Antonio Tabucchi - Little misunderstandings of no importance - stories

He looked at me with perplexity, as if such a thing had never occurred to him. Then, suddenly, his face lit up and he said: “By plane you have a fast and comfortable trip, but you miss out on the real India. With long-distance trains you risk arriving as much as a day late, but if you hit the right one you’ll be just as comfortable and arrive on time. And on a train there’s always the pleasure of a conversation that you’d never have in the air.”

Unable to hold myself back, I murmured, “India, A Travel Survival Kit.”

“What’s that?”

“Nothing,” I said. “I was thinking of a book.” And I added, boldly, “You’ve never been to Madras.”

He looked at me ingenuously. “You can know a place without ever having been there.” He took off his jacket and shoes, put his overnight bag under the pillow, pulled the curtain of his berth, and said goodnight.

I should have liked to say that he, too, had taken the train because he cherished a slender hope and preferred to cradle and savour it rather than consume it in the short space of a plane flight. I was sure of it. But, of course, I said nothing. I turned off the overhead light, leaving the blue night-lamp lit, pulled my curtain and said only goodnight.

We were awakened by someone’s turning on the ceiling light and speaking in a loud voice. Just outside our window there was a wooden structure, lit by a dim lamp and bearing an incomprehensible sign. The train conductor was accompanied by a dark-skinned policeman with a suspicious air. “We’re in Tamil Nadu,” said the conductor, smiling; “this is a mere formality.” The policeman held out his hand: “Your papers, please.”

He looked distractedly at my passport and quickly shut it, but lingered longer over my companion’s. While he was examining it I noticed that it came from Israel. “Mr… Shi… mail?” he asked, pronouncing the name with difficulty.

“Schlemihl,” the Israeli corrected him. “Peter Schlemihl.”

The policeman gave us back our passports, nodded coolly and put out the light. The train was running again through the Indian night and the blue night-lamp created a dreamlike atmosphere. For a long time we were silent, then I said: “You can’t have a name like that. There’s only one Peter Schlemihl, the shadowless man, he’s a creation of Chamisso, as you know very well. You could pass it off on an Indian policeman, of course…”

He did not reply for a minute. Then he asked, “Do you like Thomas Mann?”

“Not all of him,” I answered.

“What, then?”

“The stories. Some of the short novels. Tonio Kroger, Death in Venice.”

“I wonder if you know the preface to Chamisso’s Peter Schlemihl” he said. “An admirable piece of writing.”

Again there was silence between us. I thought he might have fallen asleep. But no, he couldn’t have. He was waiting for me to speak, and I did.

“W T hat are you doing in Madras?”

He did not answer at once, but coughed slightly. “I’m going to see a statue,” he murmured.

“A long trip just to see a statue.”

He did not reply, but blew his nose several times in succession. “I want to tell you a little story,” he said at last. “I want to tell you a little story.” He was speaking softly, and his voice was dulled by the curtain. “Many years ago, in Germany, I ran across a man, a doctor, whose job it was to give me a physical examination! He sat behind a desk and I stood, naked, before him. Behind me there was a line of other naked men waiting to be examined. When we were taken to that place we were told that we were useful to the cause of German science. Beside the doctor there were two armed guards, and a nurse who was filling out cards. The doctor asked us very precise questions about the functioning of our male organs; the nurse made some measurements which she then wrote down. The line was moving fast because the doctor was in a hurry. When my turn was over, instead of moving on to the next room where we were to go, I lingered for a few seconds to look at a statuette on the doctor’s desk which had caught my attention. It represented an oriental deity, one I had never seen, a dancing figure with the arms and legs harmoniously diverging within a circle. In the circle there were not many empty spaces, only a few openings waiting to be closed by the imagination of the viewer. The doctor became aware of my fascination and smiled. He had a tight-lipped, mocking mouth. ‘This statue,’ he said, ‘represents the vital circle into which all waste matter must enter in order to attain that superior form of life which is beauty. I hope that in the biological cycle envisaged by the philosophy which conceived of this statue you may attain, in another life, a place higher than the one you occupy in this one.’”

At this point my companion halted. In spite of the sound made by the train I could hear his deep, regular breathing.

“Please go on,” I said.

“There’s not much more to say. The statuette was a dancing Shiva, but that I didn’t know. As you see, I haven’t yet entered the recycling circle, and my own interpretation of the figure is a different one. I’ve thought of it every day of my life since then; indeed, it’s the only thing I’ve thought of in all these years.”

“How many years has it been?” “Forty.”

“Can you think of one thing only for forty years?” “Yes, I think so, if you’ve been subjected to indignity.” “And what is your interpretation of the figure?” “I don’t think it represents a vital circle. It’s simply the dance of life.”

“And how is that different?”

“Oh, it’s very different,” he murmured. “Life is a circle. One day the circle must close, and we don’t know what day that will be.” He blew his nose again and said, “Excuse me, please; I’m tired and should like to catch a bit of sleep.”

When I woke up we were drawing near to Madras. My travelling companion was already shaved and fully dressed in his impeccable dark-blue suit. He had pushed up his berth and now, looking thoroughly rested and with a smile on his face, he pointed to the breakfast tray on the table next to the window.

“I waited for you to wake up so that we could drink our tea together,” he said. “You were so fast asleep that I didn’t want to disturb you.”

I went into the washroom and made my morning toilet, gathered my belongings together and closed my suitcase, then sat down to breakfast. We were running through an area of clustered villages, with the first signs of the approaching city.

“As you see, we’re right on time,” he said. “It’s exactly a quarter to seven.” Then, folding his napkin, he added: “I wish you’d go to see that statue. It’s in the museum. And I’d like to hear what you think of it.” He got up, reached for his bag, held out his other hand and bade me goodbye. “I’m grateful to my guidebook for the choice of the best means of transportation. It’s true that on Indian trains you may make the most unexpected acquaintances. Your company has given me pleasure and solace.”

“It’s been a mutual pleasure,” I answered. “I’m the one who’s grateful to the guidebook.”

We were entering the station, alongside a crowded platform. The train’s brakes went on and we glided to a stop. I stepped aside and he got off first, waving his hand. As he started to walk away I called out to him.

“I don’t know where to send my reaction to the statue. I haven’t your address.”

He wheeled about, with the perplexed expression I had seen on his face before. After a moment’s reflection, he said: “Leave me a message at the American Express. I’ll pick it up.”

Then we went our separate ways among the crowd.

I stayed only three days in Madras, intense, almost feverish days. Madras is an enormous agglomeration of low buildings and immense uncultivated spaces, jammed with bicycles, animals, and random buses; getting from one end of the city to another required a very long time. After I had fulfilled my obligations I had only one free day and I chose to go, not to the museum but to the cliff reliefs of Kancheepuram, some miles from the city. Here, too, my guidebook was a precious companion.