Antonio Tabucchi - Tristano Dies - A Life

… He’d go out in the garden at night, he’d wander through the fields and the vineyard, lie down on the bare ground, pile dirt on his forehead, his own personal mourning sign, even sprinkle a little dirt in his mouth, and he’d stare up at the heavens, as he lay sprawled out, frozen, in the middle of the fields, corpse-like, though at times he’d stretch his arms toward the moon, oh moon, he cried, moon, can you hear me, sweet moon, understand me, while you wander silently across the sky, then perch, listen, moon, what wandering will be my comfort, now that my horizon’s made up of endless hours and my time’s not done, moon, my time’s gone bad, moon, when I die there’ll be nothing; my branch is dry, the seasons have passed, and the flower’s died instead — why, moon, why? — moon that stirs the sap in the stalks, that makes the oceans swell, that raises creatures on the earth, parchment moon playing a fiddle, crystal moon, saffron moon, can you cast your spell, is there any place in this world where invoking you like the priests of old might renew a broken stem? or you, powerful Persephone, who control the shores of the underworld, give back the life your crippled husband stole from me, that he’s got in his smithy, he was a happy little boy who rode me piggyback under the pergola, laughing while he plucked down grapes, I loved him so, like a son, there were days in him that weren’t mine, and he didn’t have my skin color, his was more amber, and his hair was different, jet black, maybe from some unknown ancestors in Andalusia, but my gaze would have continued with him, a little of me still, he was all I had left of what I’d fought for, and you, moon, let this dirt put dirt in his mouth, I couldn’t even give him a burial, his body was scattered who knows where, torn apart by furies, he, too, was a fury, and I didn’t know, a beast, a beast, that boy who seemed so sweet, but I want him back, moon, please, I beg you, I’ll teach him what I didn’t know how to teach him, it’s my fault, moon, I’m the one who made a mistake, I missed out, moon, and now I miss him, can I go back?… Let me relive the time I wasted — I didn’t know, moon — I thought I knew it all, but I didn’t know a thing …

… I was saying … before I interrupted myself … now I’m better … I was telling you something but now I can’t remember, did you write it down or did you lose the thread like me? — don’t lose the thread — writers mustn’t lose the thread, otherwise they get off too easy, a jump in the story, an empty place … it’s a mystery, people will say, the mystery of things … or there’s no real conclusion, because you can’t unravel the knot, and then … open-ended, and problem solved. Bravo. Get me a little water, sorry to turn you into a nurse, get the glass with the straw, otherwise I’ll spill all over myself, don’t call Frau, she’ll interrupt us, and she’ll want me to sleep, when she gives me an injection, she says I have to sleep … the fool … there’ll be time enough to sleep; besides, injections have the opposite effect by now, they wake me up and I feel good, really good, I’m telling you, never better, light as a feather, no, I really am a feather … goodbye pain, goodbye guilty conscience, and who gives a shit if Tristano’s so tormented by his problem, stupid Tristano, so fixated, like a fetish, but you wouldn’t understand, you writers solve a problem with a snap of your fingers, a novel, a short story — olé! — like your book, how Tristano solves it in a snap, that thing over there … freedom … piece of cake, you know what he knew of freedom, you make him shift his gun sight just a few millimeters — and poof — he’s found freedom … but I’m afraid the problem’s not in the sight; you know, abstract is one thing, concrete’s another: this thing, this freedom, is something that needs to be applied, but how? — how does someone like you — a writer — apply it? I’ll tell you how … like casting out nines, or like that elementary-school rule, changing the order of the factors doesn’t change the product, that’s how someone like you thinks, if something’s valid in one situation, it’s valid for them all, because mathematics is mathematics, I read your novel about Tristano closely, I liked it, the way you apply that little rule is brilliant, you verify the rule with two different characters, the man and the woman up in the mountains, they betray each other and then are more united than ever, they had to settle in, like casting out nines, so to speak: they changed the order of the factors and the product didn’t change. Ah, love, love … but no, my dear friend, there’s something you never considered … changing the order of the factors does change the product. It changes day for night. Because betrayal is transitive. That’s the truth. And being transitive touches others, it contaminates, circulates, expands with no logical form, no plan, no pattern … yes, there was a pattern early on, but at some point the original pattern dissolves, disintegrates, you can’t consult it anymore, it was clear once, discernible, visible like everything that’s visible, and then at some point it turns invisible, a shadow without limits, shapeless, like a cloud moving across the sun, forming a pool of shadow over the landscape, I’m not sure I’m explaining myself very well … Can you measure the perimeter of that shadow? You try, maybe you really labor over it, make these complicated calculations, you try to guess, and meanwhile the cloud’s slipping by, so strange how the shadow has shifted a little, is now over the meadow that was filled with sunshine just a minute before, but no, it’s no longer over the meadow, it’s over the hillsides, go on, chase it, catch it, catch a tiger by the tail, the shadow of that cloud … That’s what Tristano would think when he started thinking about that shadow, but by the time he started thinking about it, it was too late, because the shadow would already be wandering around, minding its own business, in transit, going where it wanted. And where did this shadow come from? How did it start? How was it even possible? The sun was so bright, absolutely brilliant, bringing every edge into sharp relief, no chance for error, and suddenly here’s this shadow … and not only that, the weather forecast predicted continuing good weather, and Tristano himself had contributed to that report …

It’s been pouring down rain … No, I’m not referring to the weather — it’s scorching-hot out, just like yesterday — it’s one of Frau’s things, the things she reads, that says there’s been driving rain all day, while this morning everything was so blue, and then it goes on, I know perfectly well how elegant a gray rain can be, and how oppressive the sun is, how vulgar, and I also know it’s out of style now to be affected by changes in the light, but who said I want to be in style? These days, everyone’s so sharp, don’t you agree, writer?… no one’s affected by changes in the light … that’s just old-fashioned …

… But the topic was clouds … I was saying, how could there suddenly be a cloud going by, where did it come from, and how dare it, anyway? Someone like you wouldn’t know, a writer who reads the weather by casting out nines, even if he’s also produced a little humidity himself, if only through breathing, at times all you need is one little breath, the atmosphere’s so sensitive, one puff and you’ve made your extremely modest contribution to forming a cloud, which then supplies the shadow, and suddenly the whole countryside goes dark, this morning was so radiant, really promising, but the weather’s turned, who could have predicted, not a writer like you, I know your story … metaphors … your two main characters betray each other, but then they finally see the error of their ways and their betrayal cements their love even more, the music grows louder, they kiss each other passionately, the sun setting in the background, the lights go up, the end appears on the screen, the audience is moved, someone’s crying, and now it’s dinnertime, Sunday’s over, everybody home. Your Tristano deserves that sort of movie, uplifting … Too bad it’s not that way. Do you know what the true nature of betrayal is? — to betray, and so it also betrays the betrayer, it has no limits, like the shadow over the countryside, you begin by betraying a love, or a small love, I mean some little nothing, a cat, say, and then you wind up arriving at yourself, but you didn’t know you’d get there, otherwise you wouldn’t have made that first move, and it turns out it was exactly this move, this little bit of nonsense that seemed so unimportant, that’s become a catastrophe, an absolute torrent, a flood that carries you off, you’re struggling, struggling, can’t keep afloat … Understand? Sure you do, you were in this country during those times, just like Tristano, and you’re not one of those people who acted as if nothing had happened, one of those who, if he wasn’t sleeping or looking at the highest peaks of art, then laurels, laurels, lift up your hearts … You understood as much as I did, I mean, that someone broke his agreements, right? — and breaking your agreement means betrayal. That’s what Tristano thought, but you didn’t have him think this way in your novel, you’re too kind, and I know that’s why you came running to my bedside as soon as I called, my dear writer, because you wanted to find out what you’d missed … you Peeping Tom … sorry to call you that since what you really do is use your ears — be patient with me — after all, it is pretty much the same thing; do you want to know how Tristano started to think this way, and especially, how he came to question why, something you didn’t do, and why on earth would you, if the principle, the ideal, was sound? So if the principle, the ideal, was sound, that meant people had to be killed for it? Blown sky-high? Blown to bits? Is freedom so precious, then, to be worth this price?… Nous n’osons plus chanter les roses , they wrote. Do you still dare to sing them? Can you understand how someone like Tristano thought about going to Delphi, a ridiculous solution if there ever was one, a non-solution solution … but what’s there left to do when everything is ashes? With no lord god of his own, he wound up putting his trust in a senseless pilgrimage back to the origins … but the origins of what? you might ask. I couldn’t say … of his civilization that he picked up a rifle for, or what he thought was his civilization — poareto di un zuanìn — that’s what we called him in dialect — the poor little guy — the once valiant Anselmo who went off to war with his helmet on, that helmet of freedom on his head so he wouldn’t be too badly hurt, western civilization, writer … so let’s see what you can do with this one, will it be at all like that shadow over the countryside?… on the other side of the ocean, another West, a torch in one hand, an atomic bomb in the other, and insisting she’s the real West — so now what? — where’s the sun going to set? All right, all right … Well … I’m tired … I’m so tired all of a sudden, I was feeling so peppy … it must be all this business about freedom and equality … citizen writer, I think I heard it on our free morning broadcast, the daily reports are in on the state of equality based on data from the national institute for measuring freedom: the freedom stock index is down significantly, owing to a country a little to our south that’s chock-full of poor, awful people who need a lesson on freedom, and so the entire market has shifted south … dear listeners, we’re pleased to inform you that a branch of our stock exchange has opened in a soccer stadium in this country’s capital, with a high interest rate; this is something our new economists developed, which makes use of the old system, what’s known as direct from the manufacturer to the consumer: each stock index is attached to the testicle of one of those awful customers, and every time there’s any effort to raise the local stock market, the consumer in this country gets a nice jolt of electricity that he most unequivocally feels … it’s a personalized system … for those esteemed customers of the female persuasion, the market index acts upon the ovaries, or on the fetus, in case of pregnancy … Writer, the freedom index is widespread, reaches customers the world over, our fatherland is the world over, our law is freedom, and a solemn thought is in our hearts … Go get some rest, I’ve kept you late. Or maybe it’s not late for you, but I’m tired, anyway. Hand me the urinal first, though, set it on the nightstand where I can reach it. But don’t worry, I can stick it in there on my own, I didn’t call you here to humiliate you.