Antonio Tabucchi - Little misunderstandings of no importance - stories

At this moment the girl came through the gate. She was wearing a polka-dotted dress, shoes laced at the ankles, and a pale blue sweater. She was walking quickly, as if she were cold, and a mass of blonde hair floated under the scarf tied around her head. She was carrying a small suitcase and a straw handbag. One of the workmen followed her with his eyes and nudged his apparently distracted companion. The girl stared indifferently at the ground, then went into the waiting room, closing the door behind her. The room was empty. There was a large cast-iron stove in one corner and she moved toward it, perhaps in the hope that the fire inside was lighted. She touched it, disappointedly, and then laid her straw handbag on top. Then she sat down on a bench and shivered, holding her face between her hands. For a long time she remained in this position, as if she were crying. She was good-looking, with delicate features and slender ankles. She took off her scarf and rearranged her hair, moving her head from one side to the other. Her gaze wandered over the walls of the room as if she were looking for something. There were threatening signs on the walls addressed to the citizenry by the Occupation Forces and notices of “wanted” persons, displaying their photographs. She looked around in confusion, then took the handbag she had left on the stove and laid it at her feet as if to shield it with her legs. She hunched her shoulders and raised her jacket collar. Her hands were restless; she was obviously nervous.

The door was flung open and a man came in. He was tall and thin, wearing a belted tan trenchcoat and a felt hat pulled down over his forehead. The girl leaped to her feet and shouted, with a gurgle in her throat: “Eddie!”

He held a finger to his lips, walked toward her, and, smiling, took her into his arms. She hugged him, leaning her head on his chest. “Oh, Eddie!” she murmured finally, drawing back, “Eddie!”

He made her sit down and went back to the door, looking furtively outside. Then he sat down beside her and drew some folded papers from his pocket.

“You’re to deliver them directly to the English major,” he said. “Later I’ll tell you how, more exactly.”

She took the papers and slipped them into the opening of her sweater. She seemed fearful, and there were tears in her eyes.

“And what about you?” she asked.

He made a gesture signifying annoyance. Just then there was a rumbling sound and a freight train was visible through the door’s glass panel. He pulled his hat farther down over his forehead and buried his head in a newspaper.

“Go and see what’s up.”

The girl went to the door and peered out. “A freight train,” she said. “The two workmen sitting on the bench climbed aboard.”

“Any Germans?”

“No.”

The stationmaster blew his whistle and the train pulled away. The girl went back to the man and took his hands into hers.

“What about you?” she repeated.

He folded the newspaper and stuffed it into his pocket.

“This is no time to think about me,” he said. “Now tell me, what’s your company’s schedule?”

“Tomorrow we’ll be in Nice, for three evening performances. Saturday and Sunday we play in Marseille, then Montpellier and Narbonne, one day each, in short, all along the coast.”

“On Sunday you’ll be in Marseille,” said the man. “After the show you’ll receive admirers in your dressing room. Let them in one at a time. Many of them will bring flowers; some will be German spies, but others will be our people. Be sure to read the card that comes with the flowers, in the visitor’s presence, every time, because I can’t tell you what the contact will look like.” She listened attentively; the man lit a cigarette and went on: “On one of the cards you’ll read: Fleurs pour une fleur. Hand over the papers to that man. He’ll be the major.”

The bell began to ring again, and the girl looked at her watch.

“Our train will be here in a minute. Eddie, please…”

He wouldn’t let her finish.

“Tell me about the show,” he interrupted. “On Sunday night I’ll try to imagine it.”

“It’s done by all the girls in the company,” she said unenthusiastically. “Each one of us plays a well-known actress of today or of the past. That’s all there is to it.”

“What’s the title?” he asked, smiling.

“Cinema Cinema.”

“Sounds promising.”

“It’s a disaster,” she said earnestly. “The choreography is by Savinio, just imagine that, and I play Francesca Bertini, dancing in a dress so long that I trip on it.”

“Watch out!” he exclaimed jokingly. “Great tragic actresses simply mustn’t fall.”

Again she hid her face in her arms and started to cry. She was prettier than ever with tear marks on her face.

“Come away, Eddie, please, come away,” she murmured.

He wiped her tears away gently enough, but his voice hardened, as if in an effort to disguise his feelings.

“Don’t, Elsa,” he said. “Try to understand.” And, in a playful tone, he added: “How should I get through? Dressed like a dancer, perhaps, with a blond wig?”

The bell had stopped ringing and the incoming train could be heard in the distance. The man got up and put his hands in his pockets.

“I’ll put you aboard,” he said.

“No,” she said, shaking her head resolutely. “You mustn’t do that; it’s dangerous.”

“I’m doing it anyhow.”

“Please!”

“One last thing,” he said; “I know the major’s a ladies’ man. Don’t smile at him too much.”

She looked at him supplicatingly. “Oh, Eddie!” she exclaimed with emotion, offering him her lips.

He seemed nonplussed for a moment, as if in embarrassment or because he didn’t have the courage to kiss her. Finally he deposited a fatherly kiss on her cheek.

“Stop!” called out the clapperboy. “A break!”

“Not like that!” The director’s voice roared through the megaphone. “The last bit has to be done again.” He was a bearded young man with a long scarf wound around his neck. Now he got down from the seat on the boom next to the camera and came to meet them. “Not like that,” he repeated disappointedly. “It must be a passionate kiss, old-fashioned style, the way it was in the original film.” He threw an arm around the actress’s waist, bending her backwards. “Lean over her and put some passion into it,” he said to the actor.

Then looking around him, he added, “Take a break!”

The actors invaded the station’s shabby cafe, jostling one another in the direction of the bar. She lingered at the door, uncertain what to do, while he disappeared in the crowd. Soon he came back, precariously carrying two cups of coffee, and beckoned to her with his head to join him outside. Behind the cafe there was a rocky courtyard, under a vine-covered arbour, which served also for storage. Besides cases of empty bottles, there were some misshapen chairs, and on two of these they sat down, using a third one as a table.

“We’re winding up,” he observed.

“He insisted on doing the last scene last,” she answered. “I don’t know why.”

“That’s modern” he said emphatically. “Straight out of the Cahiers du Cinema… look out, that coffee’s boiling hot.”

“I still don’t know why.”

“Do they do things differently in America?” he asked.

“They certainly do!” she said with assurance. “They’re less pretentious, less… intellectual.”

“This fellow’s good, though.”

“It’s only that, once upon a time, things weren’t handled this way.”

They were silent, enjoying their coffee. It was eleven in the morning, and the sea was sparkling, visible through a privet hedge around the courtyard. The vine leaves of the pergola were flaming red and the sun made shifting puddles of light on the gravel.