Antonio Tabucchi - Letter from Casablanca

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

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

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

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

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

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

— And what is this one called?—

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

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

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

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

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

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