Antonio Tabucchi - Time Ages in a Hurry

The man raised the cap from his face and looked at her.

— And what do you think? he asked.

Isabella had gotten up, she stepped out of the circle of shade, her body shone in the sunlight.

— I’ll tell you tomorrow, she replied.

First of all, he would have told him that what he liked most about the new house was the view of the Unter den Linden, because this made him still feel at home. In other words, it was a house that made him feel at home, as when his life still meant something. And that he liked that he’d chosen Karl-Liebknecht-Strasse, because this too was a name that meant something. Or it used to. Hadn’t it? Of course it had, especially la Grande Struttura.

The tram stopped and the doors opened. People boarded. He waited till the doors closed again. Go ahead, go ahead, I’d prefer to walk, I’ll take a healthy stroll, the weather’s too nice not to. The light was red. He studied his reflection in the glass of the closed door, although a strip of rubber divided him in two. Divided in two is fine, caro , always divided in two, half here, half there, that’s life, life’s like that. But not bad at all: a handsome older man, white hair, an elegant jacket, Italian loafers from a downtown shop, the well-off look of a well-off person: the rewards of capitalism. He hummed: tout est affaire de décor, changer de lit, changer de corps. He knew quite a bit about that, yes, he’d spent a whole life in that mode. The tram left. He waved after it, as if waving good-bye to someone on board. Who was that person on the tram headed off to the Pergamon? He gave himself an affectionate pat on the cheek. Well, it’s you, my friend, it’s really you, et à quoi bon, puisque c’est encore moi qui moi-même me trahis. He softly sang the final lines of the stanza, his voice deep and slightly dramatic, like Léo Ferré used to do it. The boy waiting for the green light, sitting on his scooter with his Pizza Hut box, stared at him in wonder: an elegant old man singing like a lark at a tram stop, funny, no? Go on, young man, it’s green now, he waved the boy on, take your shit pizza to its destination, clear out, clear out, nothing to see here, just an old man humming the poems of Aragon, a faithful comrade from the good old days, he’s cleared out too, sooner or later we all clear out, even his Elsa’s eyes were dull now, good night Elsa’s eyes. He watched the tram turning onto Friedrichstrasse and waved good-bye to Elsa’s eyes. The cabdriver looked at him, bewildered. So, he said, you getting in? The old man apologized: sorry, my mistake, I was saying good-bye to someone, I wasn’t waving to you. The cabdriver shook his head disapprovingly. Turkish, probably. This city’s full of Turks, Turks and Gypsies, they all pour in here, those bums, to do what? to beg, yes, to beg, poor Germany. Ah, and now he’s complaining too, the immigrant, the nerve of this guy. I told you you’ve got it wrong, he argued, voice rising, you’ve misunderstood, I was waving at someone else. I only asked if you needed help, the guy explained in broken German, excuse me, sir, do you need help? Do I need help? No, thank you, he answered crisply, thank you, I’m very well, young man. The cab drove off. Are you well? he asked himself. Of course he was well, it was a beautiful summer day, so rare in Berlin, maybe a little too hot. In fact, maybe a little too hot for his liking, and with the heat one’s blood pressure does tend to rise. No salted food and no exertion, the doctor had warned him, your pressure is borderline, it’s probably anxiety, is something worrying you, are you getting your rest, do you sleep well, do you have insomnia? Such questions. Of course he was sleeping well, how could a tranquil old man sleep badly when he had a nice bank account, a magnificent apartment in the center of the city, a vacation cottage in Wannsee, a lawyer son in Hamburg and a daughter married to the owner of a supermarket chain, come on, doctor. But the physician persisted: bad dreams, trouble sleeping, waking up startled? Yes, sometimes, doctor, but life is long, you know, and at a certain age you think back to people who aren’t there anymore, you look back, at the net pulled over us, this torn net, of those who were fishing, because now they’ve all been fished themselves, you understand? I don’t understand, the physician said, so, can you sleep or not? Doctor, he wanted to tell that good man, what do you want from me at this point? I’ve played all the solitaire and vomited all the kirsch I could, and I stuffed all the books in the stove, doctor, and you expect me to be a sound sleeper? But instead he answered: when I sleep I sleep well, and when I don’t sleep I try to sleep. If you weren’t retired I’d say you were suffering from stress, declared the physician, but quite frankly that’s not possible, so your high blood pressure must be due to anxiety, you’re an anxious person even if you appear calm, take two of these pills before going to bed, avoid salted food, and you have to quit smoking.

He lit a cigarette, a nice, mild American cigarette. When he worked in la Grande Struttura there were people who would’ve denounced their parents for a pack of American cigarettes, and now the Americans, after having conquered the world, were deciding that smoking made you ill. Asshole doctor sold out to the Americans. He crossed Unter den Linden at Humboldt University and sat under the square umbrellas of the würstel kiosk. In line at the kiosk was a nice little Spanish family, dad, mom, and two teenagers, trays in hand. Tourists everywhere now. They weren’t sure how to pronounce the dish. Kartoffeln , the woman claimed. No, no, the husband objected, since they were fried you had to ask for pommes , in the French way. Clever, this Spaniard with his little mustache. Passing alongside the man he started whistling “Los cuatro generales.” The woman turned and looked at him, almost alarmed. He pretended not to notice. Were they nostalgists or did they vote socialist? Who could tell. Ay Carmela, ay Carmela.

A sudden gust of wind swept napkins and empty cigarette packs off the ground. This happened often in Berlin: on a muggy day a sudden cold wind might send debris and moods whirling. As though it carried memories, nostalgia, lost sayings like this one: stormy weather and loyalty to principles. He felt a rush of rage. But what loyalty, he said aloud, what loyalty are you talking about, in your private life you’ve been more unfaithful than any man I know, I know everything about you, principles, sure, but which ones, those of the Party you’ve never wanted to know about, your wife you always cheated on, which principles are you ranting about, you fool? A little girl stopped in front of him. Her skirt dragged on the ground, she was barefoot. She pushed a piece of cardboard under his nose: I come from Bosnia, it read. Get lost, he told her, and smiled. The little girl smiled back and went away.

Maybe it was better to take a cab, he felt tired now. Who knew why he felt so tired, he’d spent the morning doing nothing, lounging around reading the paper. Newspapers make you tired, he said to himself, the news makes you tired, the world makes you tired. The world makes you tired because it’s tired. He headed toward the metal trash can and threw away an empty pack of cigarettes, then that day’s newspaper, he didn’t feel like keeping it in his pocket. He was a good citizen, he was, he didn’t like to dirty the city. But the city was already dirty. Everything was dirty. He said to himself: no, I’ll go on foot, I can control the situation better. The situation, what situation? Well, the situation he was used to controlling at other times. Back then, yes, it was rewarding: your Target would walk ahead of you, unaware, calm, going about his business. You too, apparently, were going about your business, but not at all unaware, quite the opposite: from the photos they made you study, you knew each and every feature of your Target, you’d recognize him even in a theater audience, while he knew nothing about you, you were an anonymous face to him, like millions of other anonymous faces in the world, he went his way and going his own way he guided you, since you had to follow him. He was the compass for your route, you merely had to follow.