I received many stories during those nights. I confess to transmitting very little. Most of the time I spent listening. Those presences were eager to talk and I sat and listened to their stories, trying to decipher communications which were often subject to interference, obscure and full of gaps. They were unhappy stories for the most part, that much I sensed quite clearly. Thus, amidst those silent dialogues, the autumn equinox came round. That day the sea was whipped up into a storm. I heard it thundering away from dawn on. In the afternoon an enormous force convulsed its bowels. Come evening, thick clouds had descended on the horizon and communication with my ghosts was lost. I went to the cliffs around two in the morning, having waited for the beam of the lighthouse in vain. The ocean was howling quite unbearably, as if full of voices and laments. I took my novel with me and consigned it to the wind page by page. I don’t know if it was a tribute, a homage, a sacrifice or a penance.
Years have gone by, and now that story surfaces again from the obscurity of other dressers, other depths. I see it in black and white, the way I see things in dreams usually. Or in faded, extremely tenuous colours; and with a light mist all around, a thin veil that blurs and softens the edges. The screen it is projected on is the night sky of an Atlantic coast in front of an old house called São José de Guia. To those old walls, which no longer exist as I knew them, and to everybody who knew the house before I did and lived there, I duly dedicate this non-existent novel.
The Translation
It’s a splendid day, you can be sure of that, indeed I’d say it was a summer’s day, you can’t mistake summer, I’m telling you, and I’m an expert. You want to know how I knew? Oh, well, it’s easy, really, how can I put it? All you have to do is look at that yellow. What do I mean by that? Okay, now listen carefully, you know what yellow is? Yes, yellow, and when I say yellow I really do mean yellow, not red or white, but real yellow, precisely, yellow. That yellow over there on the right, that star-shaped patch of yellow opening across the countryside as if it were a leaf, a glow, something like that, of grass dried out by the heat, am I making myself clear?
That house looks as if it’s right on top of the yellow, as if it were held up by yellow. It’s strange one can see only a bit of it, just a part, I’d like to know more, I wonder who lives there, maybe that woman crossing the little bridge. It would be interesting to know where she’s going, maybe she’s following the gig, or perhaps it’s a barouche, you can see it there near the two poplars in the background, on the left-hand side. She could be a widow, she’s wearing black. And then she has a black umbrella too. Though she’s using that to keep off the sun, because as I said, it’s summer, no doubt about it. But now I’d like to talk about that bridge – that delicate little bridge – it’s so graceful, all made of bricks, the supports go as far as the middle of the canal. You know what I think? Its grace has to do with that clever contrivance of wood and ropes that covers it, like the scaffolding of a cantilever. It looks like a toy for an intelligent child, you know those children who look like little grown-ups and are always playing with Meccano and things like that, you used to see them in respectable families, maybe not so much now, but you’ve got the idea. But it’s all an illusion, because the way I see it that graceful little bridge, apparently meant to open considerately to let the boats on the canal go through, is really a very nasty trap. The old woman doesn’t know, poor thing, she’s got no idea at all, but now she’s going to take another step and it’ll be a fatal one, believe me, she’s sure to put her foot on the treacherous mechanism, there’ll be a soundless click, the ropes will tighten, the beams suspended cantilever fashion will close like jaws and she’ll be caught inside like a mouse – if things go well, that is, because in a worst-case scenario all the bars that connect the beams, those poles there, rather sinister if you think abut it, will snap together, one right against the other with not a millimetre between and, wham, she’ll be crushed flat as a pancake. The man driving the gig doesn’t even realise, maybe he’s deaf into the bargain, and then the woman’s nothing to him, believe me, he’s got other things to think about, if he’s a farmer he’ll be thinking of his vineyards, farmers never think about anything but the soil, they’re pretty self-centred, for them the world ends along with their patch of ground; or if he’s a vet, because he could be a vet too, he’ll be thinking about some sick cow on the farm which must be back there somewhere, even if you can’t see it, cows are more important than people for vets, everybody has his work in this world, what do you expect, and the others had better look out for themselves.
I’m sorry you still haven’t understood, but if you make an effort I’m sure you’ll get there, you’re a smart person and it doesn’t take much to work it out, or rather, maybe it does take a bit, but I think I’ve given you details enough; I’ll repeat, probably all you have to do is connect together the pieces I’ve given you, in any event, look, the museum is about to close, see the custodian making signs to us, I can’t bear these custodians, they give themselves such airs, really, but if you want let’s come back tomorrow, in the end you don’t have that much to do either, do you? and then Impressionism is charming, ah these Impressionists, so full of light, of colour, you almost get a smell of lavender from their paintings, oh yes, Provence . . . I’ve always had a soft spot for these landscapes, don’t forget your stick, otherwise you’ll get run over by some car or other, you put it down there, to the right, a bit farther, to the right, you’re nearly there, remember, three paces to our left there’s a step.
Happy People
‘I’m afraid we’re going to get bad weather this evening,’ said the girl, and she pointed to a curtain of clouds on the horizon. She was skinny and angular, her hands moving jerkily, and she had her hair done up in a little ponytail. The terrace of the small restaurant looked out over the sea. To the right, beyond the screen of jasmine which climbed up to form a pergola, you could glimpse a little courtyard full of bric-à-brac, cases of empty bottles, a few broken chairs. To the left was a small ironwork gate, beneath which gleamed the little stairway carved into the sheer rock face. The waiter arrived with a tray of steaming shellfish. He was a little man with slicked-back hair and a shy manner. He put the tray down on the table and made a slight bow. On his right arm he carried a dirty napkin.
‘I like this country,’ said the girl to the man sitting opposite. ‘The people are simple and kind.’
The man didn’t answer; he unfolded his napkin, tucking it into the collar of his shirt, but then registered the girl’s disapproving look at once and rearranged it on his knees. ‘I don’t like it,’ he said. ‘I don’t understand the language. And then it’s too hot. And then I don’t like southern countries.’
The man was sixtyish, with a square face and thick eyebrows. But his mouth was pink and moist, with something soft about it.
The girl shrugged her shoulders. She seemed visibly annoyed, as if his confession contrasted somehow with her own candour. ‘You’re not being fair,’ she said. ‘They’ve paid for everything, the trip, the hotel. They couldn’t have treated you with more respect.’
He waved his hand in a gesture of indifference. ‘I didn’t come for their country, I came for the conference. They treat me with great respect and I show mine by being here, so we’re quits.’ He concentrated on cracking open his lobster, making it plain there was nothing else to say about the matter. A small gust of wind blew away the paper napkin covering the bread basket. The sea was getting choppy and was deep deep blue.
The girl seemed put out, but maybe it was just a show. When she finally spoke it was in a tone of faint resentment, but with a hint of reconciliation too. ‘You didn’t even tell me what you’ll be talking about, it’s as if you wanted to keep me in the dark about everything, which isn’t fair, I don’t think.’
He had finally managed to overcome the resistance of his lobster and was now dipping the meat in mayonnaise. His face brightened and in a single breath, like a schoolboy parroting a lesson, he said: ‘Structures and Distortio
ns in Middle Latin and Vulgar Texts of the Pays d’Oc.’
The girl gulped, as if her food had gone down the wrong way, and she began to laugh. She laughed uncontrollably, covering her mouth with her napkin. ‘Oh dear,’ she hiccupped. ‘Oh dear!’
He started to laugh too, but stopped himself because he wasn’t sure whether it was best for him to join in her outburst of hilarity or not. ‘Explain,’ he asked, when she had calmed down.
‘Nothing,’ the girl said, between intermittent giggles. ‘It just occurred to me that you’re rather better suited to the vulgar than the Middle Latin, that’s all.’
He shook his head in fake pity, but you could see deep down he was flattered. ‘In any event we can begin the lesson now; so listen carefully.’ He held up a thumb and said: ‘Point number one: you have to study the minor authors, it’s the minor authors will make your career, all the greats have already been studied.’ He raised another finger. ‘Point number two: make the bibliography as long as you possibly can, taking care to disagree with scholars who are dead.’ He raised yet another finger. ‘Point number three: no fanciful methodologies, I know they’re in fashion now, but they’ll sink without a trace, stay with the straightforward and traditional.’ She was listening carefully, concentrating hard. Perhaps the sketch of a timid objection was forming on her face, because he felt the need to offer an example. ‘Think of that French specialist who came to talk about Racine and all Phaedra’s complexes,’ he said. ‘A normal person, would you say?’
‘What? Phaedra?’ asked the girl, as though thinking of something else.
‘The French specialist,’ he said patiently.
The girl didn’t answer.
‘Quite,’ he said. ‘These days critics are in the habit of unloading their own neuroses onto literary texts. I had the courage to say as much and you saw how outraged everybody was.’ He opened the menu and set about a careful choice of dessert. ‘Psychoanalysis was the invention of a madman,’ he concluded. ‘Everybody knows that, but you try saying it out loud.’
The girl looked absent-mindedly at the sea. She had a resigned expression and was almost pretty. ‘So what next?’ she asked, still speaking as though her mind were elsewhere.
‘I’ll tell you that later,’ said the man. ‘Right now I want to say something else. You know what’s positive about us, our winning card? Do you? It’s that we’re normal people, that’s what.’ He finally settled on a dessert and waved to the waiter. ‘And now I’ll tell you what’s next,’ he went on. ‘What’s next is, you apply for the place right now.’
‘But we’ll have your philologist friend against us,’ she objected.
‘Oh, him!’ exclaimed the man. ‘He’ll keep quiet, he will, or rather, he’ll be on our side, you’ll see.’ He left a pause that was full of mystery.
‘When he walks down the corridor with his pipe and hair blowing about, you’d think he was God and Father himself,’ she said. ‘He can’t bear me, he doesn’t even say hello.’
‘He’ll learn to say hello, sweetie.’
‘I told you not to call me sweetie, it brings me out in a rash.’
‘In any event he’ll learn to say hello,’ he interrupted. He smiled with a sly look and poured himself some wine. He was doing it on purpose to increase the mystery and wanted it to be obvious he was doing it on purpose. ‘I know all sorts of little things about him,’ he finally said, letting a glimmer of light into the darkness.
‘Tell me about them.’
‘Oh, little things,’ he muttered with affected casualness, ‘certain escapades, old friendships with people in this country when it was not exactly a paragon of democracy. If I was a novelist I could write a story about it.’
‘Oh, come on,’ she said, ‘I don’t believe it. He’s always in the front row when it comes to petitions and meetings, he’s left-wing.’
The man seemed to think over the adjective she’d used. ‘Left-handed, rather,’ he concluded.
The girl laughed, shaking her head, which made her ponytail bob from side to side. ‘In any event, we’ll need support from someone from another university,’ she said. ‘We can’t keep everything in the family.’
‘I’ve thought of that too.’
‘You think of everything, do you?’
‘In all modesty . . .’
‘Who?’
‘No names.’
He smiled affably, took the girl’s hand and assumed a paternal manner. ‘Listen carefully, you have to analyse people’s motives, and that’s just what I do. Everybody runs a mile from him, have you ever asked yourself why?’
The girl shook her head and he made a vague, mysterious gesture. ‘There must be a reason,’ he said.
‘I’ve got a reason of my own,’ she said. ‘I’m pregnant.’
‘Don’t be stupid,’ said the man with a cutting smile.
‘Don’t be stupid yourself,’ the girl answered sharply.
The man had frozen with a slice of pineapple just an inch from his mouth; his face betrayed the surprise of someone who has recognised the truth.
‘Since when?’
‘Two months.’
‘Why wait till now to tell me?’
‘Because I didn’t feel like it before,’ she said firmly. She made a broad gesture which included the sea, the sky and the waiter who was arriving with the coffee. ‘If it’s a girl I’m going to call her Felicity,’ she said with conviction.
The man slipped the pineapple into his mouth and swallowed in haste. ‘A bit too passé and sentimental for my taste.’
‘Okay, so Allegra, Joy, Serena, Hope, Letitia, Hilary, as you will. I don’t care what you say, I think names have an influence on a person’s character. Hear yourself called Hilary all the time and you begin to feel a bit hilarious, you laugh. I want a cheerful child.’
The man didn’t answer. He turned to the waiter hovering patiently at a distance and made as if to write on his hand. The waiter understood and went into the restaurant to prepare the bill. There was a curtain of metal beads over the door which tinkled every time someone went in. The girl stood up and took hold of the man’s hand, pulling him up.
‘Come on, come and look at the sea, don’t play the crotchety old fogy, this is the best day of your life.’
The man got up a little unwillingly, letting himself be pulled. The girl put her arm round his waist, pushing him on. ‘It’s you who looks pregnant,’ she said. ‘About six months, if you ask me.’ She let out a ringing laugh and hopped like a little bird. They leaned on the wooden parapet. There were some agave plants in the small unkept piece of ground in front of the terrace and lots of wild flowers. The man took a cigarette from his pocket and slipped it between his lips. ‘Oh God,’ she said, ‘not that unbearable stink again, it’ll be the first thing I’ll cut out of our life.’
‘You just try,’ he said with a sly look.
She held him tight against her, stroking his cheek with her head. ‘This restaurant is delightful.’
The man patted his stomach. His expression was one of satisfaction and self-assurance. ‘You have to know how to take life,’ he answered.
The Archives of Macao
‘Listen, my good man, your father has cancer of the pharynx, I can’t leave the conference to operate on him tomorrow, I’ve invited half of Italy, do you understand? And then, with what he’s got, a week isn’t going to make much difference.’
‘Actually our doctor says the operation should be done immediately, because it’s a type of cancer that spreads extremely quickly.’
‘Oh really, immediately indeed? And what am I supposed to say to the people coming to the conference, that I have to operate tomorrow and the conference is being postponed? Listen, your father will do what everybody else does, wait until the conference is finished.’
‘You listen to me, Professor Piragine, I don’t give a damn about your conference, I want my father to be operated on immediately, and any others too, if they’re urgent.’
‘I have no intention of
discussing the schedule of my operating theatre with you. This is the University of Pisa and I am not just a doctor, I have well-defined teaching duties as well. I’m not going to put up with you telling me what I have to do. I can’t operate on your father until next week; if that’s not good enough, have the patient discharged and find another hospital. It goes without saying that the responsibility will be yours. Goodbye.’
The voice of the hostess invited the passengers to buckle their safety belts and extinguish their cigarettes, the stopover would last about forty minutes for refuelling and cleaning. And as through the window one began to see the lights of Bombay and a little later the blue lights of the runway, just then – it must have been due to the slight bump as the plane touched down, sometimes these things do spark off associations of ideas – I found myself on your scooter. You were driving with your arms out wide, because in those days the scooters used to have wide handlebars, and I was watching your scarf blowing in the wind. The fringe was tickling me and I wanted to scratch my nose but I was afraid of falling. It was 1956, I’m sure of that, because you bought the scooter as a celebration the same day I turned thirteen. I tapped two fingers on your shoulder, to ask you to slow down, and you turned, smiling, and as you turned the scarf slipped from your neck, very slowly, as if every movement of objects in space had been put into slow motion, and I saw that beneath your scarf you had a horrible wound slicing across your throat from one side to the other, so wide and open I could see the muscle tissue, the blood vessels, the carotid artery, the pharynx, but you didn’t know you had the wound and you smiled unaware, and in fact you didn’t have it, it was me seeing it there, it’s strange how one sometimes finds oneself superimposing one memory over another, that was what I was doing. I was remembering how you were in 1956 and then adding the last image you were to leave me, almost thirty years later.