Antonio Tabucchi - Indian Nocturne

There is also a vast dining room on the first floor of the Hotel Zuari, so as not to contradict the sign on the door; but that evening it was dark and there were no tables and I ate on the patio, a little courtyard with bougainvillaea and heavily scented flowers and low little tables with small wooden benches, all dimly lit. I ate scampi as big as lobsters and a mango dessert, I drank tea and a kind of wine that tasted of cinnamon; all for a price equivalent to three thousand lira, which cheered me up. Along one side of the patio ran the veranda onto which the rooms looked out; a white rabbit was hopping over the stones of the courtyard. An Indian family was eating at a table at the far end. At the table next to mine was a blonde woman of indefinable age and faded beauty. She ate with three fingers, the way the Indians do, making perfect little balls of rice and dipping them in the sauce. She looked English to me, and so, as it turned out, she was. She had a mad glint in her eyes, but only every now and then. Later she told me a story that I don’t really think I should put down here. It may well have been an anxiety dream. But then the Hotel Zuari is not a place for happy dreams.

‘I worked as a mailman in Philadelphia, at eighteen already walking the streets with my bag over my shoulder, without fail, every morning, in summer when the tar turns to molasses and in winter when you slip on the icy snow. For ten years, carrying letters. You don’t know how many letters I’ve carried, thousands and thousands. They were all upper class, rich, the people on the envelopes. Letters from all over the world: Miami, Paris, London, Caracas. Good morning, sir. Good morning, madam. I’m your mailman.’

He raised an arm and pointed to the group of young people on the beach. The sun was going down and the water sparkled. Near us some fishermen were preparing a boat. They were half naked, wearing loincloths. ‘Here we’re all equal,’ he said, ‘there’s no upper class, no ladies and gentlemen.’ He looked at me and a sly expression crossed his face. ‘Are you a gentleman?’

‘What do you think?’

He looked at me doubtfully. ‘I’ll answer that later.’ Then he pointed to the huts made of palm leaves on our left that leant against the dunes. ‘We live there, it’s our village, it’s called Sun Village.’ He pulled out a little wooden box with papers and a mixture and rolled himself a cigarette. ‘Smoke?’

‘Not as a rule,’ I said, ‘but I’ll have one now if you’re offering.’

He rolled another for me and said: ‘It’s good this mixture, it makes you feel happy. Are you happy?’

‘Listen,’ I said, ‘I was enjoying your story, go on with it.’

‘Well,’ he said, ‘one day I was walking down a street in Philadelphia, it was very cold, I was delivering the mail, it was morning, the city was covered in snow, Philadelphia is so ugly. I was walking down these huge roads, then I turned into a smaller street, long and dark, with just a blade of sunlight that had managed to break through the smog lighting the end of the street. I knew that street, I delivered there every day, it was a street that ended in the wall of a car repair place. Well, you know what I saw that day? Try and guess.’

‘I’ve no idea,’ I said.

‘Try and guess.’

‘I give up, it’s too difficult.’

‘The sea,’ he said. ‘I saw the sea. At the end of the street there was a beautiful blue sea with the waves crested with foam and a sandy beach and palm trees. How about that, eh?’

‘Strange,’ I said.

‘I’d only seen the sea at the cinema before, or on postcards from Miami or Havana. And this was exactly like those, an ocean, but with nobody there, the beach deserted. I thought, they’ve brought the sea to Philadelphia. And then I thought, I’m seeing a mirage, like you read about in books. What would you have thought?’

‘The same,’ I said.

‘Right. But the sea can’t get to Philadelphia. And mirages happen in the desert when the sun is burning down and you’re desperately thirsty. And that day it was freezing cold with the city full of dirty snow. So I crept up, very slowly, drawn on by that sea and feeling like I’d like to dive right in, even if it was cold, because the blue was so inviting and the waves were gleaming, lit by the sun.’ He paused a moment and took a drag on his cigarette. He smiled with an absent, distant expression, reliving that day. ‘It was a picture. They’d painted the sea, those bastards. They do it sometimes in Philadelphia, it’s an idea the architects had, they paint on the concrete, landscapes, valleys, woods and the rest, so that you don’t feel so much like you’re living in a shithole of a city. I was about a foot away from that sea on the wall, with my bag on my shoulder; at the end of the street the wind made a little eddy and beneath the golden sand there was litter and dry leaves whirling around, and a plastic bag. Dirty beach, in Philadelphia. I looked at it a moment and thought, if the sea won’t go to Tommy, Tommy will go to the sea. How about that?’

‘I was familiar with another version,’ I said, ‘but the concept is the same.’

He laughed. ‘You’ve got it,’ he said. ‘And so you know what I did? Try and guess.’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘Try and guess.’

‘I give up,’ I said, ‘it’s too difficult.’

‘I took the lid off a trashcan and dumped in my mailbag. You wait there, letters. Then I made a dash back to the head office and asked to speak to the boss. I need three months’ salary in advance, I said, my father has a serious illness, he’s in hospital, look at these doctor’s certificates. He said: first sign this statement. I signed it and took the money.’

‘But was your father really ill?’

‘Sure he was, he had cancer. But he was going to die just the same, even if I did go on carrying the mail to the ladies and gents of Philadelphia.’

‘That’s logical,’ I said.

‘I brought just one thing away with me,’ he said. ‘Try and guess what.’

‘Really, it’s too difficult, it’s no good, I give up.’

‘The telephone directory,’ he said with satisfaction.

‘The telephone directory?’

‘Right, the Philadelphia telephone directory. That was my only luggage, it’s all that’s left me of America.’

‘Why?’ I asked. I was getting interested.

‘I write postcards. It’s me who writes the ladies and gents of Philadelphia now. Postcards with a nice sea and the deserted Calangute beach, and on the back I write: Best wishes from mailman Tommy. I’ve got up to letter C. Obviously I skip the areas I’m not interested in and send them without a stamp, the person who gets it pays.’

‘How long have you been here?’ I asked him.

‘Four years,’ he said.

‘The Philadelphia phone directory must be long.’

‘Yep,’ he said, ‘it’s enormous. But then, I’m not in any hurry, I’ve got my whole life.’

The group on the beach had lit a large fire, someone began to sing. Four people left the group and came towards us, they had flowers in their hair and smiled at us. A young woman was holding a girl of about ten by the hand.

‘The party’s about to begin,’ said Tommy. ‘It’ll be a big party, it’s the equinox.’

‘Equinox nothing,’ I said, ‘the equinox is the twenty-third of September, it’s December now.’

‘Well, something like that anyway,’ answered Tommy. The girl kissed him on the forehead and then went off again to the others.

‘They’re not that young any more though, are they?’ I said. ‘They look like middle-aged parents.’

‘They’re the ones who came here first,’ Tommy said, ‘the Pilgrims.’ Then he looked at me and said: ‘Why, what are you like?’