Antonio Tabucchi - Letter from Casablanca

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

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

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

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

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

Monsieur Huppert said that he was aware of them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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