Antonio Tabucchi - Indian Nocturne

He looked at the bottle with inexpressive eyes. ‘I don’t know, sir, it depends on your tastes,’ he replied calmly.

‘The fact is that my tastes are very demanding too,’ I said. ‘I only buy the best.’ I paused to give more emphasis to what I was saying, and at the same time to make it sound more confidential. I felt as though I were in a film, and I was almost enjoying the game. The sadness would come later, I knew that. ‘Very refined,’ I finally said, stressing ‘refined’, ‘and in substantial quantities, not just a drop at a time.’

He looked at my glass again without expression and went on with the game. ‘I gather that the wine is not to your liking, sir.’

I was sorry that he had upped the stakes. My finances were running low, but at this point it was worth getting to the bottom of the business. And then I was sure that Father Pimentel would be able to make me a loan. So I accepted his raise and said: ‘Bring me back the list, please, I’ll see if I can choose something better.’

He opened the list on the table and I slipped in another twenty dollars. Then I pointed to a wine at random and said: ‘Do you think Mr Nightingale would like this?’

‘I’m sure he would,’ he replied attentively.

‘I’d be interested to ask him personally,’ I said. ‘What would you advise?’

‘If I were in sir’s position I would look for a good hotel on the coast,’ he said.

‘There are a lot of hotels on the coast, it’s difficult to find just the right one.’

‘There are only two really good ones,’ he answered. ‘You can’t go wrong: Fort Aguada Beach and the Oberoi. They are both magnificently located with charming beaches, and palm trees that go right down to the sea. I’m sure you will find both to your liking.’

I got up and went to the buffet. There were a dozen trays on a spirit-warmer. I took some food at random, picking here and there. I stopped by the open window, my plate in my hand. The moon was already nice and high and reflected in the river. Now the melancholy was setting in, as I had foreseen. I realised I wasn’t hungry. I crossed the room and went to the door. As I was going out, the head waiter made a slight bow. ‘Could you have the wine brought up to my room,’ I said. ‘I’d prefer to drink it on the terrace.’

‘Excuse the banality of the remark, but I have the impression we’ve met before,’ I said. I lifted my glass and touched it against hers on the bar. The girl laughed and said: ‘I have the same impression myself. You look strangely like the man I shared a taxi with this morning from Panaji.’

I laughed too. ‘Oh well, it’s no good denying it, I’m the very man.’

‘You know that sharing that cab was an excellent idea?’ she added with an air of practicality. ‘The guidebooks say the taxis are very cheap in India, but it’s not true, they’d take the shirt off your back.’

‘Let me recommend a reliable guidebook some time,’ I said with authority. ‘Our taxi went outside the city, hence the price trebles. I had hired a car, but I had to give it up because it was too expensive. In any case, the major advantage for me was to be able to make the trip in such pleasant company.’

‘Stop,’ she said, ‘don’t take advantage of the tropical night and this hotel amongst the palms. I’m susceptible to compliments and I would let myself be chatted up without offering any resistance. It wouldn’t be fair on your part.’ She lifted her glass too and we laughed again.

The description of magnificence given by the head waiter of the Mandovi erred only by default. The Oberoi was more than magnificent. It was a white, crescent-shaped building which exactly followed the curve of the beach along which it was built, a bay protected by a promontory to the north and cliffs to the south. The main lounge was a huge open space that continued out onto the terrace, from which it was separated only by the bar where drinks were served on both sides. On the terrace, tables had been laid for dinner, decorated with flowers and lamps. Hidden away somewhere in the dark a piano was softly playing Western music. Actually, thinking about it, the whole effect was too much in the line of luxury tourism, but at the time this didn’t bother me. The first diners were taking their places at the tables on the terrace. I told the waiter to reserve us a corner table in a discreet position and a little away from the light. Then I suggested another aperitif.

‘As long as it’s not alcoholic,’ the girl said and then went on in her playful tone: ‘I think you’re going a bit fast, what makes you assume I’ll accept your offer of dinner?’

‘To tell the truth I had no intention of offering dinner,’ I confessed candidly. ‘I’ve almost run out of what few reserves I had and each of us will have to pay our own way. We’ll simply be dining at the same table; we’re alone, we can keep each other company, it seemed logical to me.’

She said nothing and just drank the fruit-juice the waiter had served her. ‘And then it’s not true we don’t know each other,’ I went on, ‘we got to know each other this morning.’

‘We haven’t even introduced ourselves,’ she objected.

‘It’s an omission that’s easily enough remedied,’ I said. ‘I’m called Roux.’

‘And I’m called Christine,’ she said. And then added: ‘It’s not an Italian name, is it?’

‘What difference does it make?’

‘Actually, none,’ she admitted. And then sighed: ‘Your technique is truly irresistible.’

I confessed that I had no intention of trying any technique or of chatting her up at all, that I had started off with the idea of a lively dinner with a friendly conversation between equals. Something like that anyway. She looked at me with a mock-imploring look, and still with the same playful tone protested: ‘Oh no, do chat me up, please, sweet talk me, do, say nice things to me, I’m terribly in need of that sort of thing.’ I asked her where she’d come from. She looked at the sea and said: ‘From Calcutta. I made a brief stop-over in Pondicherry for a stupid feature on my compatriots who are still living there, but I worked for a month in Calcutta.’

‘What were you doing in Calcutta?’

‘Photographing wretchedness,’ Christine replied.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Misery,’ she said, ‘degradation, horror, call it what you like.’

‘Why did you do that?’

‘It’s my job,’ she said. ‘They pay me for it.’ She made a gesture that perhaps was meant to indicate resignation to her life’s profession, and then she asked me: ‘Have you ever been to Calcutta?’

I shook my head. ‘Don’t go,’ said Christine, ‘don’t ever make that mistake.’

‘I imagined that a person like yourself would think that one ought to see as much as possible in life.’

‘No,’ she said with conviction, ‘one ought to see as little as possible.’

The waiter signed to us that our table was ready and led us to the terrace. It was a good corner table as I had asked, near the shrubs round the edge, away from the light. I asked Christine if I could sit on her left, so as to be able to see the other tables. The waiter was attentive and most discreet, as waiters are in hotels like the Oberoi. Did we want Indian cuisine or a barbecue? He didn’t want to influence us, of course, but the Calangute fishermen had brought baskets of lobsters today, they were all there at the bottom of the terrace ready to be cooked, where you could see the cook in his white hat and the shimmer of glowing coals in the open air. Taking advantage of his suggestion, I ran an eye along the terrace, the tables, the diners. The light was fairly uncertain, there were candles on every table, but the people were distinguishable, with a little concentration.