Antonio Tabucchi - Letter from Casablanca

I learned the fourth declension perfectly. It’s true that it didn’t present the same difficulties as the third — you can’t even compare them. Even the directions in the first paragraph said so: “The fourth declension does not present particularities of any kind, save for rare exceptions to be learned from memory, for which see paragraph four,” and I very nearly felt like mourning the third declension. If that week I’d at least had a really difficult thing to learn, I’d be distracted a little, but with that stupid domus-dornus I did nothing but think of that statement of Nena’s, of Aunt Yvonne who wasn’t coming, and Mama’s silences. In my notebook I wrote little sentences like silentium domus triste est , which I then cancelled out with many little crosses connected to each other like barbed wire. It was a method my desk-mate had taught me. He called it “erasure by barbed wire,” and I liked it very much.

After that exceptional day in which she had taken an afternoon nap, Nena had resumed her habits and again spent the afternoons in the pied-à-terre . But she didn’t sing “Banana Boat’’ anymore, she realized that it wasn’t right. And by then she didn’t come under the window anymore to bother me or to invite me to be the architect who was courting her. She resigned herself to being alone in the garden. Who knows how bored she was, poor Nena. Now and then, glancing from the window, I saw her intent on combing Belafonte with a large pink comb that had arrived for her from Lausanne together with some hair curlers and a drier with batteries that blew real hot air. They came in a little box on which was pictured a doll covered with curls and the inscription La petite coiffeuse . But she played wearily, as if against her will, and who knows how much she wanted to come to invite me to be the architect? And I, too, at times would have liked to close that stupid book, go to her and tell her, “I’ve decided to be the architect who’s courting you. Let’s play. Don’t be so quiet. Why don’t you sing a little ‘Banana Boat’ that I like so much?” And instead I remained with my forehead in my hands, looking at the faraway countryside that quivered in the thick summer air.

But the next Saturday something new happened. It was two o’clock in the afternoon. Mama was in the armchair with the blinds closed. I was doing an exercise entitled Dumus Aurea , all full of adjectives with three endings referring to substantives of the fourth declension — a torture. Nena must have been near the main gate. Perhaps she had taken Belafonte for a stroll. I lost sight of her for a few minutes. I saw her arrive out of breath, emerging from the corner of the house on the veranda side. Then she stopped dumbfounded, looked behind her, hurried on a short distance, stopped, turned around again. The noise of the gravel under the soles of her sandals was the only sound in the afternoon silence. At first she seemed undecided which window to choose. Then she rejected Mama’s window, maybe because the blinds were completely closed. She came under my window, called me, but did not pronounce my name. She said only, “Listen! Listen! Please listen!” And her voice was imploring, but not like it was when she was teasing for something. Now she was really different. I had never heard Nena like this before. It was as if she were crying without crying.

I don’t know why I didn’t go to the window. Or rather I know perfectly well because I felt it. I understood with a great sense of emptiness and loss what she would have told me, and I knew that what she would have told me would have been unbearable. It wouldn’t do to listen to her. I might have begun to shout and hit out at her wildly, to pull those stupid pigtails of hers she was so proud of. And then I would have begun to cry uncontrollably, without any more fear of being heard, to sob as much as I wanted to. I remained silent, holding my breath. We were very close to each other — a few inches. Only the window screen separated us. But Nena did not reach the windowsill and she couldn’t look inside. I hoped with all my strength that she would believe I was asleep, and I touched the metal of the inkpot with the calendar as I did every time I wanted something to happen, for good luck. Nena quieted down and I heard her deep, excited breathing, then the sound of her footsteps on the gravel. I realized that she was heading for the veranda door. I took off my shoes and socks, avoiding making the least noise, went to the window, and closed the blinds. I opened the door of the passage just a crack and lay down on the bed. From that position I would be able to hear everything, even if they talked in low voices. If I had put my eye to the crack in the door, I would have been able to see Mama in the armchair, but I preferred not to risk my face being seen. It was enough for me to stay and listen, even though I already knew everything.

This time Mama cried. Maybe she couldn’t stop herself, I don’t know, probably she was in a moment of great weakness. Anyhow, it wasn’t like the first time when she had reacted almost indifferently. She drew Nena into her arms and said, “My little treasure,” and then she put her away again and dried her tears, emitting little smothered sobs, like someone swallowing. And then she asked her if I knew about it, and Nena said, “He’s sleeping.” “Better so,” said Mama. “Leave him in peace. He’s so busy with his Latin, poor dear, he studies all day.” And then she sighed. “But why do you tell me these things, Maddalena? Don’t you understand how much pain your mother has?” I plunged my face into the pillow so they wouldn’t hear me. Nena’s chattering was muffled when it reached me, but I already knew much of what she reported, that she said, “Why, yes. Why is it so, Mama? I swear to you, he was on a bicycle. He had a knotted handkerchief on his head. He wanted something here at home. I understood him. I saw him very well. He saw me, too, but he went by as if he couldn’t stop. Please believe me, Mama.”

I don’t know how that week went by. Fast, that’s it, it went by fast. I should have done a review exercise of all the exceptions, but I let it go. On my paper flourishes appeared, absurd scribbles behind which I lost myself, barbed wire with which I cancelled a statement that came to me obsessively, without stopping. Next week Nena will take a cap and a note from Mama. I even translated that sentence into Latin, and in that language it seemed even more bizarre, as if the strangeness of that language underlined the absurdity of its significance, and it frightened me.

But I didn’t say anything to them nor let them know I understood. Apparently my behavior was the same. In the morning I watered Mama’s azaleas. The garden was pleasant then. It still smelled of the nighttime cool, the sparrows hopped from one branch of the oleanders to the other, and the cicadas had not yet begun their crying. You could see the city distinctly in the clear air, and all around there was something happy and light. After dinner I helped Mama clear up as usual, and when I had finished I said, “I’m going to do homework.” I went into my bedroom, closed the door of the anteroom, half-closed the shutters, stretched out on the bed, and looked at the ceiling, where the slats of the Venetian blinds drew a rainbow in light and shade. I had no desire to think. I closed my eyes but I did not sleep. Under my eyelids passed the most diverse images. I arrived in the port of Singapore. How curious! It was identical to the photograph in my book. The only difference was that I was in the photograph, too. And Saturday came very quickly.

That morning I said nothing, did nothing, tried to let myself be seen as little as possible. Mama was in the kitchen and I was in the living room. She came into the living room and I went into the garden. Nena went out to the garden and I went into the bedroom. But they did so only to show that their behavior was normal, which complicated things terribly because they forced me to pretend that I didn’t notice anything. The worst moment of this game of hide-and-seek came when I suddenly went into the kitchen, thinking that both of them were outside, and surprised Mama while she was passing a note to Nena. That stupid thing turned all red and hid the note behind her back, but it was so obvious that I couldn’t pretend I hadn’t noticed it, otherwise they would really have become suspicious, so I had to resort to a shameful pretense and said carelessly, “It’s useless for you to hide the letters from Aunt Yvonne. I know she writes to you and not to me. You’ve always been her favorite.’’ And then Mama said, “Stop it! Don’t fight because of jealousy. It’s a mortal sin between brother and sister.’’ And I felt relieved, but my shirt was soaked with sweat.