Antonio Tabucchi - Letter from Casablanca

The trip had not, in fact, gone very well. I had lied to the captain. It had turned out to be uncomfortable and studded with incidents, including getting bogged down in the mud, which had stolen an entire morning. Fortunately, Joaquim was a first-rate mechanic and had a perfect knowledge of the road. He was an elderly mulatto, kind and pleasant, used to adversity and resigned to misfortune, who faced life as an obligation and the inconveniences of the roads as a diversion from the tedium of the trip.

Lying down on the berth of the truck, while the African forest passed by above, I thought about the Vice-Governor’s rod that had moved over the map hung on the wall in his office in Inhambane pointing out to me the most favorable route. It was hot, the fan hummed loudly, from the wide-open window came the afternoon light and the buzz of a market deadened by the trees in the garden. The pointer moved slowly along Tete’s heavy-duty road, then swerved toward the northeast. The route on the map at that point was a slender white thread across the dark green of the forest, with no city within the radius of three hundred kilometers. The first large center was Kaniemba. Then there were two days by truck, if no breakdowns occurred. Now I was pursuing the course of the pointer, carrying out that incomprehensible, possibly rather absurd, order. A census at the boundary of the region of Kaniemba, five hundred kilometers away from my seat, work that in theory could last ten months, had the taste of punishment, together with a threatening warning. I wondered about the reasons why I had been able to induce my superior to entrust me with this task. I saw again the photograph of Don Manuel on my desk, I thought of the trial of a rich colonist for bullying his employees, at which I acted as plaintiff, I remembered the threats of a most excellent personage whose trafficking I indiscreetly set out to investigate. Perhaps something of all this entered into it, or something that I was unable to imagine. But by this time even to know did not change things much.

The “sepoy” brought me the note while we were having coffee. The captain had been telling me a very Portuguese story of misery and nobility. It was a printed invitation, one of those used on ceremonious occasions among persons who have a certain place in society. It was slightly wrinkled and looked frankly old. It said in English that Sir Wilfred Cotton had the honor to invite for supper (a blank space followed filled in by pen with my name) for Thursday, October 24, at seven o’clock. Evening dress would be preferred. R.S.V.P.

I turned the note around between my fingers. I must have looked as perplexed as the situation was perplexing. A barracks inhabited by an officer and two old “sepoys,” the city of Kaniemba — granted that it could be called a city — two days away by road, the deepest forest within kilometers, and an invitation to dine in evening dress and would I please respond. I asked the captain who Sir Wilfred was. An Englishman — well, of course, that I had supposed. But what kind of Englishman? Who was he? What did he do? He had arrived a few months earlier, he may have come from Salisbury — at least it was believed so — he lived in a little cottage at the edge of the village, who he was no one had the slightest idea, he always looked after his own affairs, he was an elderly gentleman — well, let’s say fifty, maybe a little more — he had an elegant appearance, he seemed to be a refined person.

I was about to put the invitation into my pocket, but the “sepoy” looked at me with an aggrieved expression without leaving the room. I asked him what more there was. Mr. Cotton’s servant was at the kitchen door, Excellency, was what it was, maybe he should send him away? Sent to tell His Excellency that he took the liberty of reminding him that tomorrow was Thursday, he said exactly that.

Wilfred Cotton’s cottage had belonged to the administration of the lumber company before the factory had moved two kilometers to the south toward the Zambezi. On the wooden colonnade at the entrance, under a recent paint job, you could still see an axe with a swallow-tail blade, the company trademark. A small uncultivated banana plantation separated it from the village. In the background, in the direction of the river, the heavy-duty road for Tete passed by. The rest was overhung with forest tentacles.

It was exactly seven o’clock. Cotton was standing on the veranda waiting for me. He was wearing a white jacket with a silk bow tie. He said welcome, supper was almost ready, would I please sit down, my chauffeur could eat in the kitchen — he sent a servant to call him — would I care for an aperitif? A boy in black trousers and a white shirt was waiting near a sideboard with a bottle of wine in his hand. On the table there was a meat pie spread with currant jelly. It was a short supper, pleasant, relaxing, with neutral, formal conversation. Would I remain here for long? Perhaps a year. Oh, really? He hoped that this prospect did not frighten me. Did I like the place? Moderately? Oh, certainly, he found it understandable, but the climate was not too bad, didn’t I think? The humidity was bearable. A phonograph in the living room softly played Haydn.

At tea we talked about tea. What we were drinking, so dark and aromatic, was a mixture of his: leaves of Li-Cungo, those tiny ones, that give an intense color and contain a high percentage of theine, mixed with some quality Niassa, very light and fragrant. A carillon clock struck eight, and Wilfred Colton asked me if I liked the theatre. I liked it very much, I admitted with a certain regret. In Lisbon I had liked it very much. Perhaps it was the artistic expression which I had liked the best. My host stood up with a certain haste, it seemed to me. Very well, he said. In that case I believe that this evening there is a performance. If you will come this way, I will have the pleasure to invite you. We should hurry.

The hut was situated in the middle of the clearing that separated the cottage from the forest. It was a spacious round hut made of straw reeds, like those of the Negroes, but more robust in appearance. On the inside the reeds were whitened with lime. In the center was a little platform with a reading-desk, and leaning against the wall a modest bench. There was nothing else. Wilfred Cotton invited me to sit down, went up on the platform, opened a book which he had held under his arm, and said, “William Shakespeare. King Lear . Act One. Scene One. A state room in King Lear’s palace.”

He read, or better still, he recited, with a surprising intensity, all the first act and half of the second. He was a Lear devastated by a mortal melancholy, but also a Fool sparkling with cynical, burning genius. Toward the middle of the second act, his voice seemed to betray his fatigue, and the conversation between Lear and Regan went slowly, perhaps a bit awkwardly. I thought of getting up, of saying to him, Enough now, Sir Wilfred, please sit down. It’s been lovely, but perhaps you’re tired. You look a little pale, too, you’re sweating. But at that moment the Duke of Cornwall spoke. He had a deep, troubled voice, full of foreboding. “Let us withdraw, ’twill be a storm!” And so the tragedy regained momentum, the voices got livelier, Gloucester leapt forward to say that the king was in a towering rage, that night was approaching and the winds becoming furious. And at that point the deep voice of Cornwall, as if thundering from the spacious room of a palace with very high ceilings, shouted to bolt the doors, in that tempestuous night, to protect themselves from the hurricane.

It’s intermission, said Wilfred Cotton. Shall we go to the foyer for something to drink?

The servant was waiting for us on the veranda of the cottage, where drinks were ready. We drank a cognac standing up, leaning on the wooden railing, gazing at the night before us. The monkeys, which all through twilight had made a frightening uproar, were now sleeping quietly in the trees. From the forest there were only rustling, stifled noises, a cry of a bird. Sir Wilfred asked me if the tragedy was to my liking. Yes, I admitted. And the interpretation, what did I think of that? Did I prefer King Lear or the Fool? I confessed that I felt the interpretation of the Fool was fascinating, so aggressive and passionate, almost demented. But to tell the truth, I had been overcome by the interpretation of Lear. There was something unhealthy, vile, about him, a metaphysical weakness, a condemnation. He agreed. For this reason the recitation of the Fool had been too hysterical, hallucinatory, feverish, because a strong “comic relief” was necessary in order to underline Lear’s obscure weakness. That Lear, he said, that evening rendered homage to Sir Henry Irving. I did not know him? It was normal — when he died perhaps I had not yet come into the world. Henry Irving, 1838–1905, the greatest Shakespearean actor of all time. He had the gestures of a king and the voice of a harp. Lear was his sublime role. No one had ever been able to equal it. His sadness was as deep as hell, and his torment was unbearable in the third scene of Act Five when he held his hands to his temples as if he wanted to protect them from an interior explosion and murmured, “She’s gone for ever. I know when one is dead, and when one lives. She’s dead as earth.”