Antonio Tabucchi - Letter from Casablanca

Immediately after dinner I said that I was going to take a nap, that I felt very lazy, it must be the humidity, and my declaration was received with much understanding. From my bed I heard them clattering around in the kitchen, but it was all a sham. In reality, they were talking very softly. I heard an indistinct chatter. Anyway, I was indifferent, I had no interest in deciphering what they were saying.

Nena went out at precisely quarter to two, exactly as the clock was striking one and then the three little pings for the forty-five minutes. I heard the creaking of the back-kitchen screen door and the light shuffling that went away on the gravel toward the main gate. And this caused in me distressing anxiety because I realized that I, too, was waiting, and there was something both absurd and dreadful about it, like a sin. The clock struck twice and I began to count: one — two — three — four — five — six — seven — eight — nine — ten. I felt it was the most stupid thing I could do but I couldn’t stop myself, and while I was thinking of the absurdity of that counting I continued to count by accenting the seconds, as if for good luck, a kind of protection — from what I didn’t know, or rather I didn’t have the courage to admit. When I reached one hundred and twenty I heard Nena’s footstep. I judged that she was still far away, at the beginning of the avenue. On her return she avoided the gravel, but I heard her just the same. I got up on tiptoe, bathed in sweat, and through the slats of the blinds I saw her approach slowly with her eyes lowered. She had on her face an expression of sadness that I had never known — Nena who was always so happy. In one hand she held a hat and in the other a piece of paper which she worried between her index finger and her thumb. Then I returned to bed and went to sleep.

And it was as if I woke up the following Saturday. Because that week hurried away very rapidly in its slowness, lined with silence, interwoven with the glances that Nena and Mama exchanged, while I tried to be present as little as possible with the excuse that the make-up exercises took me all afternoon. But in reality they didn’t take me any time at all, because my notebook was full of barbed wire.

The morning of the following Saturday Mama made ravioli with ricotta. We hadn’t eaten ravioli with ricotta for a long time. We had almost forgotten it. For months we had eaten only food that was horrifyingly mundane. Mama got up early. I woke up at six and heard her moving quietly in the kitchen, working. It was a pleasant morning. When Nena and I got up we found the table covered with strips of pasta already ready to be cut into shapes like a shell, which then had to be filled with ricotta. We had to have our coffee and milk on the little radio table, then we threw ourselves into cutting the pasta. Actually, it was Nena who cut the shape, I filled it with a spoon and passed it to Mama, who saw to the closing of the edges with a little fold and a light pressure of her fingers, with great caution, because if you pressed too hard the filling squirted out and the tortello was ruined.

“Today we’ll have a little party,” said Mama. “It’s a special day.” And then, without knowing exactly why, I felt again that blast of heal inside my chest that I had felt when Nena had made that statement. And then I began to sweat and I said, “How hot it is already this morning.” And Mama said, “Well, of course, today’s the third of August. Remember this day — today is Saturday, August third.” And I said, “If you don’t mind, Mama, I’ll go to my room for a little while. If you need any help, call me.” I don’t know why I didn’t go outside. Maybe it would have been better. The humidity had not yet descended on the garden. I could have checked the state of the pergola — that is, do something. But I preferred the shade of my room.

Mama was happy during dinner, too happy. The ravioli was delicious and Nena wanted two plates of it, but Mama seemed to be in a hurry for us to finish and frequently looked at the clock. At quarter past one we finished dinner and Mama cleared away hurriedly. She said, “We’d better leave the dishes for later. Now let’s all go and rest. It will do you good, too. We all got up too early this morning.” Nena, contrary to her custom, did not make a fuss and went straight to the divan in the dining room. Mama settled herself in the living room in her usual armchair, with the blinds closed and a handkerchief over her eyes. I lay down in my clothes, without turning down the bed, to wait. In the silence of my room I heard my heart beat tumultuously, and I felt that that dull noise could be heard even in the other room.

Perhaps I dozed off, but probably for just a few minutes, then I jumped at the sound of the clock which struck quarter to two and I stayed motionless, listening. I got up when I heard the creaking of the armchair in the living room. It was the only noise. Mama was truly quiet. I waited a few seconds behind the blinds. I realized that I was trembling, but certainly not from cold. I had to grit my teeth so they would not chatter. Then the back-kitchen door slowly opened and Mama went out. At first I didn’t think it was really she. How strange! It was the Mama in that photograph on the chest of drawers, where she was arm in arm with Papa. Behind them was the Basilica of San Marco and below was written “Venice, April 14, 1942.” She wore the same white dress with the big black polka dots, the shoes with the funny straps fastened around her ankles, and a white veil that covered her face. On the collar of her jacket she wore a blue silk camellia, and slipped over her arm she carried a crocodile purse. In one hand, delicately, as if she were carrying a precious object, she held a man’s cap that I recognized. She walked slowly as far as the entrance to the avenue, between the large pots of lemons, with a graceful gait that I had never seen. To watch her like this from behind, she seemed much younger, and only then did I realize that Nena walked exactly like her, with a slight swing and the same position of the shoulders. She disappeared around the corner of the house and I heard her footsteps on the gravel. My heart beat harder than ever. I was all sticky with sweat. I thought that I ought to get my bathrobe, but at that moment the clock struck two, and I couldn’t take my hands off the windowsill. I moved two slats of the blind slightly in order to see better. It seemed an interminable time. “How long she’s staying!’’ I thought. “Maybe she won’t come back.”

And at that moment Mama emerged from around the corner. She came forward with her head held high, staring in front of her with that distracted, faraway look that made her resemble Aunt Yvonne, and on her lips there lingered a smile. She had slipped her purse over her shoulder, which gave her an even younger look. At a certain point she stopped, opened her purse, took out a little round box of powder with the mirror inside the cover. She released the hook and the box opened by itself. She took the powder puff, rubbed it on the powder, and, looking at herself in the mirror, she slowly powdered her cheeks. And then I felt an enormous desire to call her, to tell her, “I’m here, Mama.” But I couldn’t say a word. I was aware only of a very strong taste of bilberries that filled my mouth, my nostrils, that invaded the room, the air, the whole world.

To Isabella G., who talked to me in Rome about “Heavenly Bliss”

Until the day I met Madame Huppert, I had never heard of Ikebana. I was very much on the defensive that afternoon. I had prepared myself psychologically to tell a lot of little lies if it seemed to me “promotional.” At that time I considered little lies as a necessary ingredient in order to appear interesting, to escape from mediocrity, and I trained myself to tell them without constraint. All things considered, I found myself quite convincing when I lied, perhaps more so than when I told the truth. But faced with a direct question, without pretext, without even the glimmer of who or what Ikebana was, all my admirable inclinations toward falsehood crumbled inexorably, and I was forced to admit my ignorance.