Tristano Dies

  Ferruccio said that lesser organisms have greater vitality than those that are more evolved. That’s the theory of someone who died young, people who think like that have to die young, just to be consistent … I’d tell you a story, a nice little tidbit, something no one really suspects, but I’m tired now, it must be getting late, I need to sleep … I’ll say it briefly, and you’ll have to do some embellishing, because it’s not all that exciting … but right now I really need to sleep, I can’t hold out any longer. Tomorrow, please come early, at dawn even, I’ll be awake then, there’s not much time left, I want to die before the end of August, and September’s knocking at the door, I can hear it.

  I realize we’re at the end now, I’m telling you this because tonight I was thinking of entering my circle … I mean, I’ve already been trotting around in here a little while … funny verb, to trot, for someone with a leg in this condition, can’t you just see it?… I can – try to picture it – some scrawny old guy, completely naked, just a sheet around him, dragging his chewed-up leg, hopping around in an empty space, making a circle … thinking about it, you want to cheer him on … get in there, go on, decide already, you can do it!… There’s something I was thinking I wouldn’t tell you, I’ve resisted up to now, I was thinking to myself that all in all, it didn’t really add anything, anyway, and then I told myself that it’s not like it does much for Tristano’s character … just the opposite … and it feels like I’ve already ruined your character a bit … but ruined isn’t the right word … troubles … you know, a writer invents a character and purifies him somehow … I’m not being very clear here, it’s not that the writer purifies his character, it’s that whatever this character is, even if the author gives his character a human life – and people’s lives are filled with troubles, man’s a cruel animal – it’s still a life on paper, and on paper, troubles don’t stink … but if someone tells you certain things that he’s actually lived, and more than that, if he tells you these things in the flesh, right next to you, and he’s breathing and maybe his flesh isn’t in the best of shape, either, then those troubles he’s telling you are less aseptic, am I making myself clear?… But, when someone’s reaching the end … in short, I thought that thanks to you, these troubles will turn to paper, and so you’ll render them more abstract. But troubles aren’t … who knows … at times it’s so hard to tell the difference between cruelty and justice … killing … or murdering … Tristano was a pacifist, you know this from that interview a long time ago, before he made himself disappear, and he was especially opposed to the death penalty, that obtuse, bureaucratic, state-provided death on officially stamped paper … sure, but this is a matter of principle and would be worth something in a perfect world, and if you follow this principle to the extreme, then you need to go embrace that Chilean general who murdered thousands in the stadiums, go on, give him a hug and tell him about loving his fellow man, maybe you’ll wind up friends … Unfortunately, the world’s not like Tolstoy imagined, where you can convince a murderer through love and forgiveness … it would be beautiful, this utopia. Hitler promised that Nazism would reign a thousand years in Europe, you think we should allow it in the name of brotherly love?… Our principles rule out homicide, but killing a tyrant – the Beast – who’d devour our principles, this doesn’t contradict our principles … Anyway, I’ll leave that dilemma to you, it doesn’t concern me anymore … I’ll be brief, I don’t feel like going into too much detail, and really, it’s not necessary for the story, all you need to know is that Tristano wasn’t alone and that Taddeo was driving. A detail: Tristano wasn’t young anymore, no, he was old and needed some company … and Taddeo was also rather old, but he was the company Tristano wanted … No, listen, I’ve changed my mind, I’m only going to give you the details of the story, that’s what I want, I’m leaving out the essential part, you’ll figure that out on your own … meaning, where Tristano learned to unravel the knot, how he found the exact right spot, and who helped him in his search … that doesn’t matter. Taddeo was driving the car and Tristano was humming a little nursery rhyme, ahi luna luna luna el niño la mira mira el niño la está mirando … There’s a gypsy legend that the full moon steals children, the child she stole from him was no longer a child but was still a child to him … Proserpina covers the dead with white sheets, luna luna luna lead the way … the road was dusty white with low shrubs on either side, and it was whiter still in the headlights … Tristano had already written a postcard to Rosamunda but hadn’t mailed it yet, it was still in the glove compartment … everyone had left that small town, it had become a tourist village, said the carabinero who gave him directions, but a specific kind of tourist village, d’élite, since those living there already were cultural tourists, that’s what he’d called them, a thoughtful community, everyone quiet, reflective, not like those young people going to discos or throwing parties with loud music and everybody getting drunk, and we’ll have to break them up … And the house was truly elegant as seen from the outside, an old country house remodeled by an intelligent architect, the kind that restores and doesn’t ruin the landscape … And its tenant, too, was an elegant gentleman, friendly, and he welcomed them in a friendly manner; for that matter, they came as friends, but I’m not saying how that happened, how they managed to get themselves welcomed as friends, because that’s not a detail … and how things unfolded exactly isn’t a detail at all, after they took a seat on those beautiful sofas draped with traditional Castilian shawls, and that pleasant gentleman offered them a first-rate brandy, aged Carlos Primero, this detail’s worth emphasizing, because brandy aids in digestion, another important detail, because they’d had an extravagant dinner, he and Taddeo, an important detail, not just for the gazpacho and the roasted angulas, which Taddeo had never tried before, but because if it was after dinner, it was night and rather late … A brandy Taddeo liked so well that he accepted a second, and then a third, and while he was drinking his third glass he said – another detail – that he really needed it that evening, something to put some fire in his veins … And now we’ve arrived at the essential part, what I’ll spare you, like I promised … I’d just like to add one more detail, that before this essential part, Tristano set a photo on the table of a boy in a wicker chair under a pergola, a jug of water in front of him and he was holding a book, you could tell it was summer, and the boy had straight, dark hair, and looked happy, his smile spoke of going out to meet the world … And he showed that photo and said … he said … I don’t remember, writer, I swear, I couldn’t tell you the exact words, but since it’s not a detail, I’ll just give you the basic gist, you can assume he said he was showing the gentleman that photo because he wanted to emphasize that this boy was his son and that he loved him very much … And at this point, that pleasant gentleman understood everything and became far from pleasant, as you might imagine, and Tristano didn’t just stop there, now he wanted to know where this man, this pleasant gentleman, had gotten his orders … which organizations, and whose, meaning, were they overseas or homegrown? And if it was something national, were these men who’d strayed from the right path, or those who’d found the right way? But these are details I’ll let you decide on, writer, as to the rest, if you have the patience for it, there’s a dossier, thousands of pages’ worth, sitting in the archives of our republic’s parliament … they’re the records of a committee with an unusual name, no other country in Europe has such a committee, we alone can brag of reaching such heights, of our parliamentary committee for mass murder, with its records available to all citizens, if you ever find the time, go take a look, I’m happy to leave all that to you, just like I’m happy to leave you this century … And when the snakes on Medusa’s head finally went limp, the two men stepped out into the night, Taddeo got back behind the wheel, there was a beautiful full moon, luna luna luna el niño la mira mira el niño la está mirando, and as they drove past a church on a small square, Tristano noticed a mailbox attached to the side of the bell tower, and it seemed like the most fi
tting mailbox for the postcard he’d written to Rosamunda, Miss Marilyn-Rosamunda, celestial Pancuervo, Cosmos. That was the address … an address no postman in this world could trace, but Tristano preferred it that way, he felt as though a weight had been lifted … In dreams begins responsibility, I did what you asked me to in a dream. Farewell, Tristano.

  In the distance, you could make out fires on the mountains, maybe shepherds. Night was falling, a feeble purple tingeing the strip of land blue, and a word came to him that he hadn’t thought of in years, bluing, that blue liquid housekeepers added to the wash … and now the road ran straight toward the mountain, a cluster of lights on the slope, a village, perhaps, no, not Thebes, Ghiannis said, though Thebes is just a village now, but we’ve already passed it and you didn’t notice, it’s just some little town, but now we’ll be rounding a lot of curves, we’re climbing toward Parnassus, which is only a hill in literature but is really a massive mountain, maybe we’ll stop and eat in Arachova … And then Ghiannis started talking about the Crimean War, who knows why, and Tristano recalled his elementary-school teacher who’d loved him, and his schoolbook primer, and on that Parnassus of defunct muses, faceless faces appeared in the night, General La Marmora and his bersaglieri, and most of all, a voice singing, I had a pony all dappled gray … But the moon was an icy disc, the road empty; a stray dog by the side of the road seemed to be waiting for someone, straining its neck, head tilted upward, perhaps the creature was howling … And with that image there came another voice, one of those voices that had settled inside him, or maybe it was always the same voice, just different tones, and it was singing a dirge like a lullaby … Antheos, he said, if you know that poem “Voices,” then recite it for me in the Greek, would you? My name’s not Antheos, Ghiannis said, it’s Ghiannis. Do it anyway, Tristano said, you sound just like a friend I had in Plaka many years ago, but I called him Marios, at times we hear them talking in our dreams, at times in thought they echo through the brain … They started up the mountain, the olive grove of Delphi stretched out below, they stopped beside the omphalòs … he looked up. The sky hung low, a blanket of dripping fog, Tristano stroked the curving surface of the stone and then started up toward the temple of Apollo. A little man in raggedy clothes was sitting under the columns of Athena’s Sanctuary, trying to keep out of the rain, he had a buzuki on his lap and when he saw Tristano, he started plucking the strings. Tristano gave him a coin and the man began to sing softly, something old, maybe, but he barely even knew the chorus, tram to teleutaio, then a dedah dedah … a sad folk song … He asked the man to sing it more clearly, but he didn’t understand … Essùrossa ki arghìsame, ma osso ke na fteo, perpàta na prolàvume, to tram to teleutaio … I got drunk, we were late, a mistake, but let’s grab the last tram, dedah dedah, ring the bell tonight, dedah dedah … it’s the last tram … He asked Ghiannis to wait for him, and he started up toward the temple of Apollo, careful to keep his footing on the wet paving stones. He laid his hand on a lopped-off column and made a sign, he’d read somewhere that this was how you called the oracle. He squatted in the rain and lit a cigarette … Not even the shadow of a Pythia – of course not – they hadn’t existed for centuries. You idiot, he told himself, you came all this way, you just needed to really concentrate, a nice cozy headache and the Pythia would have come calling … The rain was falling harder, he got to his feet and made his way down slowly in the dark. Far off, on the horizon, he could see the lights on the coast, Galaxidi … a line of trembling lights, yellow, only one was white, strange, that one white light in a line of yellow, Tristano concentrated on that light and it started coming closer, rushing toward him, plowing into him like a meteor, and then he was in a cold, deserted square, a Nazi officer lying at his feet, he stood there, staring in amazement at his rifle, and a girl was pushing open a large front door, gesturing for him to come inside … But is this the riddle I came to solve, he murmured, this past is already clear to me … I know, the cypress answered, this isn’t the past you came for … you came to hear your real past told in my voice, because you don’t have the courage for it yourself, so you’re leaving it to me, predictor of the future, to predict what’s already been and won’t ever change … so listen … one day, many years ago, you’ll find yourself in the woods, in the mountains, on a pale, cold dawn, and you’ll be hiding behind a rock and clutching a submachine gun, waiting for your enemies to leave a ruined farmhouse … you’ll be impatient, trembling because you’re cold and frightened, because what you need to do is critical, the fate of all your comrades, of the ideals you’re fighting for, they’re in your hands … and finally those enemies will leave the farmhouse, and you’ll fire your precise blasts, and kill them all … now that mountain clearing is dead silent, and you get to your feet, triumphant, you’re the new squad commander, a hero, you’ve killed them all and even avenged the old commander’s slaughter … but then, something unexpected – your temples are pounding, you’re freezing cold – a woman has stepped outside the farmhouse, her hair tousled as though she’s been asleep, her eyes wide, astonished, terrified … she sees you, she’s standing in the clearing, surrounded by dead soldiers, she looks like a statue, and she’s screaming at you, traitor! – spy – traitor!… You’d like to go meet her, tell her he was only an old commander and that it was for one person and one person only that you killed them all … but you don’t say a word, as if your thoughts freeze in the air and can’t find a voice … how’s it possible?… she was supposed to be on a mission tonight in the valley, but … she was here … now you point your gun at her, she’s in your sights, one round and you’ll be vindicated and the one witness to what really happened will disappear, and you will be a perfect hero … But you won’t fire, the Pythia knows this, and so do you … Pilgrim, did you know she spent her nights at that farmhouse? Is that why you became a spy? Or was it because you really wanted to slaughter a German platoon? Or was it because that commander fighting a common enemy believed in a different future than you, and so that made him your enemy as well?… Your life holds three possibilities, pilgrim, but the Pythia can’t know what they are: she can predict what’s going to happen, but not the will behind it, because Oracles might know what happens outside a man, but they can’t read his thoughts.

  … But instead, the world’s composed of acts, actions … concrete things that then are gone, because, writer, an action takes place, it occurs … and occurs only in that one precise moment, then disappears, is no longer there; it was. For an action to remain, it needs words, which continue to make it be, they bear witness. Verba volant isn’t true. Verba manent. All that remains of what we are and what we were are the words we’ve said, the words you’re writing down now, writer, and not what I did in that given place and that given time. Words remain … my words … and above all, yours … words that bear witness. The word is not at the beginning, writer; it’s at the end. But who bears witness for the witness? Here’s the point: no one bears witness for the witness … Happy, unhappy, that’s not the problem, you know, what I’m consoled by, writer, is that in the great summation of things, in your odious summation filled with figures, I don’t figure in, I’m not a single unit among the others, I haven’t been counted into the total, okay, you wanted me to be even and I was odd, I screwed up your calculations … That’s my poem for Monday, or Tuesday … I’ve forgotten Sunday’s – I didn’t like it – so take this as my gift to you instead.