Antonio Tabucchi - The Flying Creatures of Fra Angelico

Years have gone by, and now that story surfaces again from the obscurity of other dressers, other depths. I see it in black and white, the way I see things in dreams usually. Or in faded, extremely tenuous colours; and with a light mist all around, a thin veil that blurs and softens the edges. The screen it is projected on is the night sky of an Atlantic coast in front of an old house called São José de Guia. To those old walls, which no longer exist as I knew them, and to everybody who knew the house before I did and lived there, I duly dedicate this non-existent novel.

It’s a splendid day, you can be sure of that, indeed I’d say it was a summer’s day, you can’t mistake summer, I’m telling you, and I’m an expert. You want to know how I knew? Oh, well, it’s easy, really, how can I put it? All you have to do is look at that yellow. What do I mean by that? Okay, now listen carefully, you know what yellow is? Yes, yellow, and when I say yellow I really do mean yellow, not red or white, but real yellow, precisely, yellow. That yellow over there on the right, that star-shaped patch of yellow opening across the countryside as if it were a leaf, a glow, something like that, of grass dried out by the heat, am I making myself clear?

That house looks as if it’s right on top of the yellow, as if it were held up by yellow. It’s strange one can see only a bit of it, just a part, I’d like to know more, I wonder who lives there, maybe that woman crossing the little bridge. It would be interesting to know where she’s going, maybe she’s following the gig, or perhaps it’s a barouche, you can see it there near the two poplars in the background, on the left-hand side. She could be a widow, she’s wearing black. And then she has a black umbrella too. Though she’s using that to keep off the sun, because as I said, it’s summer, no doubt about it. But now I’d like to talk about that bridge — that delicate little bridge — it’s so graceful, all made of bricks, the supports go as far as the middle of the canal. You know what I think? Its grace has to do with that clever contrivance of wood and ropes that covers it, like the scaffolding of a cantilever. It looks like a toy for an intelligent child, you know those children who look like little grown-ups and are always playing with Meccano and things like that, you used to see them in respectable families, maybe not so much now, but you’ve got the idea. But it’s all an illusion, because the way I see it that graceful little bridge, apparently meant to open considerately to let the boats on the canal go through, is really a very nasty trap. The old woman doesn’t know, poor thing, she’s got no idea at all, but now she’s going to take another step and it’ll be a fatal one, believe me, she’s sure to put her foot on the treacherous mechanism, there’ll be a soundless click, the ropes will tighten, the beams suspended cantilever fashion will close like jaws and she’ll be caught inside like a mouse — if things go well, that is, because in a worst-case scenario all the bars that connect the beams, those poles there, rather sinister if you think abut it, will snap together, one right against the other with not a millimetre between and, wham, she’ll be crushed flat as a pancake. The man driving the gig doesn’t even realise, maybe he’s deaf into the bargain, and then the woman’s nothing to him, believe me, he’s got other things to think about, if he’s a farmer he’ll be thinking of his vineyards, farmers never think about anything but the soil, they’re pretty self-centred, for them the world ends along with their patch of ground; or if he’s a vet, because he could be a vet too, he’ll be thinking about some sick cow on the farm which must be back there somewhere, even if you can’t see it, cows are more important than people for vets, everybody has his work in this world, what do you expect, and the others had better look out for themselves.

I’m sorry you still haven’t understood, but if you make an effort I’m sure you’ll get there, you’re a smart person and it doesn’t take much to work it out, or rather, maybe it does take a bit, but I think I’ve given you details enough; I’ll repeat, probably all you have to do is connect together the pieces I’ve given you, in any event, look, the museum is about to close, see the custodian making signs to us, I can’t bear these custodians, they give themselves such airs, really, but if you want let’s come back tomorrow, in the end you don’t have that much to do either, do you? and then Impressionism is charming, ah these Impressionists, so full of light, of colour, you almost get a smell of lavender from their paintings, oh yes, Provence. . I’ve always had a soft spot for these landscapes, don’t forget your stick, otherwise you’ll get run over by some car or other, you put it down there, to the right, a bit farther, to the right, you’re nearly there, remember, three paces to our left there’s a step.

‘I’m afraid we’re going to get bad weather this evening,’ said the girl, and she pointed to a curtain of clouds on the horizon. She was skinny and angular, her hands moving jerkily, and she had her hair done up in a little ponytail. The terrace of the small restaurant looked out over the sea. To the right, beyond the screen of jasmine which climbed up to form a pergola, you could glimpse a little courtyard full of bric-à-brac, cases of empty bottles, a few broken chairs. To the left was a small ironwork gate, beneath which gleamed the little stairway carved into the sheer rock face. The waiter arrived with a tray of steaming shellfish. He was a little man with slicked-back hair and a shy manner. He put the tray down on the table and made a slight bow. On his right arm he carried a dirty napkin.

‘I like this country,’ said the girl to the man sitting opposite. ‘The people are simple and kind.’

The man didn’t answer; he unfolded his napkin, tucking it into the collar of his shirt, but then registered the girl’s disapproving look at once and rearranged it on his knees. ‘I don’t like it,’ he said. ‘I don’t understand the language. And then it’s too hot. And then I don’t like southern countries.’

The man was sixtyish, with a square face and thick eyebrows. But his mouth was pink and moist, with something soft about it.

The girl shrugged her shoulders. She seemed visibly annoyed, as if his confession contrasted somehow with her own candour. ‘You’re not being fair,’ she said. ‘They’ve paid for everything, the trip, the hotel. They couldn’t have treated you with more respect.’

He waved his hand in a gesture of indifference. ‘I didn’t come for their country, I came for the conference. They treat me with great respect and I show mine by being here, so we’re quits.’ He concentrated on cracking open his lobster, making it plain there was nothing else to say about the matter. A small gust of wind blew away the paper napkin covering the bread basket. The sea was getting choppy and was deep deep blue.

The girl seemed put out, but maybe it was just a show. When she finally spoke it was in a tone of faint resentment, but with a hint of reconciliation too. ‘You didn’t even tell me what you’ll be talking about, it’s as if you wanted to keep me in the dark about everything, which isn’t fair, I don’t think.’

He had finally managed to overcome the resistance of his lobster and was now dipping the meat in mayonnaise. His face brightened and in a single breath, like a schoolboy parroting a lesson, he said: ‘Structures and Distortions in Middle Latin and Vulgar Texts of the Pays d’Oc.’

The girl gulped, as if her food had gone down the wrong way, and she began to laugh. She laughed uncontrollably, covering her mouth with her napkin. ‘Oh dear,’ she hiccupped. ‘Oh dear!’