Antonio Tabucchi - Little misunderstandings of no importance - stories

“A gorgeous autumn,” he said, looking up at the leaves. And he added, half to himself. “‘Once upon a time’… Hearing you say those words had an effect on me.”

She did not answer, but hugged her knees, which she had drawn up against her chest. She, too, seemed distracted, as if she had only just thought about the meaning of what she had said.

“Why did you agree to play in this film?” she asked.

“Why did you?”

“I don’t know, but I asked you first.”

“Because of an illusion,” he said; “the idea of re-living… something like that, I suppose. I don’t really know. And you?”

“I don’t really know, either; with the same idea, I suppose.”

The director emerged from the path which ran around the cafe, in good spirits and carrying a tankard of beer.

“So here are my stars!” he exclaimed, sinking into one of the misshapen chairs, with a sigh of satisfaction.

“Please spare us your speech on the beauties of direct takes,” she said. “You’ve lectured us quite enough.”

The director did not take offense at this remark and fell into casual conversation. He spoke of the film, of the importance of this new version, of why he had taken on the same actors so many years later and why he was underlining the fact that it was a remake. Things he had said many times before, as was clear from his hearers’ indifference. But he enjoyed the repetition, it was almost as if he were talking to himself. He finished his beer and got up.

“Here’s hoping it rains,” he said as he left. “It would be too bad to shoot the last scenes with pumps.” And, before turning the corner, he threw back: “Half an hour before we start shooting again.”

She looked questioningly at her companion, who shook his head and shrugged his shoulders.

“It did pour during the last scene,” he said, “and I was left standing in the rain.”

She laughed and laid a hand on his shoulder as if to signify that she remembered.

“Do they still show it in America?” he asked with a stolid expression on his face.

“Hasn’t the director projected it for our benefit exactly eleven times?” she countered, laughing. “Anyhow, in America it’s shown to film clubs and other groups from time to time.”

“It’s the same thing here,” he said. And then, abruptly: “How’s the major?”

She looked at him questioningly.

“I mean Howard,” he specified. “I told you not to smile at him too much, but obviously you didn’t follow my advice, even if the scene isn’t included in the film.” And, after a moment of reflection: “I still don’t understand why you married him.”

“Neither do I,” she said in a childlike manner. “I was very young.” Her expression relaxed, as if she had put mistrust aside and given up lying. “I wanted to get even with you,” she said calmly. “That was the real reason, although perhaps I wasn’t aware of it. And then I wanted to go to America.”

“What about Howard?” he insisted.

“Our marriage didn’t last long. He wasn’t right for me, really, and I wasn’t cut out to be an actress.”

“You disappeared completely. Why did you give up acting?”

“I couldn’t get anywhere with it. After all, I’d been in just one hit, and that because of winning an audition. In America they’re real pros. Once I made a series of films for television, but they were a disaster. They cast me as a disagreeable rich woman, not exactly my type, was it?”~

“I think not. You look like a happy woman. Are you happy?”

“No,” she said, smiling. “But I’ve a lot going for me.”

“For instance?”

“For instance a daughter. A delightful creature, in her third university year, and we’re very close.”

He stared at her incredulously.

“Twenty years have gone by,” she reminded him. “Nearly a lifetime.”

“You’re still beautiful.”

“That’s make-up. I have wrinkles. And I could be a grandmother.”

For some time they were silent. Voices from the cafe drifted out to them, and someone started up the jukebox. He looked as if he were going to speak, but stared at the ground, seemingly at a loss for words.

“I want you to tell me about your life,” he said at last. “All through the filming I’ve wanted to ask you, but I’ve got around to it only now.”

“Certainly,” she said, spiritedly. “And I’d like to hear you talk about yours.”

At this juncture the production secretary appeared in the doorway, a thin, homely, plaintive young woman with her hair in a ponytail and a pair of glasses on her nose.

“Make-up time!” she called out. “We start shooting in ten minutes.”

The bell 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 put his arm around her waist, bending her backwards. Looking into her eyes, he slowly advanced his mouth towards her and gave her a passionate kiss, a long, intense kiss, which aroused an approving murmur and some catcalls.

“Stop!” called the clapperboy. “End of scene.”

“Lunchtime,” the director announced through the megaphone. “Back at four o’clock.”

The actors dispersed in various directions, some to the cafe, others to trailers parked in front of the station. He took off his trenchcoat and hung it over his arm. They were the last to arrive on the street, where they set out towards the sea. A blade of sunlight struck the row of pink houses along the harbour, and the sea was of a celestial, almost diaphanous blue. A woman with a tub under her arm appeared on a balcony and began to hang up clothes to dry. Then she grasped a pulley and the clothes slid along a line from one house to another, fluttering like flags. The houses formed the arches of a portico and underneath there were stalls, covered during the midday break with oilcloth. Some bore painted blue anchors and a sign saying Fresh Fish.

“There used to be a pizzeria here,” he said, “I remember it perfectly, it was called Da Pezzi.”

She looked at the paving-stones and did not speak.

“You must remember,” he continued. “There was a sign Tizza to take out,’ and I said to you: ‘Let’s purchase a pizza from Pezzi,’ and you laughed.”

They went down the steps of a narrow alley with windows joined by an arch above them. The echo of their footsteps on the shiny paving-stones conveyed a feeling of winter, with the crackling tone that sounds acquire in cold air. Actually there was a warm breeze and the fragrance of mock-orange. The shops on the waterfront were closed and cafe chairs were stacked up around empty tables.

“We’re out of season,” she observed.

He shot her a surreptitious look, wondering if the remark had a double meaning, then let it go.

“There’s a restaurant that’s open,” he said, gesturing with his head. “What do you say?”

The restaurant was called L’Arsella; it was a wood and glass construction resting on piles set into the beach next to the blue bathhouses. Two gently rocking boats were tied to the piles. Some windows had blinds drawn over them; lamps were lit on the tables in spite of the bright daylight. There were few customers: a couple of silent, middle-aged Germans, two intellectual-looking young men, a woman with a dog, the last summer vacationers. They sat down at a corner table, far from the others. Perhaps the waiter recognized them; he came quickly but with an embarrassed and would-be confidential air. They ordered broiled sole and champagne and looked out at the horizon, which changed colour as wind pushed the clouds around. Now there was a hint of indigo on the line separating sea and sky, and the promontory that closed the bay was silvery green like a block of ice.