Antonio Tabucchi - Time Ages in a Hurry

— Would’ve been what? she asked.

— Never mind, said the man, it’s a complicated matter and on a day like this it’s not worth complicating our life, why don’t you take a good swim before lunch?

— I can maybe take one later, answered Isabella, right now I don’t feel like it, but then, sorry, when I saw you last week, always here reading under the beach umbrella, I thought you were someone who could explain things I didn’t understand, I thought I would have an interesting conversation with you like it’s hard to have with grown-ups, but now it’s even worse, we’ve been talking for half an hour, and to be perfectly honest you seem a little out of it, all the nonexistent countries and people destroying houses and you making war that was really peace, in my view there’s a lot of confusion in your head, and I don’t get what your so-called profession was, either.

— It involved watching those who destroyed each other’s houses, responded the man, this was the war mission for peacekeeping, and it was happening right here.

— On this beach? asked Isabella, excuse me, but that doesn’t seem possible, no offense.

The man didn’t answer. Isabella stood up, she had her hands on her hips and was looking at the sea, she was thin and her slender figure was outlined against the strong noon light.

— In my view you say these things because you don’t eat, she said in a slightly altered voice, not eating makes you say strange things, you’re not thinking straight, excuse me for saying this but we have a first-class hotel here, it’s super expensive because I’ve seen the prices, you can’t say these things just off the top of your head, you don’t eat, don’t sunbathe, don’t go into the water, I think you have some problems, perhaps you need to get some food in you or drink a good fruit shake, would you like me to get you one?

— If you’d really like to be kind, I’d rather have a Coke, said the man, it quenches my thirst.

— I want to be kind, declared Isabella, but you’re the one who isn’t kind, first you have to explain to me why you came right here for vacation if there was a war and houses were destroyed and you stood here watching, can that be true?

— That’s how it was, it’s just that nobody wanted to know it, and even now, you know, people don’t like to know that there was a war where they spend their vacation, because if they think about it, their vacation gets ruined, you follow the logic?

— So why’d you come here too? It’s a logical question, if you don’t mind my asking.

— Let’s say it’s for the rest of the warrior, said the man, even if the warrior wasn’t fighting, in the end he was a warrior, and he must find rest where the war once was, that’s classic.

Isabella seemed to be mulling this over. She was kneeling in the sand, half in the sun, half in the shade, she was wearing a bikini on her slender, childish body, but the top wasn’t necessary, her thin shoulders began shaking as though she were weeping, but she wasn’t, she seemed cold, she kept her hands buried deep in the sand and her head was bent over her knees.

— Don’t worry, she murmured, when I get like this everyone worries, but it’s only a little developmental crisis, the thing is, I have developmental problems, that’s what the psychologist said, I don’t know if you understand.

— Perhaps if you raise your head, I’ll understand better, said the man, I can’t hear you very well.

The girl looked up, her face was red and her eyes damp.

— Do you like war? she murmured.

— No, he said, I don’t like it, do you?

— So then why’d you do it? asked Isabella.

— Like I told you, I didn’t, I was there to watch, but I also asked you a question, do you like war?

— I hate it, exclaimed Isabella, I hate it but you talk like all grown-up people and you’re making me have a developmental crisis, because last year I didn’t have any developmental crises, then at school they taught us about the various kinds of war, the bad ones and the good ones, and we wrote three essays about it, and it was only after that when I started having these developmental crises.

— Take your time explaining yourself, said the man, tell me calmly, in any case the fettuccine all’arrabbiata is being kept warm under the halogen lamps, I didn’t even ask you what grade you’re in.

— I just finished seventh grade, but after ninth grade I’ll go to ginnasio so I’ll also be studying Greek.

— Wonderful, but what does that have to do with your crisis?

— Maybe nothing, said Isabella, the thing is that throughout the year we studied Caesar and also a bit of Herodotus, but most of all whether war can serve peace, that was the theme in history class, am I being clear?

— Not quite.

— In the sense that sometimes war is necessary, unfortunately, she said, war sometimes is useful for bringing justice to countries where there isn’t any, but then one day two kids came from that country where they’re bringing justice and the kids were hospitalized in our city, and it was my class that brought them candy and fruit, that is, me and Simone and Samantha, the best students, am I being clear?

— Go on, said the man.

— Mohamed is right around my age, and his little sister is younger, but her name I don’t remember, though when we entered the little room in the hospital, the thing is that Mohamed didn’t have any arms and his little sister …

Isabella broke off.

— His little sister’s face … she murmured. I’m afraid if I tell you about it, I’ll have another developmental crisis, their grandmother was with them, keeping them company because their mother and father died from the bomb that destroyed their house, and so I dropped the tray with the kiwis and tiramisu, I started crying and then I had a developmental crisis.

The man didn’t say anything.

— Why aren’t you saying anything? You’re like the psychologist who keeps listening to me and never says anything, say something to me.

— In my opinion you don’t really have to worry, said the man, we all have developmental crises, each person in his own way.

— You too?

— I can guarantee you, he said, despite what the doctors think, I believe I’m right in the middle of a developmental crisis.

Isabella looked at him. Sitting cross-legged now, she seemed calmer and no longer had her hands buried in the sand.

— You’re kidding, she said.

— Not at all, he answered.

— Wait, how old are you?

— Forty-five, answered the man.

— Like my father, that’s late for having a developmental crisis.

— Absolutely not, objected the man, the developmental period never ends, in life we don’t do anything other than evolutionize.

— The verb evolutionize doesn’t exist, said Isabella, we say evolve.

— Right, though in biology it exists, and it means each one of us evolutionizing has his own crisis, your parents have theirs too.

— And you, how do you know that?

— Yesterday, said the man, I heard your mother talking with your father on her cell phone, and it was easy to understand that they’re right in the middle of a developmental crisis.

— You are such a spy, exclaimed Isabella, you shouldn’t listen to other people’s conversations.

— Sorry, said the man, your umbrella is three meters from mine and your mother was talking as if she were at home, what should I do, plug my ears?

Isabella’s shoulders shivered again.

— The thing is they aren’t together anymore, she said, and so I was left in my mom’s custody and Francesco in my dad’s, one for each is just, said the judge, Francesco was born after they’d stopped waiting, but I love him like I love no one else and at night I feel like crying, but my mom cries at night too, I’ve heard her, and you know why? Because she and my dad have existential disagreements, that’s what they call them, does that mean anything to you?