Antonio Tabucchi - Little misunderstandings of no importance - stories

When the handcuffs were off he poked about in a small canvas bag, taking out a comb, a pen and a yellow notebook. “If you don’t mind I’d rather be alone to write,” he said; “your presence bothers me. I’d appreciate it if you’d wait outside the cabin. If you’re afraid I may do something you can stay by the door. I promise not to make trouble.”

And then he’d surely find something to do. When you’ve work you’re not so alone. But real work, which would yield not only satisfaction but also money. Chinchillas, for instance. In theory he already knew all about them. A prisoner who had raised them before his arrest had told him. They’re charming little creatures; just don’t let them bite your hands. They’re tough and adaptable, they reproduce even in places where there isn’t much light. Perhaps the closet in the cellar would do, if the landlord would allow it. The man on the second floor kept hamsters.

He leaned against the rail and loosened his shirt collar. Hardly nine o’clock and it was already hot. It was the first day of real summer heat. He fancied he smelled scorched earth and with the smell came the picture of a country road running among prickly pear plants, where a barefoot boy walked towards a house with a lemon tree: his childhood. He took another orange from the bag he had bought the evening before and began to peel it. The price was impossibly high at this season, but he had allowed himself a treat. He threw the peel into the sea and caught a glimpse of the shining coast. Currents outlined bright strips in the water, like the wake of other ships. Quickly he calculated the time. The prison guard would be waiting at the pier and the formality of turning the prisoner over to him would take a quarter of an hour. He could reach the barracks towards noon; it wasn’t far. He fingered the inside pocket of his jacket to check that his discharge papers were there. If he were lucky enough to find the sergeant in the barracks he’d have finished by one o’clock. And by half-past one he’d be sitting under the pergola of the restaurant at the far end of the harbour. He knew the place well but he’d never eaten there. Whenever he passed by he paused to look at the menu displayed on a sign surmounted by a swordfish painted in metallic blue. He had an empty feeling in his stomach, but it couldn’t be hunger. At any rate he let his imagination play over the dishes listed on the sign. Today it will be fish soup and red mullet, he said to himself, and fried zucchini, if he chose. To top it off, a fruit cup or, better still, cherries. And a cup of coffee. Then he’d ask for a sheet of paper and an envelope and spend the afternoon writing the letter. Because you see, Maria Assunta, when you work you’re not so alone, but it must be real work, which yields not only satisfaction but also a bit of money. And so I’ve decided to raise chinchillas, they’re charming creatures as long as you don’t let them bite your hands. They’re tough and adaptable and they reproduce even in places where there isn’t much light. But in your house it would be impossible, you can see that, Maria Assunta, not because of Giannandrea, whom I respect even if we don’t have the same ideas; it’s a question of space and here I have the cellar closet. It may not be ideal, but if the man on the floor above me raises hamsters in a closet I don’t see why I can’t do the same thing.

A voice from behind caused him to start. “Officer, the prisoner wants to see you.”

The guard was a lanky fellow with a pimpled face and long arms sticking out below sleeves that were too short. He wore his uniform awkwardly and spoke the way he had been trained to. “He didn’t say why,” he added.

He told the guard to take his place on deck and went down the stairs leading to the cabins. As he crossed the saloon he saw the captain chatting with a passenger at the bar. For years he’d seen him there and now he waved his hand in a gesture that was less a greeting than a sign of old acquaintance. He slowed his pace wanting to tell the captain that he wouldn’t see him that evening: it’s my last day of service and tonight I’ll stay on the mainland, where I have some things to attend to.

Then it suddenly seemed ridiculous. He went down the next flight of stairs to the cabin deck, then along the bare, clean passageway, taking the master-key off his chain. The prisoner was standing near the porthole, looking out to sea. He wheeled around and looked at him out of those childlike blue eyes. “I want to give you this letter,” he said. He had an envelope in his hand and held it out with a timid but at the same time peremptory gesture. “Take it,” he said; “I want you to post it for me.” He had buttoned up his shirt and combed his hair and his face was not as haggard as before. “Do you realize what you’re asking?” he answered. “You know quite well I can’t do it.”

The prisoner sat down on the bed and looked at him in a manner that seemed ironical, or perhaps it was just his childlike eyes. “Of course you can do it,” he said, “if you want to.” He had unpacked his canvas bag and lined up the contents on his bunk as if he were making an inventory. “I know what’s wrong with me,” he said. “Look at my hospital admission card, have a look. Do you know what it means? It means I’ll never get out of that hospital. This is a last trip, do you follow me?” He emphasized the word “last” with an odd intonation, as if it were a joke. He paused as if to catch his breath and once more pressed his hand against his stomach, nervously or as if in pain. “This letter is for someone very dear to me and, for reasons I’m not going to bother explaining, I don’t want it to be censored. Just try to understand, I know you do.” The ship’s siren sounded as it always did when the harbour was in sight. It was a happy sound, something like a snort.

He answered angrily, in a hard, perhaps too hard voice, but there was no other way to end the conversation. “Repack your bag,” he said hurriedly, trying not to look him in the eyes. “In half an hour we’ll be there. I’ll come back when we land to put your handcuffs in place.” That was the expression he used: put them in place.

In a matter of seconds the few passangers dispersed and the pier was empty. An enormous yellow crane moved across the sky towards buildings under construction, with blind windows. The construction yard siren whistled, signalling that work should stop and a church bell in the town made a reply. It was noon. Who knows why the mooring operation had taken so long? The houses along the waterfront were red and yellow; he reflected that he’d never really noticed them and looked more closely. He sat down on an iron stanchion with a rope from a boat wound around it. It was hot, and he took off his cap. Then he started to walk along the pier in the direction of the crane. The usual old dog, with his head between his paws, lay in front of the combined bar and tobacco shop and wagged his tail feebly as he went by. Four boys in T-shirts, near the juke-box, were joking loudly. A hoarse, slightly masculine woman’s voice carried him back across the years. She was singing Ramona and he thought it was strange that this song should have come back into fashion. Summer was really here.

The restaurant at the far end of the harbour was not yet open. The owner, wearing a white apron, with a sponge in hand, was wiping a deposit of salt and sand from the shutters. The fellow looked at him and smiled in recognition, the way we smile at people we’ve known for most of our life but for whom we have no feelings. He smiled back and walked on, turning into a street with abandoned railway tracks, which he followed to the freight yard. At the end of one of the platforms there was a letterbox whose red paint was eaten by rust. He read the hour of the next collection: five o’clock. He didn’t want to know where the letter was going but he was curious about the name of the person who would receive it, only the Christian name. He carefully covered the address with his hand and looked only at the name: Lisa. She was called Lisa. Strange, it occurred to him: he knew the name of the recipient without knowing her, and he knew the sender without knowing his name. He didn’t remember it because there’s no reason to remember the name of a prisoner. He slipped the letter into the box and turned around to look back at the sea. The sunlight was strong and the gleam on the horizon hid the points of the islands. He felt perspiration on his face and took off his cap in order to wipe his forehead. My name’s Nicola, he said aloud. There was no one anywhere near.