Antonio Tabucchi - Tristano Dies - A Life

I must have had a dream, I dreamt about Tristano … or maybe it was the memory of a dream … or maybe the dream of a memory … or maybe both … Ah, writer, such a rebus … Do you ever keep a recording device with you? Sorry to bring this up, but I’ve begun to suspect you might have a little recorder in your pocket. But did I already ask you that? Maybe I already asked you that. Well, if you have one, turn it off, I don’t want my voice to linger; besides, you shouldn’t record a dream, you have to listen and then rewrite it, just listen, listen close and then rewrite it, that’s the start of literature, telling someone else’s dream, I’m sure it’ll come to you, you’ll work it out in your imagination, and I’m also leaving you the point of view … we’ll do it this way, the point of view is mine — well, Tristano’s — because he’s the one who lived it, but I dreamt it from my point of view and now I’m telling you, and then you’ll tell it, and so … you, I’m sure, know these tricks better than me, but I once read a book on the topic, a manual, I’ve always liked manuals; you’d be surprised: for someone you consider a man of action, I’ve read an awful lot of manuals in my life … how to perfect your dance technique, how to learn the art of chess, how to paint with watercolors, how to use the stars to guide you, how to scale the Alps … how to screw up your entire life and not even know it … If you really think about it, the point of view belongs to the dream, in the sense that it’s the dream’s point of view, not mine, not Tristano’s, because you can’t control dreams, just like you can’t control the heart, you have to live dreams the way they want to be lived, and this dream wanted me to dream Tristano, like so: Tristano was flattened out in the shrubs, I don’t like that word, flattened, but if I’m not mistaken that’s what you use in your novel, and Tristano is surrounded by thick brush that stretches all the way to the woods and the mountainside. And his finger’s quivering on the trigger of the submachine gun, and through the sight, he fixes his right eye on the farmhouse door, because he knows the Germans will have to leave by that door, as will the traitor who brought them there. Boom, boom, boom goes Tristano’s heart, and this pounding seems to carry all the way to the versants of the valley … sorry for that word, versants, it’s an Alpine word, ugly, don’t you think? I hope you’ve never used that word … and it feels like the beating of his heart echoes off these versants, magnified, boom, boom, boom … and in the strange logic of dreams, though it’s so real, Tristano sees the traitor his bullet’s waiting for, the traitor is at the door, smiling and nodding for him to come inside. And Tristano obeys the relentless logic of dreams, gets to his feet and approaches … and only as he’s crossing the clearing does he realize that this traitor isn’t the school janitor, this traitor has the face of a woman, and he knows this woman, even if she is wearing a German uniform and has a wisp of hair on her forehead, imitating some cocky-looking guy … It’s Marilyn, it’s Marilyn … Tristano wants to scream, he pulls out his knife, holds it up, waves it as though to stab that cross-dressing traitor, then he slows down, like slow-motion in a movie, because in that moment the film of Tristano’s dream is slipping into slow-motion, and his hand moves slowly, ever so slowly, one centimeter at a time, gently, a graceful arc, almost tender, almost a graceful dance, the blade in that hand that will tear into the traitor’s lungs and bring on the death the traitor deserves, but with the logic of dreams, Tristano’s hand falls to the traitor’s shoulders, about to stab, and then the hand drops the knife and is resting on Rosamunda’s bare shoulders, drawing her into an embrace, because that’s how dreams go, writer, they take you where they please, and now he’s dancing with her, that rugged mountain clearing has become a drawing room flooded with music, an Italian garden viewed from the windows, he’s dancing, holding Rosamunda who’s dressed like a German soldier, her breasts pressed to his chest, her nipples like stone … her arms are draped about his neck, and she’s caressing him, Clark, she whispers, her tongue flits into his ear, Clark, my darling, you’re the only one I ever loved, the others were just my being wicked, just my need for some male company, some reassurance when you were on your missions, down in the valley … Tristano has his arms around her waist, and he’s stroking her, and then she takes his hand, guides it toward her stomach, lower, to her groin, and now Tristano feels something hard beneath those soldier’s trousers, a male organ, an erect male organ, and she wants him to stroke it, she’s whispering in his ear, her voice hot, sensual, Tristano, the commander’s sent me, he’s not dead at all, that was all a joke, come play with us, darling, he can’t do it anymore, but he still loves me, and for him to do it he needs to watch someone strong like you, please, love me, and the poor commander will also play his part, I left him in the farmhouse on the mountain, he looked dead, but he wasn’t, he’s been there, growing old, he’s waiting for us, come join us, we’ll make a nice threesome, I promise. Twilight’s fallen, how strange, it was dawn in the mountain valley, and suddenly it’s twilight, but Tristano smiles at the woman who’s stepped outside the farmhouse, the knife he was holding has turned to a wildflower, she waves for him to come inside, come on, come on, Tristano … Tristano steps through the doorway and reenters the dream he was dreaming the moment before, behind that door he doesn’t find the rooms of a rustic farmhouse, there are people dancing in a drawing room, and beyond that room is an elegant garden that seems like the garden of a Tuscan villa, with cypress trees and boxwood hedges, and people holding glasses, and waiters in white jackets, Tristano is back at a garden party with the German officer who’s now his valet, no longer Marilyn, an older gentleman, face withered, skin peppered with age spots, who whispers a German name that Tristano doesn’t recall, the man has a monocle over his right eye and a stiff leg, maybe a false leg, who knows. In his dream, Tristano thinks that many German aristocrats lost a leg in the first world war, and then he thinks that this German might start dancing on the table, but that’s from reading books and watching movies, and dreams aren’t innocent … instead, with the unsurprised surprise of dreams, the German baron with the monocle starts speaking in English, says I’m American , and then he whispers other things lost in the murmuring of the guests, freedom … freedom … please, let me introduce you to the other guests, and his voice is icy, metallic, creaking like his false leg … What a nightmare … but it’s not a real nightmare, because I’m awake now, so I’m not telling you my dream, I’m telling you something I see, now and then this something will let go of me, like now, I’ve escaped, but then it sucks me back in as if I’m really living it, look, I’m not telling you my nightmare, it’s something real, I’m in the midst of it, must be all those drugs together, and then my head’s exploding, just exploding … Tristano, honey … He turned around: Marilyn was at the back of the garden, and she was dressed like a little girl, with bows in her pigtails, she was lying in the grass, her skirts pulled up to her belly, legs spread, behind her was a seaport with the words freedom harbor written out, and beside her was some stranger, balding, squat, round-faced, smiling, join us, this pipsqueak muttered, this is the revolution, but Tristano didn’t understand … what’s that? This chubby pipsqueak asked if he knew how to shoot a gun, we need sharp guys like you, don’t bother with those idiots and their parties, we’re using them, they’re useful, and the worse they are the better, explain it to your boy, Rosamunda, what kind of a partisan is he, anyway? — join us, Tristano, it’s time to kill — haven’t you figured that out yet? — explain it to him, Marilyn, tell him it’s time to kill … his voice lingering like an echo, kiiiiiiiiiiiiiiillll. Someone tapped his shoulder, a tall man, ugly, with a huge nose and a crooked smile, let me introduce you to the head of state of the sunken republic, Big Nose whispered in Tristano’s ear, he has very close contacts who can provide all kinds of services, treat him with the proper respect, he’s got more dead enemies on his conscience than there are grapes in a vineyard. Then Big Nose and the decorated military man took him by the elbows and steered him toward the huge barbecue pit blazing on the far side of the garden, gathered around this pit was a group of maybe ten little old men with white eyebrows carrying plates and nibbling on sausages, the air smelled entirely different in this part of the garden, more of a country fair, a sausage festival, with a tune playing that seemed familiar to Tristano but that he couldn’t place, coming from an old gramophone by the braziers. Cloned Mr. Presidents of the future republic, shouted Big Nose, it is my distinct privilege to present to you a great national hero, a man who drove out the invader — celebrate him now, before he kicks you in the ass! The ten little old men started joyfully skipping about, tossing their sausages in the air, singing the anthem along with the gramophone, si è cinto la testa, si è cinto la testa ! But at that moment, out from the bush popped a squat bulldog of a fellow in a double-breasted jacket, who stomped arrogantly over to Tristano and said, friend, don’t listen to the proletarian revolutionaries, don’t listen to these old farts from the retirement home, listen to me, I’m the one who’s going to be in charge, the founder of the Pippopippi Republic, you want to be appointed manager of a top-notch program? The squat fellow licked his lips and out shot a chameleon-like tongue that washed his entire face clean. I’m your future, my dear partisan, he said, his tone of voice brooked no reply, I’m the reason you fought in the mountains, if you didn’t know it, so listen up, I’m going to tell you one thing and one thing only because I have a bass dinner waiting for me that my cook prepared, so here it is: Christ brought too many people from the East to our door, he was a Bedouin, he rode along on a donkey just to annoy to us — we’re a car-based civilization …