Antonio Tabucchi - Little misunderstandings of no importance - stories

On the morning of the fourth day I was at the depot for buses to Kerala and Goa. There was an hour before departure time, it was scorchingly hot and the shade of the roofed platforms afforded the only relief from the heat. In order to while away the time I bought the English-language newspaper, a four-page sheet that looked like a parish bulletin, containing local news, summaries of popular films, notices, and advertisements of every kind. Prominently displayed on the front page there was the story of a murder committed the day before. The victim was an Argentinian citizen who had been living in Madras since 1958. He was described as a discreet, retiring gentleman in his seventies, without close friends, who had a house in the residential section of Adyar. His wife had died three years before, from natural causes. They had no children.

He had been killed with a pistol shot to the heart. The murder defied explanation, since no theft was involved: everything in the house was in order and there was no sign that anything had been broken into. The article described the house as simple and sober, possessing a few well-chosen art objects and with a small garden around it. It seemed that the victim was a connoisseur of Dravidian art; he had taken part in the cataloguing of the Dravidian section of the local museum. His photograph showed a bald old man with blue eyes and thin lips. The report of the episode was bland and factual. The only interesting detail was the photograph of a statuette, alongside that of the victim. A logical juxtaposition, since he was an expert on Dravidian art, and the Dance of Shiva is the best known work in the Madras museum, and a sort of symbol as well. But this logical juxtaposition caused me to connect one thing with another. There were twenty minutes left before the departure of my bus; I looked for a telephone and dialled the number of the American Express, where a young woman answered politely. ’Td like to leave a message for Mr. Schle-mihl,” I told her. The girl asked me to wait a minute and then said, “At the moment we’ve no such name on record, but you can leave your message all the same, if you like, and it will be delivered to him when he comes by.”

“Hello, hello!” she repeated when she did not hear any reply.

“Just a minute, operator,” I said; “let me think.”

What was I to say. My message had a ridiculous side. Perhaps I had understood something. But exactly what? That, for someone, the circle had closed?

“It doesnlt matter,” I said; “I’ve changed my mind.” And I hung up.

I don’t deny that my imagination may have been working overtime. But if I guessed correctly what shadow Peter Schle-mihl, like Chamisso’s hero, had lost, and if he ever happens, by the same strange chance that brought about our meeting on the train, to read this story, I’d like to convey my greetings. And my sorrow.

Because, at bottom, habit is a rite; we think we’re doing something for our pleasure but actually we’re i carrying out a duty that we’ve imposed upon ourselves. Or else, it’s a charm, he reflected, perhaps habit is a kind of exorcism, and then we feel it as a pleasure. Was it really a pleasure to take the ferry from the Battery, that Saturday, among the crowd of dazed tourists, to make the crossing, which inevitably gave him a squeamish feeling in his stomach, to walk around the enormous granite pedestal and look at seagulls and skyscrapers? No, no pleasure, he admitted to himself, or, rather, no longer a pleasure. It was a rite, obviously in remembrance of an excursion made for the first time years ago when Dolores was still there. We had looked up at the enormous bulk of Liberty, holding out her torch like a promise. To whom, and for when? Then it had a different meaning, it was a pilgrimage and at the same time a talisman, a send-off for the first transaction. Perhaps now it was for Dolores, he was doing it for her, in her memory; it was a continual, repetitive action, like that of a man who refuses to change his habits for fear of obliterating a memory. For the same reason he liked to take the subway to Brooklyn Heights, to wander around streets lined with decaying nineteenth-century houses. He could still hear her voice and the typically South American double s sound when she spoke of her devotion to “La Caussa.” Like “Rossario”, for “Rosario” the icecream parlour in Little Italy, which was also part of the rite, a tribute to times gone by. Dolores liked Italians, more than he did in spite of his Sicilian mother. The old proprietor had died two years ago, now the place was run by his Americanized son, there was no one he knew, only anonymous faces; a pistachio ice-cream and a glass of club soda, please. He and Dolores used to sit in a booth in one corner; the partition had a panel of black leather bearing a framed view of Mount Etna. Tired. Yes, he was tired. La Causa, an evening at the Opera. What a bright idea! Every now and then they had these ideas. He’d have liked, just once, to meet them. Where were they, anyhow? New York, London, Geneva, where? They managed the money and transmitted orders, in a clean, efficient, silent manner, from far away. A post-office box, an assumed name, come in once a month, sometimes months with nothing to do, absolutely nothing, silence, sometimes a ticket like this one, from one day to the next. “The Met, Sunday, 2 November, fourth row orchestra, Rigoletto, Scene 7, deliver at Sparafucil mi nomino, take the usual rake-off, viva la causa.” That was all, together with the ticket for the first seat on the fourth row, whence the entire row could be surveyed with only a slight inclination of the head. Idiots. “For the rest, try to take care of it yourself.” The rest was quite a lot. He went to the toilets, stopping on the way at the pay phone to call Bolivar. There was an infernal noise in the workshop, but that didn’t matter; the conversation was brief: “Do you have it?” “Yes, I have it.” “I’ll be right there.” “I’ll expect you.” He didn’t hang up right away, which was breaking the rules, he knew, but he was furious; those idiots are sending me to the Opera, they’re playing at James Bond. When he hung up it was abruptly, as if the telephone were to blame.

And now all the rest. First of all the hotel, that hotel called… what was it called; he’d passed in front of it so many times and still the name wouldn’t come. Old age, that was why. The devil with old age, stupid old man, it’s those idiots who’ve lapsed into second childhood with their silly games! Better try Tourist Information. “Hello, Miss, I’d like the names of three or four hotels near to Central Park, the best, mind you, and their telephone numbers.” “Just a second.” A few hundred seconds! Rosario Jr. was signalling from the counter that the pistachio ice-cream was melting. “Yes, you can tell me, I’m writing them down. Plaza, Pierre, Mayfair, Ritz Carlton, Park Lane, . that’s enough, thank you.” I may as well make the calls, the ice-cream has completely melted. Rosario Jr. can only throw it away. No rooms at the Plaza, of course, this city is full of millionaires, same thing at the Pierre. Nice if there were something at the Mayfair, where there’s a first-class restaurant, Le Cirque: he’d been there before so he knew he could count on a good midnight supper after the Opera. “See if you can’t find a room for me, it’s only for one night.” “Sorry, sir, everything’s taken, nothing I can do.” Devil take you then. The Park Lane, at last, there had to be a room in those forty-six storeys. “Yes, I’ll hold it for you, Mr. Franklin. Good evening and thank you.” He was worn out. But now it was done; time enough to call for the parcel tomorrow, better not keep all that money at the hotel, and he could rent a dinner jacket tomorrow, too. Of course Bolivar was waiting for him, well, let him wait, and so he left the cafe and took a taxi to the Battery because he wanted to touch the Statue of Liberty, according to his usual rite, and then to sit on a bench, look at the bay and the seagulls and think of Dolores. He tossed a cork into the water, filthy water, filthy pavements, even the Statue was filthy, the whole city was filthy. Two women wearing transparent plastic raincoats handed him their camera with a silent plea, then posed, with the forced smiles proper to a photograph. He framed them in the viewer, trying to include a skyscraper or two in the background, as they had indicated. Strange, he thought, that little shutter which opened and shut like an eye, click, and transfixed a passing moment, beyond recall, for eternity. Click. “Thank you.” “Don’t mention it. Good evening.” Click. A second. Ten years gone by like a second. Dolores gone, irretrievable, and yet she had been there only a second before, smiling against a background of skyscrapers, at this very spot. Click: ten years. Suddenly the ten years weighed on his shoulders, and the fifty years of his life, as heavy as the tons of that stone and metal colossus. Better go straight to Bolivar’s and get it over with and rent the dinner jacket on the way; it was crazy to keep all that money around overnight, another violation of the rules, but they were crazy to hand him over such a sum for delivery. What did it mean? Were they testing his efficacy or counting the years of his old age? A gala first performance at the Metropolitan, a dinner jacket and thousands of dollars in cash. Quite a joke.