Antonio Tabucchi - Letter from Casablanca

“It’s a rather delicate thing. We didn’t have the courage to ask you about it … We’ve discussed it … It can present some inconveniences, too … I mean the most that can happen to you is that they refuse your entrance visa at the border … Listen, we don’t want to keep you in the dark about anything … At first, Jorge was the courier. He was the only one who had a passport from the UN … Do you know what time it is in Winnipeg? He teaches in a Canadian university. We still haven’t found a way to replace him.”

Nine o’clock in the evening on a bench in Piazza Navona in Rome. I looked at him. Perhaps my expression was perplexed. I didn’t know what to think. I felt vaguely embarrassed, at a disadvantage, like talking with a person you’ve known for ages and one day he reveals to you something you didn’t expect.

“We don’t want to involve you … It would be a special thing … Believe me, we feel terrible about having to ask you … Even if you say no to us, our friendship for you won’t change, you know … So … Think aboul it… We don’t ask for an answer right now. We just want you to know that you’d be a great help to us.”

We went to have an ice cream at a café in the piazza. We chose a little table outdoors, far away from the people. Francisco had a tense expression. Perhaps he, too, was embarrassed. He knew that this was something that even if I refused, I would never be able to forget. Maybe he was really afraid of my possible remorse. We ordered two water ices at the cafe. We remained silent a long time, slowly sipping the ices. “There are five letters,” said Francisco, “and a sum of money for the families of the two writers who were arrested last month.” He told me their names and waited for me to speak. I said nothing and drank a little water. “I believe it’s not necessary to tell you that it’s clean money — it’s the demonstration of solidarity from three democratic Italian parties we asked for help. If you consider it relevant, I can have you meet with the representatives of the parties in question. They will confirm it to you.” I said that I did not consider it relevant.

We paid, we took a walk around the piazza. “All right,” I said. “I’ll leave in three days.” He gave me an energetic, rapid handshake, thanked me. “Now, remember what you have to do. It’s a very simple thing.” He wrote a number on a ticket. “When you arrive in Lisbon, telephone this number. If a man’s voice answers, hang up. Keep on trying until a woman’s voice answers. Then you must say, ‘A new translation of Fernando Pessoa has come out.’ She will tell you how to meet. She’s the one who keeps the exiles who live in Rome in touch with their families at home.”

It had been very easy, as Francisco had predicted. At the border they did not even have me open my suitcase. At Lisbon I stayed in the center behind the Trinity Theatre, two steps from the national library, in a small hotel where there was a cordial, talkative Algarvite concierge. At my first attempt at telephoning, a woman’s voice had answered me, and I had said, “Good evening. I’m an Italian. I’d like to let you know that a new translation of Fernando Pessoa has come out. Perhaps it would interest you.” “Let’s meet in half an hour at Bertrand’s Bookstore,” she had replied, “in the periodical room. I’m in my forties, I have dark hair, and I’m wearing a yellow dress.”

Nuno Meneses de Sequeira received me at two o’clock in the afternoon. When I had telephoned in the morning, a servant had answered. “The Count is resting now. He can’t receive you this morning. Come by at two in the afternoon.” “But where is the lady’s body?” “I don’t know what to tell you, sir, excuse me. Come at two in the afternoon, please.” I got a room at my usual small hotel behind the Trinity Theatre, took a shower, and changed my clothes. “I haven’t seen you for some time,” the concierge told me, the cordial Algarvite. “Five months the end of February,” I said. “And your work,” he asked, “still for libraries?” “That’s my fate,” I answered.

Largo Camões was bathed in sunlight. In the little square there were pigeons perched on the head of the poet, some pensioners on the benches, shy, dignified old people, a soldier and a serving girl — the sadness of Sunday. Rua das Chagas was deserted. A rare unoccupied taxi went by. The sea breeze was not enough to alleviate the thick, damp heal. I stopped in a café to search for a little cool. It was secluded and dirty. On the ceiling the blades of an enormous fan whirred uselessly. The owner dozed behind the counter. I asked for an iced sumo . He waved away the flies with a rag and wearily opened the refrigerator. I had not eaten and was not hungry. I sat down at a table and lit a cigarette, waiting for the time.

Nuno Meneses de Sequeira received me in a Baroque salon with many stuccos on the ceiling and two huge gnawed tapestries on the walls. He was dressed in black, had a shiny face, and his bald skull glistened. He was seated in an armchair of crimson velvet. When I entered, he stood up, bowed his head imperceptibly, and invited me to sit down on a divan under the window. The shutters were closed and a heavy odor of old upholstery stagnated in the room.

“How did she die?” I asked. “She had an ugly disease,” he said. “You did not know?” I shook my head. ‘“What kind of disease?” Nuno Meneses de Sequeira folded his hands on his lap. “An ugly disease,” he said. “She telephoned me in Madrid two weeks ago. She didn’t say anything to me about it, not even a hint. Did she know about it yet?” “She was already very ill, and she was well informed.” “Why didn’t she tell me anything?” “Perhaps she did not consider it opportune,” said Nuno Meneses de Sequeira. “I would be grateful if you did not come to the funeral. It will be strictly private.” “I had no intention of doing so,” I reassured him. “I am grateful to you,” he murmured faintly.

The silence in the room became tangible, uncomfortable. “May I see her?” I asked. Nuno Meneses de Sequeira looked at me a long time, ironically, I thought. “It is impossible,” he said. “She is at the Cuf Clinic. She died there, and then the doctor ordered the casket closed. It was not possible to leave it open, given the conditions.”

I thought of leaving. I wondered why he had telephoned me, even if it had been Maria do Carmo’s wish, what the purpose was in having me come to Lisbon. There was something that escaped me, or maybe there was nothing strange. The situation was simply painful, and it was useless to prolong it further. But Nuno Meneses de Sequeira had not finished talking. He kept his hands on the arms of the armchair as if he were about to rise at any moment. He had watery eyes and an expression that was tense, ill-tempered, or perhaps it was the nervous tension that he must have felt. “You never understood her,” he said. “You are too young. You were much younger than Maria do Carmo.” “And you were much older,” I would have liked to say, but I kept quiet. “You work in philology, ah, ah.” He made a little laugh. “Libraries are your life. You could not understand such a woman.” “Please explain yourself,” I said. Nuno Meneses de Sequeira stood up, went to the window, opened the shutters slightly. “I would like to dispel an illusion,” he said, “that of your having known Maria do Carmo. You knew only a fictional Maria do Carmo.” “Please explain yourself,” I repeated.

“Well,” smiled Nuno Meneses de Sequeira, “I imagine Maria do Carmo must have told you a tearful story of her unhappy childhood in New York, a republican father who died heroically in the Spanish Civil War. You will do well to listen to me, dear sir. I have never been to New York in my life. Maria do Carmo is the daughter of large landowners. She had a golden childhood. Fifteen years ago, when I met her, she was twenty-seven years old and was the most courted woman in Lisbon. I had returned from a diplomatic mission in Spain, and we both had our love for our country in common.” He paused as if to give greater weight to his words. “Love for our country,” he repeated. “I do not know if I make myself understood.” “It depends in which sense you use the word,” I said. Nuno Meneses de Sequeira adjusted the knot in his tie, drew out from his pocket a handkerchief, assumed an attitude both dry and patient. “You will do well to listen to me. Maria do Carmo liked a game very much. She played it all her life. We always played it by mutual consent.” I made a gesture with my hand as if to prevent him from continuing, but he went on: “She must have reached her backwards side.” In a room far away a pendulum clock struck. “Unless she reached the backwards side of her backwards side,” I said. Nuno Meneses de Sequeira smiled again. “How beautiful,” he said. “Indeed, it could be a sentence by Maria do Carmo. It is logical that you believe this hypothesis, even if it is a presumption, believe me.” There was a vein of contempt in his soft voice. I remained silent, my eyes lowered, looking at the carpet. It was an Arraiolos carpet of deep blue with some gray peacocks.