Antonio Tabucchi - The Woman of Porto Pim

The ticket collector had sat down on a bench near the railing. He had finished making his rounds and was watching their movements. Maybe he guessed what they were saying, because he went over to them, smiling, and spoke to the woman with an amused expression. She listened attentively, then exclaimed: Noooo! and she brought a hand to her mouth with a mischievous, childish look, as though suppressing a laugh. What’s he say? the man asked, with the slightly stolid expression of someone who can’t follow a conversation. The woman gave the ticket collector a look of complicity. Her eyes were laughing and she was very attractive. He says they’re not rocks, she said, deliberately holding back what she had learnt. The man looked at her, questioning and perhaps a little annoyed. They’re small blue whales strolling about the Azores, she exclaimed, those are the exact words he used. And she at last let out the laugh she’d been holding back, a small, quick, ringing laugh. Suddenly her expression changed and she pushed back the hair the wind had blown across her face. You know at the airport I mistook someone else for you? she said, candidly revealing her association of ideas. He didn’t even have the same build as you and he was wearing an extraordinary shirt you’d never put on, not even for Carnival, isn’t it odd? The man made a gesture with his hand, butting in: I stayed behind in the hotel, you know, the deadline’s getting closer and the script still needs going over. But the woman wouldn’t let him interrupt. It must be because I’ve been thinking about you so much, she went on, and about these islands, the sun. She was speaking in what was almost a whisper now, as if to herself. I’ve done nothing all this time but think of you. It never stopped raining. I imagined you sitting on a beach. It’s been too long, I think. The man took her hand. For me too, he said, but I haven’t been to the beach much, the main thing I’ve been looking at is my typewriter. And then it rains here too, oh yes, you wouldn’t believe the rain, how heavy it is. The woman smiled. I haven’t even asked you if you managed to do it, and to think, if ideas were worth anything, I’d have written ten plays with trying to imagine yours: tell me what it’s like, I’m dying to know. Oh, let’s say it’s a reworking of Ibsen in a light vein, he said, without disguising a certain enthusiasm — light, but a little bitter too, the way my stuff is, and seen from her point of view. How do you mean? asked the woman. Oh, the man said with conviction, you know the way things are going these days, I thought it would be wise to present it from her point of view, if I want people to take notice, even if that’s not why I wrote it, of course. The story’s banal in the end, a relationship breaking up, but all stories are banal, what matters is the point of view, and I rescue the woman, she is the real protagonist, he is selfish and mediocre, he doesn’t even realize what he’s losing, do you get me?

The woman nodded. I think so, she said, I’m not sure. In any case I’ve been writing some other stuff as well, he went on, these islands are a crushing bore, there’s nothing to do to pass the time but write. And then I wanted to try my hand at a different genre. I’ve been writing fiction all my life. It seems nobler to me, the woman said, or at least more gratuitous, and hence, how can I put it, lighter. . Oh right, laughed the man, delicacy: par délicatesse j’ai perdu ma vie. But there comes a time when you have to have the courage to try your hand at reality, at least the reality of our own lives. And then, listen, people can’t get enough of real-life experience, they’re tired of the imaginings of novelists of no imagination. Very softly the woman asked: Are they memoirs? Her subdued voice quivered slightly with anxiety. Kind of, he said, but there’s no elaboration of interpretation or memory; the bare facts and nothing more: that’s what counts. It’ll stir things up, said the woman. Let’s say people will take notice, he corrected. The woman was silent for a moment, thoughtful. Do you already have a title? she asked. Maybe Le regard sans école, he said, what do you think? Sounds witty, she said.

Steering around in a wide curve, the boat began to sail along the coast of the island. Puffs of black smoke with a strong smell of diesel flew out of the funnel and the engine settled into a calm chug, as if enjoying itself. That’s why it takes so long, the man said, the landing stage must be on the other side of the island.

You know, Marcel, the woman resumed, as if pursuing an idea of her own, I saw a lot of Albertine this winter. The boat proceeded in small lurches, as if the engine were jamming. They sailed by a little church right on the waterfront and they were so near they could almost make out the faces of the people going in. The bells summoning the faithful to Mass had a jarring sound, as though dragging their feet.

What?! The man chased the invisible insect from the tip of his nose. What on earth do you mean? he said. His face took on an expression of amazement and great disappointment. We kept each other company, she explained. A lot. It’s important to keep each other company in life, don’t you think? The man stood up and leaned on the railing, then sat on his seat again. But what do you mean, he repeated, have you gone mad? He seemed extremely restless, his legs couldn’t keep still. She’s an unhappy woman, and a generous one, the woman said, still following her own reasoning, I think she loved you a great deal. The man stretched out his arms in a disconsolate gesture and muttered something incomprehensible. Listen, forget it, he finally said with an effort, anyway, look, we’ve arrived.

The boat was preparing to dock. At the stern two men in T-shirts were unrolling the mooring cable and shouting to a third man standing on the landing stage watching them with his hands on his hips. A small crowd of relatives had gathered to greet the passengers and were waving. In the front row were two old women with black headscarves and a girl dressed up as though for her first communion hopping on one foot.

And what about the play, the woman suddenly enquired, as if all at once remembering something she had meant to ask, do you have a title for the play? You didn’t tell me. Her companion was sorting out some newspapers and a small camera in a bag that bore the logo of an airline company. I’ve thought of hundreds and rubbished them all, he said, still bending down over his bag, not one that’s really right, you need a witty title for a thing like this but something that sounds really good too. He stood up and a vague expression of hope lit up in his eyes. Why? he asked. Oh nothing, she said, just asking; I was thinking of a possible title, but maybe it’s too frivolous, it wouldn’t sound right on a serious poster, and then it’s got nothing to do with your subject matter, it would sound completely incongruous. Oh come on, he begged, at least you can satisfy my curiosity, maybe it’s brilliant. Silly, she said, completely off target.

The passengers crowded around the gangway and Marcel was sucked into the crush. The woman stood apart, holding on to the cable of the railing. I’ll wait for you on the wharf, he shouted, without turning, I’ve got to move with the crowd! He raised an arm above the gaggle of heads, waving his hand. She leaned on the railing and began to gaze at the sea.

In April 1839 two British citizens disembarked on the island of Flores which, together with Corvo, is the most remote and isolated island of the Azores archipelago. It was curiosity that had brought them there, always an excellent guide. They landed at Santa Cruz, a village situated at the northernmost point of the island and boasting a small natural port which still offers the safest place to land on Flores today. From Santa Cruz they set out to travel, on foot and by litter, around the coast as far as Lajes de Flores, about forty kilometers away, where they wanted to see a church that the Portuguese had built in the seventeenth century. The litter, borne on the shoulders of eight islanders, was made from a ship’s sail and judging by the travelers’ description would seem to have been little more than a hammock strung between two poles.