Requiem: A Hallucination
In this enchanting and evocative novel, Antonio Tabucchi takes the reader on a dream-like trip to Portugal, a country he is deeply attached to. He spent many years there as director of the Italian Cultural Institute in Lisbon. He even wrote Requiem in Portuguese; it had to be translated into Italian for publication in his native Italy.
Requiem's narrator has an appointment to meet someone on a quay by the Tagus at twelve. But, it turns out, not twelve noon, twelve midnight, so he has a long time to while away. As the day unfolds, he has many encounters — a young junky, a taxi driver who is not familiar with the streets, several waiters, a gypsy, a cemetery keeper, the mysterious Isabel, an accordionist, in all almost two dozen people both real and illusionary. Finally he meets The Guest, the ghost of the long dead great poet Fernando Pessoa. Part travelog, part autobiography, part fiction, and even a bit of a cookbook, Requiem becomes an homage to a country and its people, and a farewell to the past as the narrator lays claim to a literary forebear who, like himself, is an evasive and many-sided personality.
NOTE
THIS STORY, which takes place on a Sunday in July in a hot, deserted Lisbon, is the
Besides being a “sonata”, this
Should anyone remark that this
A.T.
THE CHARACTERS
ENCOUNTERED IN THIS BOOK
The Young Junky
The Lame Lottery-Ticket Seller
The Taxi Driver
The Waiter at the Brasileira
The Old Gypsy Woman
The Cemetery Keeper
Tadeus
Senhor Casimiro
Senhor Casimiro’s Wife
The Porter at the Pensão Isadora
Isadora
Viriata
My Father as a Young Man
The Barman at the Museum of Ancient Art
The Copyist
The Ticket Collector
The Lighthousekeeper’s Wife
The Manager of the Casa do Alentejo
Isabel
The Seller of Stories
Mariazinha
My Guest
The Accordionist
REQUIEM
I
I THOUGHT: the guy isn’t going to turn up. And then I thought: I can’t call him a “guy,” he’s a great poet, perhaps the greatest poet of the twentieth century, he died years ago, I should treat him with respect or, at least, with deference. Meanwhile, however, I was beginning to get fed up. The Late July sun was blazing down and I thought: Here I am on holiday, I was having a really nice time at my friends’ house in the country in Azeitão, so why did I agree to this meeting here on the quayside? it’s utterly absurd. And, at my feet, I glimpsed the silhouette of my shadow and that seemed absurd to me too, incongruous, senseless; it was a brief shadow, crushed by the midday sun, and it was then that I remembered: He said twelve o’clock, but perhaps he meant twelve o’clock at night, because that’s when ghosts appear, at midnight. I got up and walked along the quayside. The traffic along the avenue had almost stopped, only a few cars passed now, some with sunshades on their roof-racks, people going to the beaches at Caparica, it was after all a sweltering hot day. I thought: What am I doing here in Lisbon on the last Sunday in July? and I started walking faster in order to reach Santos as quickly as possible, it might be a little cooler in the small park there.” The park was deserted, apart from the man at the newspaper stand. I went over to him and the man smiled. Have you read the news? he asked cheerily, Benfica won. I shook my head, no, I hadn’t seen the news yet, and the man said: it was an evening game in Spain, a benefit match. I bought the sports paper,
I leaned back on the bench and closed my eyes. It was horribly hot, I didn’t feel like reading
It’s the big draw tomorrow, said a voice, wouldn’t you like to buy a lottery ticket? I opened my eyes. The voice belonged to a small man in his seventies, who was dressed modestly but bore on his face and in his manner the traces of a former dignity. He came limping over to me and I thought: I know this man, and then I said to him: Just a moment, we’ve met before somewhere, you’re the Lame Lottery-Ticket Seller, I know you from somewhere else. Where? asked the man, sitting down on my bench and breathing a sigh of relief. I don’t know, I said, I couldn’t say now, I just have an absurd feeling, the idea that I’ve come across you in a book somewhere, but it might just be the heat, or hunger, heat and hunger can play funny tricks on you sometimes. I have the feeling you’ve got quite a few odd ideas, said the old man, forgive me for saying so, but you do seem a touch obsessive. No, I said, that’s not my problem, my problem is that I don’t know why I’m here, it’s as if it were all a hallucination, I can’t really explain it to you, I don’t even know what I mean, let’s just say I was in Azeitão, do you know Azeitão? well, that’s where I was, at a friends’ house, in their garden, sitting under a big tree there, a mulberry tree I think, I was stretched out in a deckchair reading a book I particularly like and then I suddenly found myself here, ah, now I remember, it was in
The Lame Lottery-Ticket Seller stretched out his legs and leaned back on the bench. And now, if you’ll forgive me, he said, I’m going to read for a bit, I devote a few hours every day to reading. He took a book out of his pocket. It was a magazine,
The Lame Lottery-Ticket Seller regarded me with an air of despondency. Look, he said, do you want to do a swap? I’ll lend you my
II
I’M TERRIBLY SORRY, said the Taxi Driver, but I don’t know where Rua das Pedras Negras is, could you give me some directions? He smiled a smile full of white teeth and went on: I’m from São Tomé, you see, I’ve only been working in Lisbon for a month and I don’t know the streets yet, in my own country I was an engineer but nothing needs engineering there, so here I am working as a taxi driver and I don’t even know the streets, I mean I know the city really well, I never get lost, it’s just that I don’t know the
Only then did I realise that I was sweating profusely. My shirt was drenched and it clung to my chest and back. I took off my jacket, but even then I went on sweating. Look, I said, perhaps you can help me, my shirt’s sopping wet, I need to buy a new one, can you suggest where I might go? The Taxi Driver braked and turned to me. Do you feel ill? he asked, a worried expression on his face. No, I replied, I don’t know, I mean I don’t think so, it must be the heat, the heat and some sort of anxiety attack, sometimes anxiety can make you sweat, anyway I need a clean shirt to put on. The man lit a cigarette and thought for a moment. Today’s Sunday, he said, the shops are all shut. I tried to wind down the window on my side, but the handle was broken. This fact only increased my anxiety, I could feel the sweat pouring from my head and a few drops fell onto my knees. The Taxi Driver was looking at me with real concern now. Then he said, I know, I’ve got a great idea, I’ll give you my shirt, if you don’t mind wearing it that is. You can’t do that, I said, you can’t drive around naked from the waist up. I’ve got a T-shirt on underneath, he replied, I can just wear that. But there must be somewhere in the whole of Lisbon where I can buy a shirt, I said, perhaps a shopping centre, a market, I don’t know. Carcavelos! exclaimed the Taxi Driver triumphantly, there must be a Sunday market in Carcavelos, that’s where I live, my wife goes shopping there every Sunday, or is it Thursday? I don’t know, I said, I’m not sure that’s a very good idea, there’s a beach at Carcavelos and today’s Sunday, it’ll be packed, it could be dreadful, can’t you think of anywhere here in Lisbon? The man struck his forehead with the palm of his hand. The gypsies! he exclaimed, I’d forgotten about the gypsies! He smiled his broad, candid smile again and said: Don’t you worry, my friend, you’ll get your shirt, I’ve just remembered that on Sundays the gypsies set up stalls at the entrance to the Cemitério dos Prazeres, they sell everything, shoes, socks, shirts, T-shirts, let’s try them, the only problem is I don’t know how to get there, I mean, I know vaguely where the Cemitério dos Prazeres is, but I don’t know which route to take, can you help me at all? Let’s see, I said, I’m a bit confused too, let’s review the situation, where are we now? We’re at Cais do Sodré, said the Taxi Driver, on the avenue, almost opposite the station. Right, I said, I think I know how to get there, but to start with let’s go up Rua do Alecrim, I’d like to drop in at the Brasileira to buy a bottle of wine. The Taxi Driver drove round the square and set off up Rua do Alecrim, he switched on the radio and gave me a sideways look. Are you sure you’re OK? he asked. I reassured him and leaned back in the seat. Now I really was bathed in sweat. I undid the top buttons of my shirt and rolled up the sleeves. I’ll wait here with the engine running, said the man, stopping on the corner of Largo Camões, but do be quick, because if a policeman turns up, he’ll move me on. I got out of the taxi. The Chiado was deserted apart from a woman, dressed in black and carrying a plastic bag, who was sitting at the foot of the statue of António Ribeiro Chiado. I went into the Brasileira and the barman gave me a mocking look, did you fall in the river? he asked. Worse than that, I said, I seem to have a river inside me, do you have any French champagne? Laurent-Perrier and Veuve Clicquot, he said, they’re both the same price and they’re nice and chilled. Which would you recommend? I asked. Look, he said, with the air of one who knows about such things, they’re always advertising Veuve Clicquot, to read the magazines you’d think it was the best champagne in the world, but I find it a touch acidic, besides I don’t like widows, I never have, anyway, if I were you, I’d buy the Laurent-Perrier, especially since, as I said, it’s exactly the same price. Fine, I said, I’ll take the Laurent-Perrier. The barman opened the fridge, wrapped the bottle up and put it in a plastic bag on which was written in red letters: “A Brasileira do Chiado, the oldest café in Lisbon”. I paid, went out into the sun again, still sweating like mad, and got into the taxi. Right, said the Taxi Driver, now you have to tell me the way. It’s easy, I said, drive into Largo Camões and where Silva’s the jeweller’s is, take the road going down, it’s called Calçada do Combro, then take Calçada da Estrela and when you reach Largo da Estrela, go up Domingos Sequeiros as far as Campo de Ourique, and then on the left you’ll find Saraiva de Carvalho which will take us straight to Largo do Cemitério dos Prazeres. You’ll have to tell me the streets one at a time, my friend, said the Taxi Driver pulling out, I’m sorry but you’ll have to be patient. I said, let me just close my eyes for a minute or two, I’m exhausted, look, it’s easy to remember: Calçada do Combro, Calçada da Estrela, Largo da Estrela, Domingos Sequeiros, Campo de Ourique, and when we get there I’ll tell you.
I’d finally managed to open the window, but the air that entered was hot. I closed my eyes and thought about other things, about my childhood, I remembered how in summer I used to go on my bike to fetch cold water from the “Le Caroline” with a bottle and a straw basket. The car braked suddenly and I opened my eyes. The driver had got out of the taxi and was looking about him disconsolately. I’ve taken the wrong road, he said, look, I’ve come up the wrong road, we’re in Campo de Ourique, I took the road on the left as you said, but I don’t think it was Saraiva de Carvalho, I took another road and it’s one-way only, see what I mean? all the cars are parked facing in the other direction, I’ve come up a one-way street. It doesn’t matter, I said, the important thing is that you turned left, now we can just drive along this one-way street until we reach Largo dos Prazeres. The Taxi Driver placed his hand on his heart and said very gravely: I can’t, I’m sorry but I really can’t, I still haven’t sorted out my taxi licence and if a policeman sees me, he’ll slap a huge fine on me and then what will become of me? I’ll have to go back to São Tomé, that’s what, I’m sorry, but I really can’t do it. Look, I said, the city’s empty today, anyway, don’t worry, if a policeman stops us, I’ll talk to him, I’ll pay the fine, I’ll take full responsibility, I promise, please, I’m sweating like a pig here, I need a shirt, or even two shirts, please, you don’t want me to get ill here in this unknown street in Campo de Ourique, do you?
I didn’t mean to threaten him, I was being serious, but he clearly took my words as a threat, because he scrambled back into the taxi and drove off without a word of protest. If that’s what you want, he said, in a resigned voice, I don’t want you being ill in my taxi, I haven’t got my licence yet, you see, it would ruin me. We drove the wrong way down the length of the street which, for all I know, may well have been Saraiva de Carvalho itself, and came out in Largo dos Prazeres. The gypsies were right by the entrance to the cemetery, they’d set out a small market on wooden tables and blankets spread on the ground. I got out of the taxi and asked the driver to wait for me. The Largo was empty and the gypsies were stretched out asleep on the pavement. I went over to a table occupied by an old gypsy woman dressed all in black but for the yellow scarf on her head. On her table lay a pile of Lacoste polo shirts, perfect but for the absence of the crocodile. Excuse me, I said, I’d like to buy something. What’s wrong with you, my dear? asked the Old Gypsy Woman when she saw my shirt, have you got the fever or something? I don’t know what’s wrong with me, I replied, I’ve been sweating like mad and I need a clean shirt, possibly two. I’ll tell you what’s wrong with you in a minute, said the Old Gypsy Woman, but first, my dear, buy the shirts, you can’t go around like that, if you leave sweat to dry on your back it can make you ill. What do you think would be best, I asked, a shirt or a polo shirt? The Old Gypsy Woman appeared to think for a moment. Then she said, I’d advise you to buy a Lacoste polo shirt, they’re nice and cool, it’s five hundred
I went through the gate into the cemetery. There was no one there, just a cat strolling amongst the graves nearest the gate. To my right, at the entrance itself, right next to the gate, was a small lodge, the door was open. Excuse me, I said, can I come in? I closed my eyes to accustom them to the darkness, because the room lay in deep shadow. I managed to make out a few coffins piled one on top of the other, a vase of dried flowers and a table with a gravestone leaning against it. Come in, said a voice, and I saw that at the far end of the room, near a vast sideboard, sat a small man. He was wearing glasses and a grey overall and, on his head, a black cap with a plastic peak, like the ones worn by ticket collectors on trains. What can I do for you, sir? he asked, the cemetery’s closed, it’ll be open again soon, it’s lunch time now, I’m the cemetery keeper. Only then did I realise he was having his lunch. He was eating out of a small aluminium tin and was poised with his spoon in mid-air. I’m sorry, I said, I didn’t mean to disturb you, do forgive me. Would you care to join me? asked the Cemetery Keeper, carrying on eating. No, thank you, I said, enjoy your meal but, if you don’t mind, I’ll just wait here until you’ve finished, or I could wait outside if you’d rather.
I thanked him and said goodbye. I picked up my bottle of champagne and went out into the heat. I found the first row on the right and began walking slowly along it. I was feeling terribly anxious again and my heart was pounding hard. It was a modest grave, just a headstone placed on the ground. There he was with his Polish name and above his name was a photograph that I recognised. It was a full-length photograph, he was wearing a shirt with the sleeves rolled up and was leaning against a boat, behind him you could see the sea. I had taken that photograph in 1965, it was in Caparica in September and we were so happy, he’d just got out of prison a week before, thanks to the pressure of public opinion abroad, a French newspaper had said: “The Salazar régime must free all writers,” and there he was, leaning against the boat with the French newspaper in his hands. I went closer to see if I could read the name of the paper, but I couldn’t, it was out of focus in the photograph, other times, I thought, time swallowed up everything, and then I said: Hello, Tadeus, it’s me, I’ve come to visit you. And then I said it again, more loudly this time: Hello Tadeus, it’s me, I’ve come to visit you.
III
COME ON IN THEN, said Tadeus’ voice, you know the way. I closed the door behind me and walked along the corridor. It was dark and I stumbled into a pile of things that toppled over. I paused to pick up the objects I’d stumbled into: books, a wooden toy, the sort you buy at fairs, a Barcelos cockerel, a small statue of a saint, the figure of a friar bought in Caldas* with a huge penis protruding from beneath his habit. Bumping into things always was your speciality, I heard Tadeus’ voice say from the next room. And yours was collecting junk, I replied, you’re stony broke and you go and buy a friar with his willy hanging out, when will you grow up, Tadeus? I heard a guffaw, then Tadeus appeared at the door, silhouetted against the light. Come in, he said, come in, don’t be shy, this is the house I’ve always lived in, the house where you ate, slept, fucked, don’t tell me you don’t recognise it? It isn’t that, I protested, it’s just that there are a few matters I need to clear up, you died without telling me anything, and I’ve spent years agonising over it, now it’s time that I knew, I’m free now, today I feel extraordinarily free, look, I’ve even lost my Super-Ego, it just reached its expiry date, like milk in a carton, I mean it, I feel free, liberated, that’s why I’m here. Have you had lunch? asked Tadeus. No, I said, I had breakfast in the garden where I was this morning, but I haven’t eaten anything since. Let’s go and get something to eat then, said Tadeus, down the road, in Casimiro’s place, just wait till you see what’s in store for you, yesterday I ordered a
We had reached the restaurant. Senhor Casimiro was leaning in the doorway, a white apron covering his enormous belly. Good afternoon, Senhor Casimiro, Tadeus said in greeting, I’ve got a surprise for you, do you recognise this man? you don’t remember him, eh? Well he’s an old friend come back from the void on this blazing hot day, he’s come to see me again before I go to the devil once and for all, and I’ve invited him to eat
The
Senhor Casimiro’s Wife gave an exhausted sigh and placed a hand on her heaving bosom. And there you are, she said, after that your stomach does all the work, you just have to eat it up. Bravo! exclaimed Tadeus, applauding, do you know what that’s called, Casimira? it’s called a first-class lesson in material culture, I’ve always preferred the material to the imaginary, or rather, I’ve always preferred to inflame the imagination with the material, the imagination should be handled with care, even the collective imagination, someone should have told Herr Jung that food always comes before the imagination. I don’t understand a word you’re saying, said Senhor Casimiro’s confused Wife, I haven’t studied like you have, I was brought up in a village and never got beyond primary school. It’s very simple, Casimira, said Tadeus, all I mean is that I’m a materialist, but entirely non-dialectic, which is what distinguishes me from the Marxists, the fact that I’m not a dialectical materialist. You’re certainly “dialectical”, replied Senhor Casimiro’s Wife shyly, you always have been, ever since I’ve known you. That’s a good one, laughed Tadeus, slapping his knee with the palm of his hand, Casimira deserves another glass of Reguengos for that! No, said Senhor Casimiro’s Wife, you don’t want to get me drunk, do you? That’s precisely what you should do, said Tadeus, I bet you’ve never been drunk in your life, have you? You ought to drink half a bottle of Reguengos before going to bed with Senhor Casimiro, you’d be in seventh heaven, you and your husband. Senhor Casimiro’s Wife lowered her eyes and blushed. Look, Senhor Tadeus, she said, it doesn’t matter to me if you choose to make fun of me, you’re an educated man and I’m just an ignorant woman, but making indecent remarks is another matter altogether, if you don’t treat me with more respect I’ll tell my husband. Senhor Casimiro doesn’t mind, replied Tadeus, he’s just a dirty old man, come on now, don’t be angry, Casimira, have another little drink and then bring us the dessert or whatever you’ve prepared today, we have absolute confidence in your desserts.
Tadeus lit a cigar and offered me one. No thanks, I said, it’s too strong for me. Come on, my fearful friend, he said, try it, you need a cigar after
Senhor Casimiro arrived with the dessert. It was a plate of yellow cakes in the form of little boats. They’re
The tram stop was right opposite the restaurant and we waited behind the glass door out of the heat. We heard the tram coming as it rounded the bend, the noise of its wheels reaching us in the silence of the city. Now are you sure you don’t want to sleep at my house? Tadeus asked again. I’m sure, I replied, goodbye Tadeus, rest in peace, I doubt we’ll ever see each other again. Just as well! cried the parrot. I opened the door, crossed the road and boarded the tram.
* Barcelos and Caldas are two towns in north and central Portugal respectively, both famous for their ceramics.
IV
IT WAS AN OLD BUILDING, faded pink, with rickety wooden shutters. The guesthouse stood between a junk shop and a shipping company and on the glass door, which stood ajar, was written: Pensão Isadora. I pushed open the door and went in. Behind the counter, sitting in a wicker armchair, was a man, apparently asleep. He had the
How many letters are there in the Latin alphabet? asked my father’s voice. I looked carefully and there in the half-light was my father. He was standing at the far end of the room, leaning on the dresser, watching me mischievously. He was in his sailor’s uniform, he looked about twenty-something, but he was definitely my father, there was no mistake about that. Dad, I said, what are you doing here in the Pensão Isadora, dressed as a sailor? What are
My Father as a Young Man smiled and smoothed back his hair. But there’s another story you should tell me, he said, you haven’t finished yet. There’s nothing else, I said. Don’t be obtuse, he said, I want to know if you were a good son, how you behaved towards the doctor who operated on me. Look, Dad, I said, I don’t know if I did the right thing, maybe I should have done things differently, I should have just punched the guy, that would have been a braver solution, but I didn’t, that’s why I’m left with this feeling of guilt, instead of smashing his face in, I wrote a story about the conversation I’d had with him and he brought a case against me, alleging it was false, I couldn’t prove to the judge that what I’d said was true and I lost the case. Were you found guilty? my Father as a Young Man asked. It’s not final yet, I said, I appealed and the trial is still going on, but I wish I’d done it differently, I wish I’d punched him, that would have been honourable, radical, in the old tradition. Don’t be hard on yourself, son, said my Father as a Young Man, you did the best thing, it’s better to use the pen than brute force, it’s a more elegant way of delivering a punch. It’s nice of you to comfort me, Dad, I said, because I don’t feel satisfied with myself. That’s why I’m here in this room, said my Father as a Young Man, because I wanted to reassure you, to reassure us both, now that you’ve told me everything, I feel more at peace. I hope so, Dad, I hope you don’t come back again the way you have done recently, it’s frightening, it was becoming unbearable. There’s one thing you should know, said my Father as a Young Man, I didn’t choose to appear in this room, it was your will that called me here, because it was you who wanted me in your dream, and now I only have time to say goodbye, goodbye my son, the maid is just about to knock on the door, I have to leave.
I heard the knocking on the door and opened my eyes, Viriata came in and said: Good afternoon, you’ve slept for exactly an hour and a half, I’m very punctual as you see, I hope you’ve had a good rest. She placed my trousers and my shirt on the edge of the bed and asked: Are you staying here tonight? No, Viriata, I said, I have to leave, I want to go for a walk. In this heat? asked Viriata, alarmed. It’s not a long walk, I said, and I might take the tram, I’ve got the whole afternoon ahead of me and I want to visit a painting. Visit a painting? said Viriata, what a weird idea. I never really understood what the painting meant, you see, perhaps today I’ll understand it better, who knows, today’s a very special day. If you don’t mind, then, I’ll come with you to the tram stop, said Viriata, I’d like to go for a walk too. With the greatest of pleasure, Viriata, I said, but first hand me the wallet that’s in my trouser pocket. Viriata understood at once, raised her hands and exclaimed: Certainly not, I don’t want a tip, you’ve been very kind to me and kindness is the best gift you can give to someone you don’t know.
V
YOUR PINEAPPLE
He disappeared while I finished my cocktail and set to thinking. I really wanted to see the painting again. How many years was it since I’d last seen it? I tried to work it out but couldn’t. Then I remembered those winter afternoons spent in the museum, the four of us, and the conversations we’d had, our meditations on its symbolism, our interpretations, our enthusiasm. And now here I was again and everything was different, only the painting had stayed the same, and it was upstairs waiting for me. But will it have stayed the same or will it have changed too? I mean, isn’t it possible that the painting could be different now simply because my eyes would no longer see it in the same way? That was what I was asking myself when the Barman at the Museum of Ancient Art returned. He came over to me very nonchalantly and winked. Right, he said, it’s all arranged, the guard is Senhor Joaquim, he’s waiting for you. I got up and paid the bill. The cocktail was really delicious, I said, thank you, I feel much better now. The Barman at the Museum of Ancient Art shook my hand. Goodbye, he said, I like people who know how to appreciate cocktails, and remember, if you’re ever in Harry’s Bar, ask for Daniel and say Manuel sent you.
When I got to the room, the guard gave me a nod of recognition, I thanked him and said I wouldn’t be more than an hour, he said not to worry and I went in. To my great disappointment I saw I wasn’t alone, for right in front of the painting stood a copyist, with easel and canvas. I don’t know why but it displeased me to have company, I would like to have seen the painting on my own without other eyes looking at it, without the slightly discomforting presence of a stranger. It was perhaps because of that feeling of unease that instead of standing in front of the painting, I went round to the other side to study the back of the left-hand panel, the scene that shows Christ being arrested in the Garden. I tried to concentrate on the scene, perhaps in the rather absurd hope that the man would fold up his easel and leave. If you want to see the painting, you’ll have to hurry up, said the man from the other side, the museum’s about to close. I peered round at him and gave a faint smile. The guard was kind enough to let me stay another hour, I said. The guards in this museum are all very kind, said the man, don’t you think? I came out from behind the painting and went over to him. Are you making a copy? I asked stupidly. A copy of a detail, he replied, as you can see, that’s what I do mainly, details. I looked at the canvas he was working on and saw that he was reproducing a detail from the right-hand panel that depicts a fat man and an old woman travelling through the sky mounted on a fish. The canvas was over six feet across and three feet high, and the effect of blowing up the Bosch figures to that size was most odd: the monstrous size seemed to emphasise the monstrousness of the scene. But what are you doing? I asked in a shocked voice, what are you doing? I’m copying a detail, he said, can’t you see? I’m simply making a copy of a detail, I’m a copyist and I make copies of details. I’d never seen a detail from a Bosch painting reproduced in those dimensions, I explained, it’s monstrous. Perhaps, replied the Copyist, but some people like it. Look, I said, forgive me being nosy, but I don’t understand, why do something like that? it doesn’t make sense. The Copyist put down his brush and cleaned his hands on a rag. My dear friend, he said, life is strange and strange things happen in life, besides the painting itself is strange and causes strange things to happen. He took a drink of water from the plastic bottle he’d placed at the foot of the easel and said: I’ve worked really hard today, I can afford to take a break and have a bit of a chat, you know this painting, are you a critic? No, I said, just an amateur, I’ve known this painting for years though, there was a time when I used to come and see it every week, it fascinates me. I’ve been looking at this painting for ten years, said the Copyist, and working on it for ten years. Really? I said, ten years is a long time, and what have you done in those ten years? I’ve painted details, said the Copyist, I’ve spent ten years painting details. It really is strange, I said, forgive me but I do find it strange. The Copyist shook his head. So do I, he said, the whole story started ten years ago, at the time I was working at the Town Hall, in an administrative job, but I did a course at the School of Fine Arts and I always liked painting, I mean, I liked it but I had nothing to paint, I had no inspiration, and inspiration is fundamental to painting. It certainly is, I agreed, without inspiration painting is nothing, the same with the other arts. Well, anyway, said the Copyist, since I had no inspiration but enjoyed painting, I used to come to this museum every Sunday and amuse myself by copying one of the pictures here. He took another swallow of water and went on: One Sunday I set to painting a detail from the Bosch, it was a joke really, it could have been anything, but because I like fish I chose the ray in the central panel, just above the
The Copyist began putting away his brushes and his palette. He covered the canvas with a cloth and asked me to help him move the easel over against the wall at the back. Right, he said, I think that’s enough for today, mustn’t overdo it, my client wants the painting by the end of August, I think I’ll make it, what do you reckon? I’d say you had loads of time, I replied, you’re pretty far advanced, it’s almost finished. Will you be much longer? asked the Copyist. No, I said, I don’t think so, I think I’ve seen enough of this painting, and besides today I’ve learned things about it I never would have suspected, it has a meaning for me now that it didn’t before. I’m off to Rua do Alecrim, said the Copyist. Great, I said, I’m going to Cais do Sodré to catch a train to Cascais, we can walk part of the way together.
VI
“SOMETHING YOU PUT on your finger and the noise the telephone makes?” said the Ticket Collector on the train, any idea what that could be? He sat down opposite me and showed me the crossword puzzle in the newspaper. How many letters? I asked. Four, he said. “Ring”, I said, it must be “ring”. Of course! exclaimed the Ticket Collector, I don’t know how I didn’t get that. Crossword clues are difficult to guess when they use puns or plays on words, I said, they’re always the hardest.
The carriage was empty, in fact the whole train appeared to be empty, I must have been the only passenger.
You’re lucky to have time to do the crossword, I remarked, there’s no one on the train today. Not now, he said, but on the way back it’ll be hell. We were passing through Oeiras and he pointed to the beach packed with people. You couldn’t see the sand, just bodies, like a huge flesh-coloured stain covering the beach. It’ll be hell, he said again, there’ll be all kinds of people, boys and girls, cripples, blind people, children and pregnant women, grandfathers and grandmothers, it’ll be hell on wheels. Well, I said, that’s Sundays for you, everyone goes to the beach. It wasn’t like that in my day, said the Ticket Collector, we used to spend our holidays in cool places, we’d go to the country, go back to our villages and visit our parents, that’s what we called going on holiday, not any more though, everyone wants to get a tan, they can’t get enough of the heat, they spend all day on the beach frying like sardines, and the sun’s not good for you, it causes skin cancer, there’ve been articles about it in the paper, but no one cares. The Ticket Collector sighed and looked out of the window. We were at Alto da Barra and you could see the Torre de Bugio standing in the middle of the sea. They drink Coca-Cola too, he added, they spend all day drinking that muck, I don’t know if you’ve ever been on Oeiras beach on a Monday morning, but it’s covered in
I would like to have closed my eyes for a few minutes, but he went on chatting. We were passing São Pedro and he pointed something out to me. Can you imagine building anything more horrible than that? he said indicating the houses you could see through the opposite window, have you ever seen anything uglier? They’re certainly ugly, I said, but who allowed such monstrosities to be built? I don’t know, said the Ticket Collector, I don’t know, the local councils in Portugal are a law to themselves, they take on architects who are like kids playing with Lego, they’re all a bunch of incompetents really, who want more than anything else to be modern. I get the impression you don’t much like anything modern, I said. I hate it, he said, it’s hideous all of it, good taste is basically fucked, if you’ll pardon the expression, you just have to look at the miniskirt, horrible don’t you think? a young girl can get away with it, but on fat women, with those great knees of theirs, it looks really revolting, it takes away a woman’s charm, takes away their mystery. He looked down at his crossword puzzle again and said: Here we are, here’s a bit of modernity for you: “Modern architect — singer with a stutter”? It’s got five letters. Aalto, I said, he was a Finnish architect, Alvar Aalto. Aalto, he said, I doubt he was any good. On the contrary, I said, he more or less rebuilt Helsinki in the fifties and designed some other really lovely houses in other parts of Europe too, I like his work. Have you been to Helsinki? the Ticket Collector asked. I have, I said, it’s an odd city, all in brick and with these buildings designed by Aalto and it’s surrounded by forests. What about the people? he asked, what are they like? They read a lot and they drink a lot, I said, they’re good people, I like people who know how to drink. So you like the Portuguese then, he said, not entirely illogically.
The train was just entering Cascais. Nice, eh? said the Ticket Collector indicating the Estoril Sol. Modern, I replied, so modern it’s already out of date. And then I asked: Do you think a taxi as far as the road to Guincho will cost more than five hundred
The old woman appeared at the door and looked at me suspiciously. Good afternoon, I said, I’ve come to see the house, I’d like to visit it, if you don’t mind that is. My house? asked the old woman, alarmed and uncomprehending. No, I said, not your house, the big house, the one next to the lighthouse. It’s all locked up, said the old woman patiently, no one lives there, it’s been closed for years now. I know, I said, that’s why I wanted to see it, I’ve come all the way from Lisbon just for that, look, I’ve got a taxi waiting for me. I pointed to the taxi parked on the other side of the road to prove to her that what I was saying was true. The house is all locked up, she repeated, I’m sorry, but the house is locked up. Are you the housekeeper? I asked. No, she said, I’m the lighthousekeeper’s wife, but when I have time I also take care of the house, I open the windows now and then and do some dusting, here by the sea everything falls to bits, windows, furniture, and the owners don’t care, they don’t live here, they live abroad, they’re Arabs. Arabs?! I exclaimed, this house belongs to Arabs now? That’s right, said the Lighthousekeeper’s Wife, the last owner, who’d bought it for next to nothing from the old owners, wanted to build a hotel here, but his company went bust, it seems he was some kind of con man, at least that’s what my husband says, so he sold it to the Arabs. Arabs, I repeated, I would never have imagined that one day this house would be owned by Arabs. The whole country’s up for grabs, said the Lighthousekeeper’s Wife, foreigners are buying up everything, you know. Yes, I said, unfortunately, but what are these Arabs going to do with the house? Well, said the Lighthousekeeper’s Wife, to tell you the truth, I think they’re waiting for it to fall down of its own accord, at the moment the council won’t give permission to build a hotel, but if it falls down, that’s different, they can build something new then. Is it falling down? I asked. Well, said the Lighthousekeeper’s Wife, in April, when we had those storms, the roof collapsed and made a hole in the ceiling in two of the rooms, the rooms facing the sea are in a terrible state, I think that come this winter, the whole top floor will cave in. That’s why I came, I said, to see the house before it fell down. Are you interested in buying? asked the Lighthousekeeper’s Wife. No, I said, I don’t quite know how to explain, but a long time ago I lived here for a whole year, it was before you worked here. That must have been before 1971 then, she said, that’s when we arrived, Vitalina and Francisco must have been here then. Yes, I remember Vitalina and Francisco well, I said, they were around the year I was here, Vitalina looked after the house and did the cooking, she made the best
The taxi driver sounded his horn, wanting to know what I intended to do. I signalled to him to wait and said to the Lighthousekeeper’s Wife: You don’t want to show me the house then? Oh, all right, she said, but we’ll have to be quick, my son will be here soon with his family, it’s my little granddaughter’s birthday today and I have to finish making the supper. That’s fine by me, I said, I’ve got to get the train in Cascais, I have to be in Lisbon at nine o’clock. The Lighthousekeeper’s Wife disappeared inside the house. She came back with a bunch of keys and told me to follow her. We crossed the yard to the porch. This is the way in now, she said, I expect when you were here, you used to go in through the French windows on the terrace, but they can’t be used any more, the glass is all broken. We went in and I immediately recognised the smell of the house. It smelled a bit like the metro in Paris in winter, a mixture of mustiness, varnish and mahogany, a smell peculiar to that house, and my memories all came back to me. We went into the large sitting room and I saw the piano. It was covered with a sheet, but I still had the urge to sit down at it. Excuse me, I said, but there’s something I must play, I’ll be quick, I don’t really know how to play properly but anyway. I sat down and with one finger, from memory, I played the melody from a nocturne by Chopin. Other hands, in other times, used to play that melody. I remembered those nights, when I was upstairs in my room, and I would lie listening to Chopin nocturnes. They were solitary nights, the house in winter was swathed in mist, my friends were in Lisbon and didn’t come to visit, no one came, no one phoned, I was writing and wondering why I was writing, the story I was working on was a strange story, a story without a solution, what had made me want to write a story like that? how did I come to be writing it? More than that, the story was changing my life, would change it, once I’d written it, my life would never be the same again. That’s what I would say to myself, closeted upstairs writing that strange story, a story that someone afterwards would imitate in real life, would transfer back to the plane of reality. I didn’t know that, but I imagined it, I don’t know why, but I sensed that one shouldn’t write stories like that, because there’s always someone who’ll try and imitate fiction, who’ll manage to make it come true. And that was what happened. That same year someone imitated my story, or rather, the story became flesh, was transubstantiated, and I had to live that crazy story all over again, but this time for real, this time the characters inhabiting the story weren’t made of paper, they were flesh and blood, this time the development, the sequence of events in my story unravelled day by day, I followed its progress on the calendar, to the point that I knew what would happen.
Was it a good year? the Lighthousekeeper’s Wife asked me, I mean, were you comfortable here in this house? It was a bewitched year, I replied, there was some kind of witchcraft going on. Do you believe in witches? asked the Lighthousekeeper’s Wife, people like yourself don’t usually, they think it’s just popular superstition. Oh, I believe, I said, at least in some forms of witchcraft, you know, you should never try to influence things by suggestion, if you do, things end up happening that way. I went to see a clairvoyant when my son was in the war in Guinea Bissau, said the Lighthousekeeper’s Wife, I was terribly worried because I’d had a dream, I dreamed that he would never come back, so I talked to my husband and said: Look, Armando, you’ve got to give me some money because I want to go to the clairvoyant, I had a bad dream, I dreamed that Pedro would never come back and I want to know whether he will or not, anyway, I went to the woman and she laid out the cards, then she turned one card over and said: Your son will come back, but he’ll be maimed, and Pedro did come back, but he’d lost an arm. The Lighthousekeeper’s Wife opened a door and said: This is the dining room, was this where you used to have supper?
The dining room was exactly as it had been: the fireplace, the sideboard, the Indo-Portuguese furniture, the large, dark-wood table. It was indeed, I said, I used to sit here, in this chair, a woman friend used to sit to my right and, here and here, two other friends of mine. Did Vitalina serve at table? asked the Lighthousekeeper’s Wife. She did, I said, or rather, she brought the things from the kitchen and left them on a tray in the middle of the table and we served ourselves, Vitalina didn’t like to serve at table, she preferred the kitchen, apart from
I opened the door of the room, looked up and saw the sky. It was a very blue sky, transparent, it dazzled the eyes. It was unreal, that room with the bed, the wardrobe and the bedside tables, and almost no roof over it. It’s dangerous here, said the Lighthousekeeper’s Wife, that one last bit of roof could fall any minute, we can’t stay in here. Just for a second, I said, it’s not going to fall right now. I stretched out on the bed and said: I’m sorry but I just have to lie down for a moment, as a way of saying goodbye, it’s the last time I’ll ever lie on this bed. Seeing me lying there, the Lighthousekeeper’s Wife discreetly left the room and I stared up at the sky. It was very odd, when I was younger I’d always thought of that blue as mine, as something that belonged to me, but now it seemed exaggerated, distant, like a hallucination, and I thought: It can’t be true, it just can’t be true that I’m lying here on this bed again and instead of looking up at the ceiling, as I did on so many nights, I’m looking up at a sky that once belonged to me. I got up and went to find the old woman, who was waiting for me in the corridor. One last thing, I said, there’s just one other room I’d like to see. There’s no guestroom any more, she said, when the roof fell in, everything was ruined, my husband took all the furniture out. I’d just like a look, I said. But you can’t go in, she said, my husband says even the floor is dangerous. She opened the door and I peered in. There was nothing in the room and the roof had disappeared completely. You could see the lighthouse through the window. My husband’s up there, she said, but he’s probably asleep now, there’s nothing to do at this hour, but he’s so stubborn, and instead of coming home for a sleep, he goes and sleeps in the lighthouse. Do you know what I used to do with that lighthouse in the old days? I said, I’ll tell you, I used to play a game sometimes, when I couldn’t sleep, I’d come into this room and stand at the window, the lighthouse has three intermittent lights, one white, one green and one red, and I used to play a game with the lights, I’d invented a luminous alphabet and I used to speak through the lighthouse, as it were. And who were you speaking to? asked the Lighthousekeeper’s Wife. Well, I said, I used to speak to certain invisible presences, I was writing a story at the time, I suppose you could say I was speaking to ghosts. Oh my God, exclaimed the Lighthousekeeper’s Wife, weren’t you afraid of talking to ghosts? I should never have done it, I said, it’s not a good idea to talk to ghosts, you shouldn’t do it, but sometimes you have to, I can’t explain it really, but that’s partly why I’m here today.
The Lighthousekeeper’s Wife had started going down the stairs and turned to tell me to be careful. We went out into the courtyard and she closed the door. Thanks ever so much, I said, take care and say hello to your husband. Would you like something to drink, she said, I’ve got some cherry brandy, I made it myself. All right, I said, only one glass, though, but it will have to be quick, I’m afraid, I’ve got to catch the train to be back in Lisbon by nine.
VII
“ALENTEJANOS FOR THE ALENTEJO and the Alentejo for the Fatherland” said the inscription above the door. I went up the wide staircase and emerged into a Moorish courtyard with a small fountain, a glass door and some marble columns lit by red lights, like the lights they use in sacristies. It had a slightly absurd beauty and only then did I understand why I’d arranged to meet Isabel there: precisely because it was such an absurd place. I walked on and, beyond, I saw a reading room, with small tables and newspapers threaded onto wooden poles, like in an English gentleman’s club. But there was no one in the room. I looked at my watch and realised that I still had plenty of time before my appointment. I walked slowly across the courtyard. I saw several doors and opened one at random. It opened on to a vast panelled room, eighteenth-century in style, with great glass doors crowned by half-moons painted with frescos. It was the dining room, of monumental size, with all the tables laid and an immense, polished parquet floor. On one side of the room there was a miniature theatre with a tiny red velvet curtain that drew back to reveal a space framed by two columns and dominated by two caryatids carved in yellow wood, two naked figures which, for some reason, I found indecent, perhaps because they really were. I closed the dining room door and returned to the courtyard. The night was hot, close, like a breath of warm air full of the seaweed smell of the sea. I opened another door and entered the billiard room. It was a large, cool room, its walls lined with fabric. A man, in black jacket and bow tie, was playing billiards on his own. When he saw me, he stopped, rested his cue on the floor and said: Good evening, and welcome. Are you a member? I asked. The man smiled, rubbed chalk on the tip of the cue and replied: What about you? Are you a member? Me, no, I said, I’m just a visitor, a guest. This club is for members only, he said, I’m the manager, but you were quite right to come in, no one’s been in all day, I’ve spent the whole day alone here, so it’s good to see another human being at last.
He was a very small man in his sixties, white-haired and elegant, he had pale eyes and a pleasant face. I arranged to meet someone here at nine o’clock, I said, it was a stupid thing to do, since I’m not a member and I’ve never been here before, and the person who’s coming here belongs only in my memory. The Manager of the Casa do Alentejo rested the cue on the table and smiled a melancholy smile. There’s nothing wrong with that, he said, you’ll feel perfectly at home here, this club is nothing but a memory, now. Forgive my asking, I said, but what does all this have to do with the Alentejo? The Manager of the Casa do Alentejo smiled again and said: It’s a long story, this club was founded by Alentejo landowners, people with land and money who fancied giving a European slant to their lives, they imagined Lisbon was like London and Paris; in the old days, before you were born, they all used to come here to play billiards with their foreign friends, drink port and play billiards, things were different then, this place isn’t the same now, the membership’s changed but not the club, some of the old
The Manager of the Casa do Alentejo put more chalk on his cue. Do you like playing bar billiards? he asked. I do, I said. Then why don’t we play a game? he said. You’re on, I said, but only a quick one, I’d like to wait in the bar for the person who’s coming here to meet me. The Manager handed me a cue, carefully set up the pins and said: Let’s play the way people used to play, now everyone does it the American way, using huge billiard balls, a terrible game I think. I agree, I said.
The Manager of the Casa do Alentejo played the opening shot and again rubbed chalk on the end of his cue. He played precisely, scientifically, weighing up the state of play with a swift, geometric glance. He was economical in his movements, keeping them to a minimum: a slight lift of the elbow, a slight shift of the shoulder, though still barely moving either arm or shoulder. I see you’re a professional, I said, I’ve obviously got myself into deep water here. He gave another melancholy smile. That’s what my life’s become, he said, endless solitary afternoons here, playing bar billiards on my own.
I saw that I was in a difficult position. The smallest ball lay exactly midway between my ball and his, it was an impossible shot, which would require either some sort of juggling feat or a huge stroke of luck. I lit a cigarette and studied the situation. I think I’ve had it, I said, but I’m not giving up just yet, am I allowed to use a screw shot? The use of screw shots is allowed, said the Manager of the Casa do Alentejo ironically, but if you rip the baize you’ll have to pay for it. OK, I said, I think I’ll have a go anyway. I calmly smoked my cigarette and walked round to the other side of the billiard table to get another perspective on the trajectory my ball would have to follow. I’d like to propose something to you, said the Manager of the Casa do Alentejo. I looked at him, laid my billiard cue down on the table and took off my jacket. Go on, I said. We should place a bet on this shot, he said, I’ve got a bottle of 1952 port and it’s high time I opened it, so if you win it’s on me, if you lose, it’s on you. I made rapid calculations as to how much a 1952 bottle of port was likely to cost and how much money I had left in my pocket: I really was in no position to be placing bets, I couldn’t afford it. The Manager of the Casa do Alentejo gave me a challenging look. Aren’t you up to it? he said. I am, I said. There’s nothing I’d like better tonight than to drink a 1952 port. Then if you’ll excuse me, he said, and he went off to get the bottle. I sat down in an armchair and went on smoking. I would have liked to do some thinking, but I wasn’t in the mood. All I wanted was to be there, smoking, studying the billiard table and the strange geometric pattern the balls had created on the green cloth and from which I had to extricate myself. And the peculiar path my ball would have to follow in order to strike my opponent’s ball seemed to me a sign: it was clear that the impossible parabola I would have to achieve on the billiard table was the same parabola I was following that night, and so I made a bet with myself, well not a bet exactly, more of a conjuration, an exorcism, a plea to fate, and I thought: If I manage it, Isabel will appear, if I don’t, I’ll never see her again.
The Manager of the Casa do Alentejo returned bearing a silver tray with a bottle and two glasses on it and put it down next to the billiard table. Now then, he said, I think we should drink a glass of port before you attempt your shot, I’m sure you could do with a pick-me-up. He opened the bottle precisely, efficiently, and carefully wiped the mouth with a napkin to remove any fragments of cork clinging to the glass. He filled the glasses and held out the tray to me. He was clearly an expert, the Manager of the Casa do Alentejo, but his professionalism seemed out of place in a situation that called for a certain spirit of complicity, affability or even collusion. There wasn’t a trace of this in his behaviour or in his attitude, rather there was a professional politeness that underscored the tension of the moment. He raised his glass and I said: Listen, I’ve actually made two bets, a real one with you and a personal one with myself, would you mind if we drank to the latter? To your own personal wager, then, he said gravely, adding: I’ve wanted to open this bottle for ages, but it never seemed the right moment.
It was a magnificent port, slightly rough and intensely aromatic. The Manager of the Casa do Alentejo filled the glasses again and said: One more drink, I think the occasion demands it. Have you worked here long? I asked. Five years, he said, but before that I worked at the Tavares Restaurant, I’ve spent my life amongst the wealthy, it’s awful always living alongside the rich when you’re not rich yourself, because you pick up their way of thinking but you can’t actually join in, I’d have no problem living the way the rich do because I share their way of thinking, but I haven’t the means to do so, only the right mentality. That’s definitely not enough, I said. Anyway, today I’m going to drink this port despite them, continued the Manager of the Casa do Alentejo, I’m thoroughly pissed off, if you’ll forgive the expression. Not at all, I said, you’re perfectly entitled to feel pissed off. Do you know what my trouble is? he said, it’s that I’ve never allowed myself to feel pissed off, I was always worried about this or that, about the rich, how they were feeling, if they had everything they needed, if they had enough to eat and drink, if they were happy, good God, the rich always have everything they need, they always eat and drink well, they’re always happy, I’m a fool to have always worried about them, but I’m going to change my attitude now, I’m going to change my way of thinking, they’re rich and I’m not, that’s what I have to remember, I have nothing in common with them, even if I have lived in their world, there’s no common ground between us. That’s what they call class consciousness, I said, at least I think it is. I don’t know about that, he said thoughtfully, that’s some sort of political label and I don’t know much about politics, I never had time for it, I was always too busy working.
The Manager of the Casa do Alentejo filled our glasses again and anxiously raised his to his lips. Forgive that little outburst, he said, I’m sorry. There’s no need to apologise, I said, the odd outburst does you good, it helps to detoxify you, besides, class consciousness is very simple, you just came to the realisation that you don’t belong to the same class as the rich, it’s elementary. And I’ll tell you something else, he said, next time I’m not going to vote for their party, I’ve voted for them ever since the 1974 revolution, you see, I thought of myself as one of them and so I voted for their party, but the game’s over, I’m going to change my vote now that I’ve got class consciousness, do you really think I have? I do, I said, to calm him down, I think you’ve achieved genuine class consciousness, albeit a little late. Better late than never, he sighed, and filled our glasses again. Not too much, I said, it’s very strong this wine and I need quick reflexes for my screw shot. He smiled his melancholy smile and lit a cigarette. Do you mind if I smoke? he asked. Feel free, I said.
We fell silent, sitting in the armchairs. From far off, outside, came the sound of an ambulance siren. There’s someone who’s worse off than us, said the Manager of the Casa do Alentejo philosophically, and then he asked: Which party do you think I should vote for? That’s a difficult question, I said, I couldn’t advise you on anything so personal. But you understand my problem, he said, perhaps you could make a suggestion. Look, I said, if you really have to choose a party, choose according to the dictates of your heart, make a sentimental choice, or rather a visceral one, they’re always the best ones. He smiled and said: thank you, I really think it’s high time I did something like that, I’m sixty-five years old and if I don’t make a visceral choice now, when will I? He replaced the cork in the bottle and said: What’s left goes to the winner, I think it’s time for you to try your screw shot.
We got up and I noticed that my legs felt a bit unsteady, I thought that in that state it would be a miracle if I managed to hit the ball, nevertheless I picked up my cue, chalked the end and went over to the billiard table. I stood on tiptoe in order to hit the ball from above. My hand was trembling slightly, I really needed a rest, but the screw shot is played without a rest, hitting from above downwards. Perfect silence reigned in the room. I thought: It’s now or never, I closed my eyes and hit the ball. The ball began to spin, reached almost the middle of the table, brushing dangerously close to the pins, and then, as if by a miracle, it turned, curved, and very slowly, as if following a prescribed course, touched my opponent’s ball and stayed there. You won, said the Manager of the Casa do Alentejo, amazed, that shot deserves a round of applause. He laid his cue down on the table and clapped politely. At that moment, the doorbell rang. He excused himself and went to answer it. I wiped the sweat from my brow with a handkerchief and wondered if this might be the moment to change my shirt again, since I was once more drenched in sweat. I pulled off the shirt I was wearing, placed it on the armchair and put on the other blue shirt that I’d been carrying under my arm all day.
There’s a lady here asking for you, said the Manager of the Casa do Alentejo when he returned, she says her name’s Isabel. Would you show her into the bar, please, I said, I’ll be there in a minute. And I picked up the bottle of port.
VIII
THE NIGHT IS HOT, the night is long, a magnificent night for listening to stories, said the man who came to sit down next to me on the pedestal beneath the statue of Dom José. It really was a magnificent night, the moon was full, the air was warm and soft, there was something sensual, magical about it. There were scarcely any cars in the square, the city seemed to have come to a halt, people had obviously stayed longer than usual at the beaches and would return later, Terreiro do Paço was deserted. A ferryboat bound for Cacilhas sounded its siren before leaving, its lights were the only lights you could see on the Tagus, everything else was utterly still, as if caught in a spell. I looked at the man who had spoken to me, he looked like a tramp, he was very thin and was wearing tennis shoes and a yellow T-shirt, he had a long beard and was almost bald, he must have been about my age or slightly older, he looked at me and raised one arm in a theatrical gesture. This is the moon of poets, he said, of poets and storytellers, tonight is an ideal night for listening to stories, and for telling them too, wouldn’t you like to hear a story? Why should I? I asked, I can’t see any reason to. The reason is simple, he replied, because tonight there’s a full moon and because you’re here alone watching the river, your soul is lonely and filled with longing, and a story might bring you some happiness. My whole day has been full of stories, I said, I don’t think I need any more. The man crossed his legs, rested his chin meditatively on his hands and said: We always need a story even when we think we don’t. But why do you want to tell me a story? I asked, I don’t understand. Because I sell stories, he said, I’m a seller of stories, that’s my job, I sell the stories that I invent. I still don’t understand, I said. Look, he said, that’s a long story but not the one I want to tell you tonight, I don’t really like talking about myself, I like talking about my characters. No, no, I protested, I find your story very interesting, tell me more about yourself. It’s simple, said the Seller of Stories, I’m a failed writer, that’s my story. I’m sorry, I said, but I still don’t understand, couldn’t you tell me more? All right, he said, I’m a doctor, I studied medicine, but medicine wasn’t the science I wanted to study, when I was a student I spent my nights writing stories, then I graduated and started work as a doctor, I joined a practice, but I got bored with my patients, I wasn’t interested in their cases, what interested me was sitting at my table and writing stories, because I have a prodigious imagination, which is completely unstoppable, it takes me over and forces me to invent stories, all kinds of stories, tragic, comic, dramatic, jolly, superficial, profound, and when my imagination breaks loose, I feel as if I can barely live, I start to sweat, I feel ill, I feel restless, I feel odd, all I can think about are my stories, there’s no room for anything else.
The Seller of Stories paused for a moment and repeated the theatrical gesture with his arm, as if he wanted to seize hold of the moon. So what happened? I asked. One day, he said, I decided to write down the stories that came to me, and so I wrote ten stories, one tragic, one comic, one tragicomic, one dramatic, one sentimental, one ironic, one cynical, one satirical, one fantastic and one realistic and I took the resulting bundle of papers to a publisher. There I met the literary editor of the publishing house, a very sporty young man who wore jeans and chewed gum. He said he would read the whole thing and that I should come back in a week. I went back a week later and the literary editor said: You obviously haven’t read any American minimalism, I’m sorry, but you really should have read some American minimalists. I didn’t want to admit defeat and so I went to another publisher. There I met a very elegant lady, who wore a scarf round her neck, and she too asked me to come back in a week and so I did. There’s too much plot in your stories, the elegant lady told me, you obviously haven’t read any avant-garde writers, the avant-garde did away with plot completely, creating plots is positively retrograde now. I still didn’t want to admit defeat and so I went to a third publisher. There I met a very serious gentleman who smoked a pipe, he asked me to come back in a week and so I did. You have absolutely no sense of pragmatism, this very serious gentleman told me, your reality is completely fragmented, what you need is a psychiatrist. I left him and started wandering about the city. My practice had closed down, no one went there any more, I was sad and penniless, but even though I was sad, I still had an immense desire to tell my stories to people, and so I started walking and I thought: If I have all these stories to tell, maybe there are people who’d like to hear them, it’s a big city, and so I started wandering the city and telling stories, and now that’s how I earn my living.
The Seller of Stories lowered his arm and held out a hand to me as if he were offering me something. I give you tonight’s moon, he said, and I give you whatever story you feel like hearing, I know you want to hear a story. Yes, I would like to hear a story now, I said, I really would, but it can’t be a very long one, I’m meeting someone in a little while on the Cais de Alcantara and I wouldn’t want to be late. No problem, said the Seller of Stories, all you have to do is choose the kind of story you’d like to hear tonight. Look, I said, could I just ask you for a bit of information first? I’d like to invite this person I’m meeting to supper, you must know the city well, perhaps you could tell me the name of a reasonable restaurant near the Cais do Alcântara. There is one, said the Seller of Stories, right opposite the quay, it used to be a station or something, but now it’s a kind of social club, it’s got a restaurant, a bar, a disco and who knows what else, it’s very trendy, I think it’s what’s called postmodern. Post-modern? I said, post-modern in what sense? I’m not sure I could explain, said the Seller of Stories, I mean that it’s been done up in lots of different styles, for example, the restaurant is full of mirrors and the food they serve is sort of unclassifiable, I mean, it’s a place that broke with tradition by embracing tradition, you could describe it as a compilation of several different styles, that’s what I would call post-modern. It sounds like the ideal place for my guest, I said, and then I asked: Is it expensive? it’s just that I haven’t got much money on me and I’d also like to hear one of your stories, but I don’t know if I can afford it. It isn’t expensive, said the Seller of Stories, as long as you don’t order smoked swordfish or oysters, because it’s a fairly up-scale restaurant and you can get things like that there, but it won’t be expensive and, besides, my stories are cheap, since it’s late and given your situation, I can offer you a special price, anyway my stories are all different prices, depending on the genre. So what stories have you got to tell me tonight? I asked. Well, he said, I’ve got a rather sentimental one that might bring you comfort on a night such as this. I don’t want anything sentimental, I said, my whole day has been extremely sentimental and I’m up to here with it. I also have a very funny story, he said, a story that will make you roar with laughter. That’s no good either, I said, I don’t feel like roaring with laughter. The Seller of Stories sighed. You’re very hard to please, he said. Look, I said, just tell me what you’ve got on offer and how much each story costs. I have a dream story for two hundred
The ferry coming back from Cacilhas sounded its siren as it came alongside the quay. The night really was magnificent, with the moon hanging so low over the arches of Terreiro do Paço that you felt you could have reached out your hand and caught hold of it. I lit a cigarette and settled down to watch the moon and the Seller of Stories began his story.
IX
THE WAITER HAD his hair tied back in a small pony-tail, he was wearing a pair of extremely tight trousers and a pink shirt. I’m Mariazinha, he said with a brilliant smile and then, addressing my guest, he asked: You haven’t got anything against people like me, have you? My Guest looked Mariazinha up and down and asked me in English:
Is your friend English? Mariazinha asked me, I can’t cope with the English, they’re so boring! No, I said, my guest isn’t English, he’s Portuguese but he lived in South Africa, he likes speaking English, he’s a poet. That’s all right then, said Mariazinha, I love people who can speak other languages, I can speak Spanish, I learned it in Estremoz, I worked at the Pousada Santa Isabel,
Mariazinha walked off, hips swaying, to attend to the needs of a gentleman sitting on his own at a corner table. Where have you brought me? asked my Guest, what sort of place is this? I don’t know, I said, it’s the first time I’ve been here, someone recommended it to me, it’s supposed to be post-modern, and if you’ll forgive me, you may be partly to blame for all this, I mean for postmodernism. I don’t understand, said my Guest. Well, I went on, I was thinking of the avant-garde movement, about the effect it had. I still don’t understand, said my Guest. Well, I said, how can I put it, it was the avant-garde movement that first upset the balance, and things like that leave a mark. But this is all so vulgar, he said, we had elegance. That’s what you think, I said, I don’t agree, Futurism, for example, was vulgar, it celebrated noise and war, I think it had a vulgar side to it, I’ll go further, there’s even something slightly vulgar about your own Futurist odes. Is that why you wanted to see me? he asked, in order to insult me. To be exact, it wasn’t me who wanted to see you, I said, it was you who wanted to see me. I received a message from you, he said. That’s a good one, I said, this morning I was in Azeitão sitting quietly under a tree reading, it was you who called me. All right, said my Guest, as you wish, let’s not argue, let’s just say I’d like to know what your intentions are. In relation to what? I asked. In relation to me, for example, said my Guest, that’s what interests me. You don’t find that a little egocentric? I asked. Of course, he replied, I am egocentric, but what do you want me to do about it, all poets are egocentric, and my ego has a very special centre, indeed if you wanted me to tell you where that centre is I couldn’t. I’ve come up with a few hypotheses myself, I said, I’ve spent my life hypothesising about you and now I’m tired of it, that’s what I wanted to tell you.
My Guest opened the wine list and read it attentively. How are you supposed to choose a wine without first having chosen your meal? he said, this really is a bizarre restaurant. They serve almost exclusively fish dishes, I said, that’s why they mostly offer white wines, but if you prefer red, there’s a house red that might not be too bad. No, no, he said, tonight I’ll drink white wine too, but you’ll have to help me choose, I don’t know the names, they’re all new. Young or old? I asked. Old, he said, I don’t like fizzy wines. I don’t know if you’ve noticed but there’s a Colares Chita, which is a wine from your day. My Guest approved and said: It’s a wine from Azenhas do Mar, in 1923 it won a gold medal in Rio de Janeiro, I was living in Campo de Ourique at the time.
Mariazinha came over to us again and I ordered a bottle of Colares. Would you like to order your food now? asked Mariazinha. Look, I said, if you don’t mind, we’d like to drink a glass of wine first before choosing, we’re thirsty and besides we want to drink a toast. That’s fine by me, said Mariazinha, the kitchen’s open until two and the restaurant closes at three, so feel free. He left us only to return soon after with a bottle and an ice bucket. Tonight we have a literary menu, he said as he was opening the bottle, Pedrinho chose the names,
My Guest raised his glass. Let’s drink a toast, he said. Right, I said, to what? To the next century, he said, you’re going to need all the luck you can get, this was my century and I felt at home in it, but you might have some problems in the next one. Who’s “you”? I asked. The people alive now, he replied, you fin-de-siècle people. We’ve already got masses of problems, I said, we really need a toast. I’d also like to drink to
Mariazinha came over wearing a luminous smile, his powder was beginning to melt slightly in the heat, but his expression remained ingratiating. Right,
Mariazinha left and my Guest filled our glasses again. This place is incredible, he said. Forgive me changing the subject, I said, but I’d like you to tell me about your childhood, it really intrigues me. My childhood? exclaimed my Guest, I’ve never talked to anyone about my childhood and we’re not going to talk about it now at supper. Go on, I said, tell me, it’s the most mysterious part of your life, this is the first and last time we’ll meet, I don’t want to miss the opportunity. Look, said my Guest, I had a happy childhood, really. It’s true my father died, but I hardly noticed it, I found another father, he was a good, silent man, he wasn’t a father exactly, more of a symbol, and it’s good to live with symbols. And what about your mother? I asked, you were very close to her, your critics, or some of them at least, even suggest you had some sort of Oedipus complex. What! said my Guest, I had a perfectly straightforward relationship with her, my mother was a simple person, she had no concept of pretence, look, I let people think I had a mysterious childhood by completely eliminating it from my writing, but it’s all nonsense, really, it was just to put the critics off the scent, they’re such busybodies, and so I set traps for them beforehand. You’re a liar, I said, an utter liar, you may have deceived your critics, but you’re not going to deceive me as well, you’re not being honest with me. Look, he said, I’m not honest in the sense you mean, the only emotions I experience are in the form of genuine pretence, I consider your kind of honesty a form of poverty, the supreme truth is to pretend, I’ve always believed that. You’re exaggerating, I said, now you’re a liar twice over, isn’t that right? Yes, that’s right, replied my Guest, the important thing is to feel. Exactly, I said, I was always convinced that you did in fact feel everything, indeed I always thought that you felt things normal people couldn’t feel, I always believed in your occult powers, you’re a sorcerer, and that’s why I’m here and why I’ve had the day I’ve had. And are you pleased with the day you’ve had? he asked. I don’t quite know how to put it, I said, but I feel quieter, lighter. That’s what you needed, he said. I’m very grateful to you, I replied.
Mariazinha arrived with the soup. It turned out to be a very traditional coriander soup,
The next course arrived and we began to eat. I glanced questioningly at my Guest and he responded with a neutral look. How’s the sole
We ate in silence. The sound of muffled music filled the room, piano music, Liszt perhaps. At least the music’s good, I said. I don’t like music, said my Guest, I never did. That surprises me, I said, it really does. I only like popular music, he went on, waltzes and things like that, but I do like Viana da Mota, don’t you? I do, I said, he’s a bit like Liszt, don’t you think? Maybe, he said, but he’s very Portuguese.
Mariazinha came to clear away the plates. He gave a list of desserts with bizarre-sounding names, but my Guest seemed unenthusiastic. Your friend’s depressed, said Mariazinha, he looks so gloomy, poor thing, he’s English, isn’t he? I’ve already told you, I exclaimed, in a slightly irritated voice, he’s Portuguese but he just happens to like speaking English. No need to get angry,
You look tired, said my Guest, would you like to go for a little walk? I could do with some air, I said, it’s been a long day, endless. I called Mariazinha over and asked for the bill. Let me pay, said my Guest. Certainly not, I protested, the restaurant was my idea, and besides I’ve been carefully saving my money all day just so that I could pay for this meal, so, please, don’t insist. Mariazinha blew out the candle on the table and accompanied us to the door.
We crossed the road and walked past the harbour station. I’m going to walk as far as the end of the quay, said my Guest, won’t you come with me? Of course I will, I said. By the door to the harbour station was a beggar, with an accordion round his neck. When he saw us, he held out his hand and recited some incomprehensible litany of complaints. At the end of it all he murmured: God bless you, gentlemen, can you spare any change? My Guest stopped and thrust his hand into his pocket, pulled out his wallet and removed an ancient note. I’ve only got old money, he said, looking concerned, perhaps you can help me out. I felt in my pocket and pulled out a one hundred
We’d reached the end of the quay. Right, he said, we met on this bench and we’ll say goodbye on this bench, you must be tired, you can tell the old man to go away now. He sat down and I went to tell the Accordionist that we no longer needed his music. The old man wished me good night. I turned round and only then did I realise that my Guest had vanished.
The garden was plunged in silence, a cool breeze had got up, it caressed the mulberry leaves. Good night, I said, or rather, goodbye. Who or what was I saying goodbye to? I didn’t really know, but that was what I felt like saying, out loud. Goodbye and goodnight to you all, í said again. Then I leaned my head back and looked up at the moon.
1 António Botto (1897–1959), aesthete and poet. He was the author of the poems
2 A philosophical-political movement, mystical and nationalistic in character, founded by the poet Teixeira de Pascoaes in the first decade of the twentieth century. Its name comes from the word
3 See Note on Recipes, page 109
A NOTE ON RECIPES IN THIS BOOK
27
is a bean soup or stew — each region of Portugal has its own variety — embodying a lavish selection of meats (pork being obligatory), sausage and vegetables.
36
is a well-known red wine from the region of that name in the Lower Alentejo.
37—8
, a rich dish from the North, which requires no description as Senhor Casimiro’s Wife provides the recipe.
40
(angels’ double chins) are little confections of egg and almond, originating in the convents.
47
and
are specialities of the Alentejo region.
, as the plural form of the word suggests, come in many forms: the basis is always constituted by homebaked bread allowed to go stale, then cooked over the fire with a little fat until it is reduced to a fried and dried sort of pulp which can serve as an accompaniment to meat or fish.
is a pulp made out of homebaked bread allowed to go stale and generally flavoured with garlic and
(fresh coriander leaves). It may serve to accompany meat or fish, or as the basis of more complicated recipes. The best-known variation is
as mentioned on page 78, in which the pulp is flavoured with shrimp and other seafood and bound with fresh egg.
is a winter soup made of bacon, sausage, egg, potato and onion.
55
Pineapple (or orange)
is a fizzy drink flavoured with the fruit in question and very sweet.
59
“Janelas Verdes’ Dream”, the creation of the Barman at the Museum of Ancient Art (and thus of the author), derives its name from the Museum’s also being known as the Museum “das Janelas Verdes” (of the Green Windows), from the name of the street in which it is located.
78
is rice cooked with monkfish, tomato, garlic and coriander leaves, served on the boil at the table in the pot in which it is cooked.
78
is described in the note to page 47.
78
The
here discussed is supposed to be the simplest cuisine of the region — a cuisine based, like all the recipes of the poor, on few and simple ingredients (in this case, boiling salted water, toasted garlic bread, fresh coriander leaves and raw eggs), but abundant in soups of all kinds.
83
, an Alentejo speciality, is a stew of lamb’s flesh and offal flavoured with vinegar and served on thin slices of bread that thus turn into broth.
83
is a soup of stale bread, garlic, onion and fresh cheese, flavoured with
(a sort of wild mint).
100
Colares, near Sintra, is famous for its exquisite white wine.
102
As with every menu of “creative cookery” or
, that of Mariazinha — who has worked in a
, a State-run luxury hotel, often a converted castle, villa or convent, like the Spanish
— is entirely the product of fantasy. But as it is a “literary” menu it is worth clarifying the references:
SERGIO VECCHIO
ALSO BY ANTONIO TABUCCHI
(Translated by Janice M. Thresher)
(Translated by Frances Frenaye)
(Translated by Tim Parks)
(Translated by Tim Parks)
(Translated by J. C. Patrick)
(Translated by J. C. Patrick)