Antonio Tabucchi - Little misunderstandings of no importance - stories

It was a joke, Bolivar, I was only joking. After having been all too imprudent he chose to make an awkward excuse. Bolivar’s big, curly-haired head, the glass-enclosed office of the noisy workshop, the parcel tied up in brown wrapping-paper; “Of course, old man, there has to be some joking every now and then; by the way, how’s business?” “I can’t complain, car accidents are on the increase, ha-ha.” Bolivar. That gypsylike face with eyes like those of a devoted dog, the Firestone overalls, ten years of a friendship with no real friendship to it; no questions asked, no information given, nothing like who are you, what do you do, where are you going, how do you live, nothing. Just a handshake, how’s business, have a cigarette, here’s something for you. “But who gives it to you, Bolivar, where do you get it, who brings it, I’d like to know.” Bolivar only stared at him with eyes wide-open, “What sort of question is that, what’s got into you?” “Nothing, really, all of a sudden I was curious, I’m growing old.” “Come now, you’re a young man, Franklin.” “No, I’m growing old, I know it, and they know it, too. Soon I’ll be no more use to them, they’ll throw me out, you know how it goes, Bolivar, in fact, you may be the one to get rid of me, one day you’ll get the orders.” “What the devil are you saying, Franklin?” “Nothing, I was joking, Bolivar. I’m in a mood for joking today. I snapped a photograph of two women tourists and with that single click of the camera ten years went by, something that can happen, you know.” “I’ll go with you to the door, Franklin, but by the way, is it true that they’re sending you to the theatre? What theatre is it?” “What sort of a question is that, what’s got into you? Questions like that are out, I’ll see you another time.” “I was joking, too, Franklin. Hasta la vista.”

In order to persuade the taxi driver to take him for the short distance between the hotel and the Opera House, he thrust a fifty-dollar bill under his nose. No arguments with anybody, and no running the risk of walking with all that money on him, and a dinner jacket. It would be like saying: Mugger, mug me. The driver took the money and didn’t even turn on the meter. A driver of the kind that lines up in front of the Park Lane, sporting a bow tie and with good manners, one of a rare species. He got out amid the crowd. Lights making it bright as day, smart turnouts near the fountain, a social event. The entrance was already filled with people. He checked in his overcoat and scarf at the cloakroom and looked around. His contact wasn’t there, so his intuition told him. He went to the foyer — an orange juice with an olive, thank you — yes, his contact was here, among the crowd. Sometimes he had singled him out at first glance, but that was in less crowded places — the library of the Hispanic Society, the toy department of Altmans, the Tourist Information Office on Times Square. He surveyed the scene. Too many people, too much light, too much red velvet. He went into the orchestra section and all the way to his seat. From this vantage point he could watch his neighbours arrive, that was an easier process. Some of his neighbours were already seated and he began to examine their faces. A Japanese, around thirty years old, with gold-rimmed glasses, an impenetrable expression, profession uncertain. A fifty-year old intellectual in the company of a fair-haired younger man with pale hands and delicate features. A middle-aged couple, the husband probably a Boston lawyer. A blonde girl sitting next to an older man, hard to say whether they were together: if so, then he was a big businessman and she was his girlfriend, they certainly weren’t married, although he was wearing a wedding ring. Then two young couples, well-off newlyweds from out of town, and an old gentleman in a dinner jacket too large for him, two possibilities: either he had been on a drastic diet or else the dinner jacket was rented. Finally, a dark young man, with a close-clipped black moustache and smooth, glossy hair, a Latin-American type, took the seat next to his. The gong sounded.

And now le roi s’amuse. But what king and king of what? Victor Hugo’s king was a king of ghosts and assumed names, he amused himself not at all. But Verdi’s Duke, yes, he knew how to go about it. Delia mia incognita borgheseI Toccare il fin dell’avventura io voglio, My adventure with that unknown girl of the people I would pursue — he sang it with the self-assurance of a star aware that the evening was his: you’ve come from all over New York to hear me, I’m the world’s greatest tenor, here’s my calling-card. Immediate applause from a public easy to please, present for a social occasion. The scenery was vulgar, Mantua’s ducal palace hardly good enough for a Hollywood set, too much pale pink and pale blue, terrible, really, better give your eyes a rest. He bent his head ever so slightly and looked down the row of seats. The blonde girl had put on a pair of designer glasses with fake diamonds on the stems, and seemed to be concentrating. Her probable companion seemed more distracted, his eyes were following the Contessa di Ceprano, who was crossing the stage with a lady-in-waiting: sometimes mezzo-sopranos have generous but not overflowing figures and the kind of beauty just right for a businessman in his sixties. Anco d’Argo i cent’occhi disfido/se mi punge una qualche belta. The hundred eyes of Argo I defy/If a beauty strikes my eye. The Japanese had a tic in his left eye, he blinked twice in succession and then raised his eyebrow, imperceptibly, sending no clear message. The two out-of-town couples were bubbling over with happiness. One of the brides, the less ugly of the two, had a trace of lipstick at the corner of her mouth, perhaps because of the hurry to get there on time and a quick make-up in the taxi; if it were called to her attention she’d die of embarrassment. The intellectual was bored, he must have been the only one with the good taste not to care for the opera; his fair-haired companion seemed equally bored for the opposite reason. The old gentleman, on the contrary, was carried away, his lips silently forming Monterone’s words, tu che d’un padre ridi al dolore sii maledetto, may you be cursed for laughing at a father’s sorrow. Hypothesis: he was no connoisseur or he wouldn’t be carried away by a performance like this one. Alternative hypothesis: he was a connoisseur of feelings, moved by Caruso and Neapolitan songs, but connoisseurs of this kind don’t go to first nights at the Opera. The probable Latin-American, young and well-dressed, who looked like a heartbreaker, was equally out of tune with the opera. He seemed aware of being scrutinized and turned a receptive eye, staring back, first briefly, then at greater length. The chorus had embarked on the final aria of Scene 6, but the Duke stood above them all; piu speme non c’e, un’ora fatale fu questa per te, all hope is lost, this hour was fatal for you. Curtain, thundering applause. The young man looked at him again and winked, then whispered into his ear with a strong Italian accent: “His Italian is bad and, like all tenors, he’s vain.” He smiled back and nodded assent. Franklin, you’ve botched it, he said to himself, wishing he could leave.

But the scenery of the alleyway was passable, more realistic and less vulgar. The baritone was an excellent Rigoletto and a good actor as well. He asked how payment was to be made and Sparafucile, the gun for hire, sang in answer: Una meta si anticipa, il resto si da poi. Half in advance, the rest later. He turned his head around, looking down the line of faces in a quite obvious manner. The conductor was taking it very slowly, dragging everything out with long pauses! He spelled out the dialogue from his own memory, then stopped and waited. Here it was. Sparafucile laid one hand, grandiloquently, on his heart and stretched out the other arm: Sparafucil mi nomino! The blonde girl turned her head sideways, and their eyes met. She gave a slight nod — she had a half-smiling, malicious mouth. She transferred her attention back to the stage and did not turn again. Botched once more, Franklin. Then he thought, no, it’s not possible. He slipped his hand under his jacket, the money was there, evenly distributed under the wide elastic belt; he touched it to make sure, then closed his eyes and let his thoughts wander in space and time, leaving the Opera House and the music far behind.