassitude, magnified distances and deadened memories. The newspapers reported that in Austria Chancellor Dollfuss had been assassinated, that in America there were seventeen million unemployed, that in Germany the Reichstag burned. My father wrote me informative, verbose letters: my brother was thinking about taking holy orders, they had installed a telephone in the villa at Cascais, the monarchists’ cause had suffered a hard blow with the loss of Don Manuel. His death left the claim to the throne to an unknown young foreigner tied to the Miguelist faction, while my family belonged to the liberal aristocracy. The new Portuguese constitution, a copy of which was wide-open in front of me, defined my country as “a cooperative, united state,” and a government dispatch ordered the photograph of a young professor from Coimbra, with a scornful and presumptuous face, who had become Cabinet Minister — Antonio de Oliveira Salazar — to be hung up in public offices. I had hung it behind my back with a vague sense of uneasiness. But on my table I kept the portrait of Don Manuel, to whom I was bound by an almost familial affection. It was a contradiction, but Africa let contradictions live with perfect tolerance.

The last English steamer had brought me a novel popular in Europe that took place on the Côte d’ Azur, but it lay uncut on the table. The nights of Inhambane were too far from the lights of Antibes of which popular novels spoke. Apparently the life was similar. There were palm trees, the moon was spectacular, there was lobster for supper at the Club, people loved with intense, voluble passion, the orchestra ventured upon jazz, the women accepted courtship with disarming ease. But everything was lived as if it were different and far away. Africa was a space in the spirit, unanticipated, hazardous. In Africa everyone had the sensation of being far away, even from himself.

The trip had not, in fact, gone very well. I had lied to the captain. It had turned out to be uncomfortable and studded with incidents, including getting bogged down in the mud, which had stolen an entire morning. Fortunately, Joaquim was a first-rate mechanic and had a perfect knowledge of the road. He was an elderly mulatto, kind and pleasant, used to adversity and resigned to misfortune, who faced life as an obligation and the inconveniences of the roads as a diversion from the tedium of the trip.

Lying down on the berth of the truck, while the African forest passed by above, I thought about the Vice-Governor’s rod that had moved over the map hung on the wall in his office in Inhambane pointing out to me the most favorable route. It was hot, the fan hummed loudly, from the wide-open window came the afternoon light and the buzz of a market deadened by the trees in the garden. The pointer moved slowly along Tete’s heavy-duty road, then swerved toward the northeast. The route on the map at that point was a slender white thread across the dark green of the forest, with no city within the radius of three hundred kilometers. The first large center was Kaniemba. Then there were two days by truck, if no breakdowns occurred. Now I was pursuing the course of the pointer, carrying out that incomprehensible, possibly rather absurd, order. A census at the boundary of the region of Kaniemba, five hundred kilometers away from my seat, work that in theory could last ten months, had the taste of punishment, together with a threatening warning. I wondered about the reasons why I had been able to induce my superior to entrust me with this task. I saw again the photograph of Don Manuel on my desk, I thought of the trial of a rich colonist for bullying his employees, at which I acted as plaintiff, I remembered the threats of a most excellent personage whose trafficking I indiscreetly set out to investigate. Perhaps something of all this entered into it, or something that I was unable to imagine. But by this time even to know did not change things much.

The “sepoy” brought me the note while we were having coffee. The captain had been telling me a very Portuguese story of misery and nobility. It was a printed invitation, one of those used on ceremonious occasions among persons who have a certain place in society. It was slightly wrinkled and looked frankly old. It said in English that Sir Wilfred Cotton had the honor to invite for supper (a blank space followed filled in by pen with my name) for Thursday, October 24, at seven o’clock. Evening dress would be preferred. R.S.V.P.

I turned the note around between my fingers. I must have looked as perplexed as the situation was perplexing. A barracks inhabited by an officer and two old “sepoys,” the city of Kaniemba — granted that it could be called a city — two days away by road, the deepest forest within kilometers, and an invitation to dine in evening dress and would I please respond. I asked the captain who Sir Wilfred was. An Englishman — well, of course, that I had supposed. But what kind of Englishman? Who was he? What did he do? He had arrived a few months earlier, he may have come from Salisbury — at least it was believed so — he lived in a little cottage at the edge of the village, who he was no one had the slightest idea, he always looked after his own affairs, he was an elderly gentleman — well, let’s say fifty, maybe a little more — he had an elegant appearance, he seemed to be a refined person.

I was about to put the invitation into my pocket, but the “sepoy” looked at me with an aggrieved expression without leaving the room. I asked him what more there was. Mr. Cotton’s servant was at the kitchen door, Excellency, was what it was, maybe he should send him away? Sent to tell His Excellency that he took the liberty of reminding him that tomorrow was Thursday, he said exactly that.

Wilfred Cotton’s cottage had belonged to the administration of the lumber company before the factory had moved two kilometers to the south toward the Zambezi. On the wooden colonnade at the entrance, under a recent paint job, you could still see an axe with a swallow-tail blade, the company trademark. A small uncultivated banana plantation separated it from the village. In the background, in the direction of the river, the heavy-duty road for Tete passed by. The rest was overhung with forest tentacles.

It was exactly seven o’clock. Cotton was standing on the veranda waiting for me. He was wearing a white jacket with a silk bow tie. He said welcome, supper was almost ready, would I please sit down, my chauffeur could eat in the kitchen — he sent a servant to call him — would I care for an aperitif? A boy in black trousers and a white shirt was waiting near a sideboard with a bottle of wine in his hand. On the table there was a meat pie spread with currant jelly. It was a short supper, pleasant, relaxing, with neutral, formal conversation. Would I remain here for long? Perhaps a year. Oh, really? He hoped that this prospect did not frighten me. Did I like the place? Moderately? Oh, certainly, he found it understandable, but the climate was not too bad, didn’t I think? The humidity was bearable. A phonograph in the living room softly played Haydn.

At tea we talked about tea. What we were drinking, so dark and aromatic, was a mixture of his: leaves of Li-Cungo, those tiny ones, that give an intense color and contain a high percentage of theine, mixed with some quality Niassa, very light and fragrant. A carillon clock struck eight, and Wilfred Colton asked me if I liked the theatre. I liked it very much, I admitted with a certain regret. In Lisbon I had liked it very much. Perhaps it was the artistic expression which I had liked the best. My host stood up with a certain haste, it seemed to me. Very well, he said. In that case I believe that this evening there is a performance. If you will come this way, I will have the pleasure to invite you. We should hurry.

The hut was situated in the middle of the clearing that separated the cottage from the forest. It was a spacious round hut made of straw reeds, like those of the Negroes, but more robust in appearance. On the inside the reeds were whitened with lime. In the center was a little platform with a reading-desk, and leaning against the wall a modest bench. There was nothing else. Wilfred Cotton invited me to sit down, went up on the platform, opened a book which he had held under his arm, and said, “William Shakespeare. King Lear. Act One. Scene One. A state room in King Lear’s palace.”

He read, or better still, he recited, with a surprising intensity, all the first act and half of the second. He was a Lear devastated by a mortal melancholy, but also a Fool sparkling with cynical, burning genius. Toward the middle of the second act, his voice seemed to betray his fatigue, and the conversation between Lear and Regan went slowly, perhaps a bit awkwardly. I thought of getting up, of saying to him, Enough now, Sir Wilfred, please sit down. It’s been lovely, but perhaps you’re tired. You look a little pale, too, you’re sweating. But at that moment the Duke of Cornwall spoke. He had a deep, troubled voice, full of foreboding. “Let us withdraw, ’twill be a storm!” And so the tragedy regained momentum, the voices got livelier, Gloucester leapt forward to say that the king was in a towering rage, that night was approaching and the winds becoming furious. And at that point the deep voice of Cornwall, as if thundering from the spacious room of a palace with very high ceilings, shouted to bolt the doors, in that tempestuous night, to protect themselves from the hurricane.

It’s intermission, said Wilfred Cotton. Shall we go to the foyer for something to drink?

The servant was waiting for us on the veranda of the cottage, where drinks were ready. We drank a cognac standing up, leaning on the wooden railing, gazing at the night before us. The monkeys, which all through twilight had made a frightening uproar, were now sleeping quietly in the trees. From the forest there were only rustling, stifled noises, a cry of a bird. Sir Wilfred asked me if the tragedy was to my liking. Yes, I admitted. And the interpretation, what did I think of that? Did I prefer King Lear or the Fool? I confessed that I felt the interpretation of the Fool was fascinating, so aggressive and passionate, almost demented. But to tell the truth, I had been overcome by the interpretation of Lear. There was something unhealthy, vile, about him, a metaphysical weakness, a condemnation. He agreed. For this reason the recitation of the Fool had been too hysterical, hallucinatory, feverish, because a strong “comic relief” was necessary in order to underline Lear’s obscure weakness. That Lear, he said, that evening rendered homage to Sir Henry Irving. I did not know him? It was normal — when he died perhaps I had not yet come into the world. Henry Irving, 1838–1905, the greatest Shakespearean actor of all time. He had the gestures of a king and the voice of a harp. Lear was his sublime role. No one had ever been able to equal it. His sadness was as deep as hell, and his torment was unbearable in the third scene of Act Five when he held his hands to his temples as if he wanted to protect them from an interior explosion and murmured, “She’s gone for ever. I know when one is dead, and when one lives. She’s dead as earth.”

But perhaps we can continue our conversation on another occasion, Wilfred Cotton said without a pause. The third act is about to begin.

For six months, until the end of 1934, every Thursday I went to the theatre with Wilfred Cotton. He was, from time to time, an awkward Hamlet, clumsy and cowardly, but also a kind Laertes; a mad Othello, but also a wicked Iago; a Brutus tormented and bitter, but also a presumptuous, scornful Anthony; and still many other characters in the pretense of joy and pain, of victories and defeat, on the shabby platform of the hut. Our evening conversations, at supper as in the foyer, were always polite without ever being friendly, cordial without ever being confidential, affable without ever being intimate. We talked very much about the theatre, and then about the climate, and the food, and the music. We thought highly of each other without ever admitting it, united by a complicity that expression would have irreparably compromised.

The night before my departure, as an added attraction — it was a Saturday evening — Wilfred Colton invited me for a good-bye supper. That evening, in honor of the happiness that shone in my face notwithstanding my careful control, he put on A Midsummer Night’s Dream, because he said that that comedy, written to celebrate a noble marriage, was also well suited to celebrate my divorce from a part of the terrestrial globe which perhaps I had not particularly loved.

We said good-bye at the theatre. I told him not to come to the truck with me, I preferred that we leave each other in that strange place which had been the scene of our curious relationship. I never saw him again.

In October of 1939, in my study in Lourenço Marques, a dispatch passed across my desk. It was a request from the British Consulate in Mozambique for the recovery of the body of a subject of His British Majesty, deceased in Portuguese territory. The subject was named Wilfred Cotton, sixty-two years of age, born in London, died in the district of Kaniemba. Only then, when the tacit understanding that I had stipulated at another time had no more reason to be, human curiosity got the better of me and I rushed to the British Consulate.

I was received by the consul, a good friend of mine. He seemed surprised when I revealed to him my old acquaintanceship with Wilfred Cotton, and even appeared slightly amazed that I did not know he had been a great Shakespearean actor, much loved by the English public, who had disappeared from the civilized world years before without anyone ever succeeding in tracing him. With confidentiality that was not usual with him, the consul also wanted to reveal to me the reasons that had induced Sir Wilfred Cotton to go off to die in that remote corner of the world. I believe that to report them would add little to this story. The reasons were generous, noble, perhaps pathetic. They would have suited not at all badly a play by Shakespeare.

THE BACKWARDS GAME

When Maria do Carmo Meneses de Sequeira died, I was gazing at The Young Ladies in Waiting by Velásquez in the Prado Museum. It was a July noon and I did not know that she was dying. I remained looking at the picture until quarter past twelve, then I left slowly, trying to carry away in my memory the expression of the figure in the background. I remember that I thought of Maria do Carmo’s words: “The key to the picture is in the figure in the background — it’s a backwards game.” I crossed the garden and took the bus as far as the Puerta del Sol, had dinner in the hotel — a well-chilled gazpacho and fruit — and went to lie down in the dimness of my room in order to escape the midday heat.

The telephone woke me around five, or perhaps it didn’t wake me. I found myself in a strange drowsiness. Outside hummed the city traffic and inside hummed the air conditioner, which in my consciousness, however, was the motor of a little blue tugboat that crossed the mouth of the Tagus at twilight while Maria do Carmo and I watched it. “There’s a call from Lisbon,” the voice of the telephone operator told me. Then I heard the little electric discharge of the switch and a masculine voice, indifferent and low. He asked my name and then said, “I am Nuno Meneses de Sequeira. Maria do Carmo died at noon. The funeral will be tomorrow at five. It was her express wish that I call you.” The telephone made a click and I said, “Hello, hello.” “They hung up, sir,” said the operator. “The connection is broken.”

I took the Lusitania Express at midnight. I carried with me only a small suitcase with the bare necessities, and asked the concierge to hold my room for two days. The station was almost deserted at that hour. I had not reserved a couchette, and the conductor assigned me a compartment at the end of the train where there was one other passenger, a corpulent man who snored. I prepared myself with resignation for a night of insomnia, but contrary to my expectation I slept soundly until the outskirts of Talavera de la Reina. Then I lay motionless, awake, looking out the dark window at the dark desert of the Estremadura. I had many hours to think about Maria do Carmo.

“Saudade,” said Maria do Carmo, “yearning. It isn’t a word, it’s a category of the spirit. Only the Portuguese are able to feel it, because they have this word in order to say that they have it. A great poet said this.” And then she began to talk about Fernando Pessoa. I called for her at her home in Rua das Chagas about six o’clock in the afternoon. She was waiting for me behind a window. When she saw me enter Largo Camñes, she opened the heavy front door and we went down toward the harbor, wandering through Rua dos Fanqueiros and Rua dos Douradores. “Let’s take a Fernandian itinerary,” she said. “These were the favorite places of Bernardo Soares, assistant bookkeeper — semi-heteronomous by definition — for the city of Lisbon. It was here that he practiced his metaphysics, in this barber shop.”

At that hour the Baixa, the lower part of the city, was crowded with hurrying, shouting people. The offices of the navigation companies and the commercial businesses were closing their doors. At the tram stops there were long lines. You could hear the propagandizing cry of the shoeshine boys and the newspaper sellers. In the confusion we slipped into Rua da Prata, crossed Rua da Conceição, and went down toward the Terreiro do Paço, white and sad, where the first ferries crowded with commuters were sailing for the opposite bank of the Tagus. “This is really an Álvaro de Campos zone,” said Maria do Carmo. “In a few streets we’ve passed from one heteronomous to the other.’’

At that hour the light of Lisbon was white toward the mouth of the river and pink on the hills, the eighteenth-century buildings looked like an oleograph, and the Tagus was furrowed by a myriad of boats. We went on toward the first quays, those quays where Álvaro de Campos went to wait for no one, as Maria do Carmo said, and she recited some verse from the Ode Marittima, the passage in which the shape of the little steamer is outlined on the horizon and Campos feels a flywheel begin to revolve in his breast.

Dusk was falling on the city, the first lights were lit, the Tagus glistened with iridescent reflections. In Maria do Carmo’s eyes there was a great sadness. “Maybe you’re too young to understand — at your age I wouldn’t have understood, I wouldn’t have imagined that life was like a game that I used to play when I was a little girl in Buenos Aires. Pessoa is a genius because he understood the reversal of real and imagined things. His poetry is a juego del revés, a backwards game.”

The train stopped. From the window the lights of the border town could be seen. My traveling companion had the surprised, uneasy look of one who has suddenly been awakened by the light. The policeman carefully turned the pages of my passport. “You come to our country often,” he said. “What do you find so interesting here?” “Baroque poetry,” I answered: “What did you say?” he murmured. “A lady,” I said. “A lady with a strange name — Violante do Céu.” “Is she beautiful?’’ he inquired archly. “Maybe,’’ I said. “She’s been dead for three centuries and she always lived in a convent. She was a nun.” He shook his head and smoothed his mustache with a mischievous air, stamped my visa, and handed me my passport. “You Italians always love to joke,” he said. “Do you like Totò?” “Very much,” I said, “and do you?” “I’ve seen all his films,” he said. “I like Alberto Sordi better.”

Our compartment was the last to be checked. The door was closed with a thud. After a few seconds someone on the platform waved a lantern and the train began to move. The lights went out again. Only the pale blue lamp remained. It was the middle of the night. I was entering Portugal as I had many other times in my life. Maria do Carmo was dead. I felt a strange sensation, as if from on high I were watching another me who, one July night, inside a compartment of a semi-dark train, was entering a foreign country in order to go to see a woman whom he knew well and who was dead. It was a sensation that I had never fell before and it made me think that it had something to do with the backwards-ness.

“The game was like this,” said Maria do Carmo. “We made a circle — four or five children — we counted off, and the child whose turn it was went into the middle. He chose anyone he wanted and tossed him a word, any word at all—mariposa, for example. And that child had to pronounce it backwards immediately, but without thinking it over, because the other one was counting — one, two, three, four, five — and at five he won. But if you were able to say asopiram in time, then you were the winner of the game, you went into the middle of the circle and tossed your word at whomever you wanted.”

Climbing toward the city, Maria do Carmo told me about her Buenos Aires childhood as a daughter of exiles. I imagined a courtyard on the outskirts of the city, populated by children, sad, impoverished holidays. “It was full of Italians,” she said. “My father had an old horn-type gramophone and he had brought some fado records with him from Portugal. It was 1939. The radio said that Franco’s forces had taken Madrid. He cried and put on the records. In his last months I remember him like this, in pajamas in his armchair, crying in silence, listening to the fados of Hilário and of Tomás Alcaide. I would escape to the courtyard and play the juego del revés.”

Night had fallen. The Terreiro do Papo was almost deserted. The bronze horseman, green from the salty air, seemed absurd. “Let’s go to Alfama for something to eat,” said Maria do Carmo. “Arroz de cabidela, for instance. It’s a Sephardic dish. The Jews don’t tear the neck off the hen, they cut off the head, and they make the rice with the blood. I know a tavern where they make it like no other place. We’ll be there in five minutes.”

A yellow tram passed, slowly, rattling, full of tired faces. “I know what you’re thinking,” she said. “Why did I marry my husband? Why do I live in that absurd palace? Why am I here playing at being a countess? When he arrived in Buenos Aires he was a courteous, elegant officer, I was a poor, sad young girl. From my window all I could see was that courtyard. And he took me away from that grayness, from a house with dim lights and the radio turned on at supper time. In spite of everything, I can’t leave him. I can’t forget.”

My traveling companion asked if he could have the pleasure of inviting me for coffee. He was a jovial, ceremonious Spaniard who frequently traveled that line. In the dining car we talked amiably, exchanging detailed and formal impressions of the many places we had in common. “The Portuguese have good coffee,” he said, “but this doesn’t help them much, so it seems. They’re so melancholy. They lack charm, don’t you think so?” I told him that maybe they had substituted saudade for charm. He agreed, but preferred charm. “There’s only one life,” he said. “You have to know how to live, dear sir.” I didn’t ask how he managed this himself, and we talked of something else — sports, I think. He adored skiing, the mountains. Portugal was really unliveable from this point of view. I objected that there were mountains there, too. “Oh, the Serra da Estrela!” he exclaimed. “It’s an imitation of a mountain. In order to get to two thousand meters you have to put up an antenna.” “It’s a maritime country,” I said, “a country of people who leap into the ocean. They’ve given the world urbane, dignified madmen, anti-abolitionists, and poets ill with homesickness.” “By the way,” he asked, “what’s the name of that poet you mentioned tonight?” “Soror Violante do Ceu,” I said. “Her name is splendid in Spanish, too — Madre Violante del Cielo. She was a great Baroque poetess. She spent her life sublimating her desire for a world which she had renounced.” “Is she better than Gongora?” he asked with a certain absent-mindedness. “Different,” I said, “with less charm and more saudade, naturally.”

The arroz de cabidela had a most refined taste and a repugnant appearance. It was served on a large earthenware tray with a wooden spoon. The boiled blood and wine made a dense, brown sauce. There were marble tables between a row of barrels and a zinc counter dominated by the corpulence of Senhor Tavares. At midnight an emaciated-looking fado singer arrived, accompanied by an elderly violist and a distinguished gentleman with a guitar. She sang ancient, faint, languid fados. Senhor Tavares turned out the lights and lit the candles on the tables. The transient patrons had already gone, only the devotees remained. The place was filled with smoke. At every finale there was discreet, solemn applause. Some voices requested Amor é agua que corre, Travessa da Palma. Maria do Carmo was pale, or maybe it was the candlelight, or maybe she had drunk too much. She had a fixed stare and her pupils were huge. The candlelight danced in them. She seemed to be more beautiful than usual. She lit a cigarette abstractedly, lost in revery. “Enough, now,” she said. “Let’s go. Saudade, yes. but in small doses — it’s better not to get indigestion.”

The Alfama was semi-deserted. We stopped there on the belvedere of Santa Luzia. There was a pergola thick with bougainvillea. Leaning on the parapet we looked at the lights along the Tagus. Maria do Carmo recited Lisbon Revisited, by Alvaro de Campos, a poem in which a person is at the same window as in his childhood, but it isn’t the same person anymore and it isn’t the same window anymore, because time changes men and things. We began to go down toward my hotel. She took my hand and said to me, “Listen — who knows what we are? Who knows where we are? Who knows why we are here? Listen — we live this life as if it were a dream. Tonight, for instance, you must think you are me and that you’re squeezing yourself between your arms. I think that I’m you squeezing me between my arms.”

“Anyway, it isn’t that I love Góngora so much,” said my traveling companion. “I don’t understand him — you need the vocabulary — and then I’m not cut out for poetry. I prefer the short story — Blasco Ibañez, for instance. Do you like Blasco Ibañez?” “Moderately,” I said. “Perhaps it’s not my genre.” “Then who? Pérez Galdós, maybe?” “Yes, now we’re getting somewhere,” I said.

The waiter served us coffee on a shining tray. He had a sleepy face. “I’m making an exception for you gentlemen because the dining car isn’t open now. It comes to twenty crowns.” “In spite of everything, the Portuguese are kind,” said my traveling companion. “Why in spite of everything?” I said. “They’re kind. Let’s be fair.”

We were approaching a zone of shipyards and factories. It was not yet full day. “They choose to be on Greenwich time, but in reality, according to the sun, it’s an hour earlier. And then, have you ever seen a Portuguese bullfight? They don’t kill the bull, you know. The bullfighter dances around him for half an hour and then at the end makes a symbolic gesture with his arm — a thrust like a sword. A herd of cows comes in with cowbells, the bull troops back into the herd, and everyone goes home—olé. If this seems like a bullfight to you …” “Maybe it’s more elegant,” I said. “To kill someone it isn’t always necessary to murder him. Sometimes a gesture is enough.” “Oh, come on!” he said. “The duel between man and bull has to be mortal, otherwise it’s a ridiculous pantomime.” “But all ceremonies are stylizations,” I objected. “This one keeps only the wrappings, the gesture. It seems more noble to me, more abstract.” My traveling companion appeared to reflect. “Could be,” he said without conviction. “Oh, look, we’re at the outskirts of Lisbon. We’d better go back to the compartment and get our luggage ready.”

“It’s a rather delicate thing. We didn’t have the courage to ask you about it … We’ve discussed it … It can present some inconveniences, too … I mean the most that can happen to you is that they refuse your entrance visa at the border … Listen, we don’t want to keep you in the dark about anything … At first, Jorge was the courier. He was the only one who had a passport from the UN … Do you know what time it is in Winnipeg? He teaches in a Canadian university. We still haven’t found a way to replace him.”

Nine o’clock in the evening on a bench in Piazza Navona in Rome. I looked at him. Perhaps my expression was perplexed. I didn’t know what to think. I felt vaguely embarrassed, at a disadvantage, like talking with a person you’ve known for ages and one day he reveals to you something you didn’t expect.

“We don’t want to involve you … It would be a special thing … Believe me, we feel terrible about having to ask you … Even if you say no to us, our friendship for you won’t change, you know … So … Think aboul it… We don’t ask for an answer right now. We just want you to know that you’d be a great help to us.”

We went to have an ice cream at a café in the piazza. We chose a little table outdoors, far away from the people. Francisco had a tense expression. Perhaps he, too, was embarrassed. He knew that this was something that even if I refused, I would never be able to forget. Maybe he was really afraid of my possible remorse. We ordered two water ices at the cafe. We remained silent a long time, slowly sipping the ices. “There are five letters,” said Francisco, “and a sum of money for the families of the two writers who were arrested last month.” He told me their names and waited for me to speak. I said nothing and drank a little water. “I believe it’s not necessary to tell you that it’s clean money — it’s the demonstration of solidarity from three democratic Italian parties we asked for help. If you consider it relevant, I can have you meet with the representatives of the parties in question. They will confirm it to you.” I said that I did not consider it relevant.

We paid, we took a walk around the piazza. “All right,” I said. “I’ll leave in three days.” He gave me an energetic, rapid handshake, thanked me. “Now, remember what you have to do. It’s a very simple thing.” He wrote a number on a ticket. “When you arrive in Lisbon, telephone this number. If a man’s voice answers, hang up. Keep on trying until a woman’s voice answers. Then you must say, ‘A new translation of Fernando Pessoa has come out.’ She will tell you how to meet. She’s the one who keeps the exiles who live in Rome in touch with their families at home.”

It had been very easy, as Francisco had predicted. At the border they did not even have me open my suitcase. At Lisbon I stayed in the center behind the Trinity Theatre, two steps from the national library, in a small hotel where there was a cordial, talkative Algarvite concierge. At my first attempt at telephoning, a woman’s voice had answered me, and I had said, “Good evening. I’m an Italian. I’d like to let you know that a new translation of Fernando Pessoa has come out. Perhaps it would interest you.” “Let’s meet in half an hour at Bertrand’s Bookstore,” she had replied, “in the periodical room. I’m in my forties, I have dark hair, and I’m wearing a yellow dress.”

Nuno Meneses de Sequeira received me at two o’clock in the afternoon. When I had telephoned in the morning, a servant had answered. “The Count is resting now. He can’t receive you this morning. Come by at two in the afternoon.” “But where is the lady’s body?” “I don’t know what to tell you, sir, excuse me. Come at two in the afternoon, please.” I got a room at my usual small hotel behind the Trinity Theatre, took a shower, and changed my clothes. “I haven’t seen you for some time,” the concierge told me, the cordial Algarvite. “Five months the end of February,” I said. “And your work,” he asked, “still for libraries?” “That’s my fate,” I answered.

Largo Camões was bathed in sunlight. In the little square there were pigeons perched on the head of the poet, some pensioners on the benches, shy, dignified old people, a soldier and a serving girl — the sadness of Sunday. Rua das Chagas was deserted. A rare unoccupied taxi went by. The sea breeze was not enough to alleviate the thick, damp heal. I stopped in a café to search for a little cool. It was secluded and dirty. On the ceiling the blades of an enormous fan whirred uselessly. The owner dozed behind the counter. I asked for an iced sumo. He waved away the flies with a rag and wearily opened the refrigerator. I had not eaten and was not hungry. I sat down at a table and lit a cigarette, waiting for the time.

Nuno Meneses de Sequeira received me in a Baroque salon with many stuccos on the ceiling and two huge gnawed tapestries on the walls. He was dressed in black, had a shiny face, and his bald skull glistened. He was seated in an armchair of crimson velvet. When I entered, he stood up, bowed his head imperceptibly, and invited me to sit down on a divan under the window. The shutters were closed and a heavy odor of old upholstery stagnated in the room.

“How did she die?” I asked. “She had an ugly disease,” he said. “You did not know?” I shook my head. ‘“What kind of disease?” Nuno Meneses de Sequeira folded his hands on his lap. “An ugly disease,” he said. “She telephoned me in Madrid two weeks ago. She didn’t say anything to me about it, not even a hint. Did she know about it yet?” “She was already very ill, and she was well informed.” “Why didn’t she tell me anything?” “Perhaps she did not consider it opportune,” said Nuno Meneses de Sequeira. “I would be grateful if you did not come to the funeral. It will be strictly private.” “I had no intention of doing so,” I reassured him. “I am grateful to you,” he murmured faintly.

The silence in the room became tangible, uncomfortable. “May I see her?” I asked. Nuno Meneses de Sequeira looked at me a long time, ironically, I thought. “It is impossible,” he said. “She is at the Cuf Clinic. She died there, and then the doctor ordered the casket closed. It was not possible to leave it open, given the conditions.”

I thought of leaving. I wondered why he had telephoned me, even if it had been Maria do Carmo’s wish, what the purpose was in having me come to Lisbon. There was something that escaped me, or maybe there was nothing strange. The situation was simply painful, and it was useless to prolong it further. But Nuno Meneses de Sequeira had not finished talking. He kept his hands on the arms of the armchair as if he were about to rise at any moment. He had watery eyes and an expression that was tense, ill-tempered, or perhaps it was the nervous tension that he must have felt. “You never understood her,” he said. “You are too young. You were much younger than Maria do Carmo.” “And you were much older,” I would have liked to say, but I kept quiet. “You work in philology, ah, ah.” He made a little laugh. “Libraries are your life. You could not understand such a woman.” “Please explain yourself,” I said. Nuno Meneses de Sequeira stood up, went to the window, opened the shutters slightly. “I would like to dispel an illusion,” he said, “that of your having known Maria do Carmo. You knew only a fictional Maria do Carmo.” “Please explain yourself,” I repeated.

“Well,” smiled Nuno Meneses de Sequeira, “I imagine Maria do Carmo must have told you a tearful story of her unhappy childhood in New York, a republican father who died heroically in the Spanish Civil War. You will do well to listen to me, dear sir. I have never been to New York in my life. Maria do Carmo is the daughter of large landowners. She had a golden childhood. Fifteen years ago, when I met her, she was twenty-seven years old and was the most courted woman in Lisbon. I had returned from a diplomatic mission in Spain, and we both had our love for our country in common.” He paused as if to give greater weight to his words. “Love for our country,” he repeated. “I do not know if I make myself understood.” “It depends in which sense you use the word,” I said. Nuno Meneses de Sequeira adjusted the knot in his tie, drew out from his pocket a handkerchief, assumed an attitude both dry and patient. “You will do well to listen to me. Maria do Carmo liked a game very much. She played it all her life. We always played it by mutual consent.” I made a gesture with my hand as if to prevent him from continuing, but he went on: “She must have reached her backwards side.” In a room far away a pendulum clock struck. “Unless she reached the backwards side of her backwards side,” I said. Nuno Meneses de Sequeira smiled again. “How beautiful,” he said. “Indeed, it could be a sentence by Maria do Carmo. It is logical that you believe this hypothesis, even if it is a presumption, believe me.” There was a vein of contempt in his soft voice. I remained silent, my eyes lowered, looking at the carpet. It was an Arraiolos carpet of deep blue with some gray peacocks.

“I am distressed that you oblige me to be more explicit,” continued Nuno Meneses de Sequeira. “I assume that you like Pessoa.” ‘I like him very much,” I admitted. “Then perhaps you are also aware of his translations that go abroad.” “What do you mean?” I asked. “Nothing special,” he said. “Only this: Maria do Carmo received many translations from abroad. You understand me, do you not?” “I don’t understand you,” I said. “Let us say that you do not want to understand me,” Nuno Meneses de Sequeira corrected me, “that you prefer not to understand me, and I understand that you prefer not to understand me. Reality is unpleasant and you prefer dreams. I beg you not to insist on details — details are always so vulgar. Let us limit ourselves to the concept.”

From the window came the sound of a siren. Perhaps a ship had entered the harbor. Immediately I felt an immense desire to be one of the passengers on that ship, to enter the harbor of an unknown city called Lisbon, and to have to telephone an unknown woman to tell her that a new translation of Fernando Pessoa had come out, and that woman was called Maria do Carmo. She would come to Bertrand’s Bookstore wearing a yellow dress, she loved the fado and Sephardic food, and I already knew all this. But that passenger, who was I and who was gazing at Lisbon from the deck of the ship, did not know it yet, and everything would be identical and new for him. And this was saudade. Maria do Carmo was right — it’s not a word, it’s a category of the spirit. In its way it, too, was backwards.

Nuno Meneses de Sequeira observed me in silence. He seemed calm and satisfied. “Today is the first day of Maria do Carmo’s new life,” I said. “You could at least concede a truce.” He nodded his head imperceptibly as if in assent, as if to say, “That’s really what I wanted to propose to you.” And then I said, “I believe we have nothing further to say to each other.” He rang a bell and a servant in a striped jacket appeared. “Domingos, the gentleman is leaving.” The servant stepped aside at the door so that I could precede him. “Ah — one moment,” said Nuno Meneses de Sequeira. “Maria do Carmo left you this.” He extended a letter that, was on a little silver tray on a small table next to his armchair. I look it and put it in my pocket. When I was at the door, Nuno Meneses de Sequeira said something else to me. “I feel sorry for you,” he said. “The feeling is mutual,” I said, though probably with a different nuance. I walked down the stone stairs, went out into the afternoon light of Lisbon. A taxi drove by and I hailed it.

In the hotel I opened the letter. On a sheet of white paper was written, in capital letters and without accents, the word SEVER. I reversed it mechanically in my mind and then under it I, loo, wrote with a pencil, in capitals and without accents, REVES. I meditated for a moment on that ambiguous word, which could be Spanish or French and have two absolutely different meanings. I thought that I had no desire to return to Madrid. I would have a check sent from Italy and would write to the Madrid hotel to send my luggage. I telephoned the front desk and asked the concierge to find an agency. I needed a plane ticket for the next day, the airline was not important, the first available flight. “What, are you leaving already?” asked the concierge. “You’ve never had such a short visit before.” “What time is it?” I asked. “It’s five-fifteen by my watch, sir.” “Well, then, wake me for supper, around nine.” I undressed calmly, closed the shutters. The sheets were cool. Again the faraway wail of a siren reached me, muffled by the pillow on which I rested my head.

Perhaps Maria do Carmo had finally achieved her backwards side. I wished for her that it was as she had desired, and thought that the Spanish word and the French one perhaps coincided at one point. It seemed to me that this was the vanishing point of a perspective, as when the perspective lines of a picture are drawn. And at that moment the siren wailed again, the ship docked, I went slowly down the gangplank and began to walk along the quays. The harbor was completely deserted. The quays were the perspective lines that verged toward the vanishing point of a picture. The picture was The Young Ladies in Waiting by Velásquez. The figure in the background, on which the lines of the quays converged, had that melancholy, enigmatic expression that was impressed on my memory. And how funny — that figure was Maria do Carmo in her yellow dress. I was saying to her, “I understand why you have that expression, why you see the backwards side of the picture. What do you see from that point? Tell me. Wait for me to come, too. I’m coming to see now.” And I walked toward that point. And at that moment. I found myself in another dream.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Born in Pisa in 1943, Antonio Tabucchi studied at the University of Pisa and did research at the Scuola Normale there. He currently teaches Portuguese Language and Literature at the University of Genoa and is married to Maria José de Lancastre, with whom he translated and edited the Italian edition of the works of Fernando Pessoa (Una sola moltitudine, 1979) for Adelphi. He has two children and lives for most of the year at his home at Vecchiano in the Tuscan countryside, although he also spends long periods in Lisbon, which he regards as his adoptive city. As part of the “European Foundation Libraries in Extra-European Countries” project (sponsored by the Gulbenkian Foundation in Lisbon and the University of Genoa), Tabucchi has made extensive research trips to Latin America and India.

Antonio Tabucchi made his debut as a novelist with Piazza d’Italia (Bompiani, 1975). This winner of the I’lnedito Prize was followed by 11 piccolo naviglio (Mondadori, 1978), and II gioco del rovescio (II Saggiatore, 1981), which won the Pozzale-Luigi Russo Prize. Two additional books, Donna di Porto Pun and Notturno indiano, were published by Sellerio in 1983 and 1984, respectively. Tabucchi’s most recent collection of stories, Piccoh equivoci senza importanza. was published by Feltrinelli in 1985 and won the prestigious Comisso Prize for that year. Tabucchi’s work has been translated into German, Spanish, Portuguese, Polish, and Hungarian. This edition of his prize-winning Il gioco del rovescio (here titled Letter from Casablanca) marks his first appearance in English.

Content

Antonio Tabucchi
Letter from Casablanca

LETTER FROM CASABLANCA

SATURDAY AFTERNOONS

HEAVENLY BLISS

DOLORES IBARRURI SHEDS BITTER TEARS

THE LITTLE GATSBY

VOICES

THEATRE

THE BACKWARDS GAME

ABOUT THE AUTHOR