Antonio Tabucchi - Indian Nocturne

‘I was going to Trivandrum, then from there I would have gone to Colombo.’

‘But Madras has a flight to Colombo too,’ I objected.

‘I didn’t want to take that one,’ she said. ‘I had my reasons. It won’t be difficult for you to work them out.’ She made a tired gesture. ‘Anyhow, I’ll have missed it by now.’

She gave me a questioning look and I said: ‘It’s all there where you left it in the bottom drawer on the right.’

The writing table was behind her; it was made of bamboo with brass corners and had a large mirror above in which I could see the reflection of her naked shoulders. She opened the drawer and took the bundles of documents held together by an elastic band.

‘It’s too stupid,’ she said. ‘One does something like this and then forgets everything in a drawer. I kept it in the hotel safe for a week and then I left it here while I was packing.’

She looked at me as if waiting for me to agree.

‘Yes, it is pretty stupid,’ I said. ‘The transfer of all that money was an operation of high-class fraud, and then you go and make such a dumb mistake.’

‘Perhaps I was too nervous,’ she said.

‘Or too busy getting revenge,’ I added. ‘Your letter was remarkable, a ferocious vendetta, and he can’t do anything about it, if you make it in time. It’s just a question of time.’

Her eyes flickered, looking at me in the mirror. Then she turned suddenly, quivering, her neck tense. ‘You read my letter as well!’ she exclaimed with contempt.

‘I even copied part of it out,’ I said.

She looked at me with amazement, or with fear perhaps. ‘Copied it,’ she muttered. ‘Why?’

‘Only the last part,’ I said, ‘I’m sorry, I couldn’t help it. And anyway, I don’t even know who it was to. All I understood was that he’s a man who must have made you suffer a great deal.’

‘He was too rich,’ she said. ‘He thought he could buy everything, people included.’ Then she made a nervous gesture, indicating herself, and I understood.

‘Listen, I think I see more or less how it was. You didn’t exist for years, you were always just an empty name, until one day you decided to give a reality to the name. And that reality is you. But I know only the name you signed with; it’s a very common name and I have no desire to know anything else.’

‘Right,’ she said, ‘the world is full of Margarets.’

She moved away from the writing table and went to sit on the stool by the dressing table. She put her elbows on her knees and her face in her hands. She sat a long time like that, without saying anything, hiding her face.

‘What do you plan to do?’ I asked.

‘I don’t know,’ she answered. ‘I’m very frightened. I must get to that bank in Colombo tomorrow, otherwise all that money’s going to go down the drain.’

‘Listen a moment,’ I said, ‘it’s late. You can’t go to Trivandrum now, and anyway you wouldn’t get there in time for the plane tomorrow. Tomorrow morning there’s a plane for Colombo from here; you’re lucky because if you turn up early you’ll get a seat, and according to the register you’ve already left the hotel.’

She looked at me as if she didn’t understand. She looked at me a long time, intensely, weighing me up.

‘As far as I’m concerned you really have gone,’ I added, ‘and there are two comfortable beds in this room.’

She seemed to relax. She crossed her legs and sketched a smile. ‘Why are you doing this?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Perhaps I feel sympathetic toward people on the run. And then, I stole something from you too.’

‘I left my case at reception,’ she said.

‘Perhaps it would be wise to leave it there and pick it up tomorrow morning. I can lend you some pyjamas: we are almost the same size.’

She laughed. ‘That only leaves the problem of the tap,’ she said.

I laughed too. ‘But you’re used to it by now, I gather. The problem is all mine.’

‘ Le corps humain pourrait bien n’être qu’une apparence ,’ he said. ‘ Il cache notre réalité, il s’épaissit sur notre lumière ou sur notre ombre. ’

He raised his hand and made a vague gesture. He was wearing a large white tunic and the sleeve rose and fell on his thin wrist. ‘Oh, but that isn’t theosophy. Victor Hugo, Les Travailleurs de la Mer .’ He smiled and poured me something to drink. He raised his glass full of water as if making a toast.

To what? I thought. And then I lifted my glass too and said: ‘To light and shadow.’

He smiled again. ‘Please do excuse me for this very frugal meal,’ he said, ‘but it was the only way to talk without being too hurried after your brief afternoon visit. I’m sorry that my prior engagements didn’t allow me to receive you at greater leisure.’

‘It’s a privilege,’ I said. ‘You are very kind, I would never have dared hope so much.’

‘We rarely receive outside visitors in this centre,’ he went on in his vaguely apologetic tone. ‘But from what I gather it seems that you are not simply a curious outsider.’

I realised that after my rather mysterious note, my telephone calls, the afternoon visit in which I had referred only to a ‘missing person’, I could hardly carry on in this cryptic and alarmist way. I would have to explain myself clearly, precisely. But what did I have to ask, after all? Only a remote piece of information, a hypothetical clue: a possible link to bring me closer to Xavier.

‘I am looking for someone,’ I said. ‘His name is Xavier Janata Pinto, he’s been missing almost a year. The last I heard of him he was in Bombay, but I have good reason to believe that he may have been in contact with the Theosophical Society, and that is what brings me here.’

‘Would it be indiscreet to ask you what reasons you have for believing this?’ my host asked.

A waiter came in with a tray and we served ourselves sparingly: I out of politeness, he no doubt out of habit.

‘I’d like to know if he was a member of the Theosophical Society,’ I said.

My host looked at me hard. ‘He was not,’ he stated softly.

‘But he was corresponding with you,’ I said.

‘He may have been,’ he said, ‘but in that case it would be a private correspondence and confidential.’

We began to eat vegetable rissoles with some totally tasteless rice. The waiter stood to one side, the tray in his hands. At a nod from my host he quietly disappeared.

‘We do have files, but they are reserved for our members. However, these files do not include private correspondence,’ he explained.

I nodded in silence, because I realised that he was manipulating the conversation as he chose and it was no good going on with requests that were too direct and explicit.

‘Are you familiar with India?’ he asked a moment later.

‘No,’ I answered, ‘this is the first time I’ve been here. I still haven’t really taken in where I am.’

‘I wasn’t referring so much to the geography,’ he explained. ‘I meant the culture. What books have you read?’

‘Very few,’ I answered. ‘At the moment I’m reading one called A Travel Survival Kit. It’s turning out to be quite useful.’

‘Very amusing,’ he said icily. ‘And nothing else?’

‘Well,’ I said, ‘a few things, but I don’t remember them very well. I must confess to having come unprepared. The only thing I remember fairly well is a book by Schlegel, but not the famous one, his brother I think; it was called: On the Language and Wisdom of the Indians .’

He thought a moment and said: ‘It must be an old book.’

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘published in 1808.’