Antonio Tabucchi - Requiem - A Hallucination

The Copyist began putting away his brushes and his palette. He covered the canvas with a cloth and asked me to help him move the easel over against the wall at the back. Right, he said, I think that’s enough for today, mustn’t overdo it, my client wants the painting by the end of August, I think I’ll make it, what do you reckon? I’d say you had loads of time, I replied, you’re pretty far advanced, it’s almost finished. Will you be much longer? asked the Copyist. No, I said, I don’t think so, I think I’ve seen enough of this painting, and besides today I’ve learned things about it I never would have suspected, it has a meaning for me now that it didn’t before. I’m off to Rua do Alecrim, said the Copyist. Great, I said, I’m going to Cais do Sodré to catch a train to Cascais, we can walk part of the way together.

VI

“SOMETHING YOU PUT on your finger and the noise the telephone makes?” said the Ticket Collector on the train, any idea what that could be? He sat down opposite me and showed me the crossword puzzle in the newspaper. How many letters? I asked. Four, he said. “Ring”, I said, it must be “ring”. Of course! exclaimed the Ticket Collector, I don’t know how I didn’t get that. Crossword clues are difficult to guess when they use puns or plays on words, I said, they’re always the hardest.

The carriage was empty, in fact the whole train appeared to be empty, I must have been the only passenger.

You’re lucky to have time to do the crossword, I remarked, there’s no one on the train today. Not now, he said, but on the way back it’ll be hell. We were passing through Oeiras and he pointed to the beach packed with people. You couldn’t see the sand, just bodies, like a huge flesh-coloured stain covering the beach. It’ll be hell, he said again, there’ll be all kinds of people, boys and girls, cripples, blind people, children and pregnant women, grandfathers and grandmothers, it’ll be hell on wheels. Well, I said, that’s Sundays for you, everyone goes to the beach. It wasn’t like that in my day, said the Ticket Collector, we used to spend our holidays in cool places, we’d go to the country, go back to our villages and visit our parents, that’s what we called going on holiday, not any more though, everyone wants to get a tan, they can’t get enough of the heat, they spend all day on the beach frying like sardines, and the sun’s not good for you, it causes skin cancer, there’ve been articles about it in the paper, but no one cares. The Ticket Collector sighed and looked out of the window. We were at Alto da Barra and you could see the Torre de Bugio standing in the middle of the sea. They drink Coca-Cola too, he added, they spend all day drinking that muck, I don’t know if you’ve ever been on Oeiras beach on a Monday morning, but it’s covered in caricas , like a carpet. Caricas ? I said, I don’t know that word. Bottle tops, said the Ticket Collector, caricas , is what country people call them. Oh, I said. And then I asked: Do you mind if I smoke? there’s no one else on the train. Feel free he said, smoke all you want, I’ll have one too. We both reached for our packs of cigarettes at the same time, I offered him one of mine and he offered me one of his. What do you smoke? the Ticket Collector asked. Multi-filter, I replied, you can’t buy them in Portugal, they’re very mild, it’s almost like inhaling air, it says on the packet “activated charcoal filtration system”, which means it hasn’t got much nicotine or tar, but it’s still rubbish, smoking causes cancer too, it’s worse than the sun. Everything causes cancer, replied the Ticket Collector, even being unhappy, I had a friend who died of cancer because he wasn’t happy. He took the cigarette I was holding out to him and gave me one of his. I smoke Português Suave, he said, I used to smoke Definitivos, but you hardly ever see them now, people’s tastes have changed completely, even in cigarettes.

I would like to have closed my eyes for a few minutes, but he went on chatting. We were passing São Pedro and he pointed something out to me. Can you imagine building anything more horrible than that? he said indicating the houses you could see through the opposite window, have you ever seen anything uglier? They’re certainly ugly, I said, but who allowed such monstrosities to be built? I don’t know, said the Ticket Collector, I don’t know, the local councils in Portugal are a law to themselves, they take on architects who are like kids playing with Lego, they’re all a bunch of incompetents really, who want more than anything else to be modern. I get the impression you don’t much like anything modern, I said. I hate it, he said, it’s hideous all of it, good taste is basically fucked, if you’ll pardon the expression, you just have to look at the miniskirt, horrible don’t you think? a young girl can get away with it, but on fat women, with those great knees of theirs, it looks really revolting, it takes away a woman’s charm, takes away their mystery. He looked down at his crossword puzzle again and said: Here we are, here’s a bit of modernity for you: “Modern architect — singer with a stutter”? It’s got five letters. Aalto, I said, he was a Finnish architect, Alvar Aalto. Aalto, he said, I doubt he was any good. On the contrary, I said, he more or less rebuilt Helsinki in the fifties and designed some other really lovely houses in other parts of Europe too, I like his work. Have you been to Helsinki? the Ticket Collector asked. I have, I said, it’s an odd city, all in brick and with these buildings designed by Aalto and it’s surrounded by forests. What about the people? he asked, what are they like? They read a lot and they drink a lot, I said, they’re good people, I like people who know how to drink. So you like the Portuguese then, he said, not entirely illogically.

The train was just entering Cascais. Nice, eh? said the Ticket Collector indicating the Estoril Sol. Modern, I replied, so modern it’s already out of date. And then I asked: Do you think a taxi as far as the road to Guincho will cost more than five hundred escudos ? I shouldn’t think so, he said, taxis are still cheap in Portugal, as a foreigner you should know that, look, I’ll tell you something, the only time I left Portugal was to go to Switzerland to visit my son who lives in Geneva, he lives outside the city so I caught a taxi and the taxi fare used up all the money I’d brought with me from Portugal, by the way, are you Swiss? Swiss?! I exclaimed, do you mind? no, I’m Italian. But you’re practically Portuguese, he said, I suppose you’ve lived here for a long time. No, I said, but I must have some Portuguese ancestor I don’t know about, I think Portugal’s imprinted on my genetic baggage. Genetic baggage? repeated the Ticket Collector, I’ve seen that expression in the Diário de Notícias , it’s that thing with the signs, the plus sign and the minus sign, isn’t that it? More or less, I said, but to be honest, I don’t really know what genetic baggage is either, I think it means something like nature or character, it would be simpler to call it that. I like the word nature, said the Ticket Collector, my wife always says I’m good-natured, what do you think? I think you’re extremely good-natured, I said, and I’ve really enjoyed talking to you, without this chat my journey would have been very boring.

The old woman appeared at the door and looked at me suspiciously. Good afternoon, I said, I’ve come to see the house, I’d like to visit it, if you don’t mind that is. My house? asked the old woman, alarmed and uncomprehending. No, I said, not your house, the big house, the one next to the lighthouse. It’s all locked up, said the old woman patiently, no one lives there, it’s been closed for years now. I know, I said, that’s why I wanted to see it, I’ve come all the way from Lisbon just for that, look, I’ve got a taxi waiting for me. I pointed to the taxi parked on the other side of the road to prove to her that what I was saying was true. The house is all locked up, she repeated, I’m sorry, but the house is locked up. Are you the housekeeper? I asked. No, she said, I’m the lighthousekeeper’s wife, but when I have time I also take care of the house, I open the windows now and then and do some dusting, here by the sea everything falls to bits, windows, furniture, and the owners don’t care, they don’t live here, they live abroad, they’re Arabs. Arabs?! I exclaimed, this house belongs to Arabs now? That’s right, said the Lighthousekeeper’s Wife, the last owner, who’d bought it for next to nothing from the old owners, wanted to build a hotel here, but his company went bust, it seems he was some kind of con man, at least that’s what my husband says, so he sold it to the Arabs. Arabs, I repeated, I would never have imagined that one day this house would be owned by Arabs. The whole country’s up for grabs, said the Lighthousekeeper’s Wife, foreigners are buying up everything, you know. Yes, I said, unfortunately, but what are these Arabs going to do with the house? Well, said the Lighthousekeeper’s Wife, to tell you the truth, I think they’re waiting for it to fall down of its own accord, at the moment the council won’t give permission to build a hotel, but if it falls down, that’s different, they can build something new then. Is it falling down? I asked. Well, said the Lighthousekeeper’s Wife, in April, when we had those storms, the roof collapsed and made a hole in the ceiling in two of the rooms, the rooms facing the sea are in a terrible state, I think that come this winter, the whole top floor will cave in. That’s why I came, I said, to see the house before it fell down. Are you interested in buying? asked the Lighthousekeeper’s Wife. No, I said, I don’t quite know how to explain, but a long time ago I lived here for a whole year, it was before you worked here. That must have been before 1971 then, she said, that’s when we arrived, Vitalina and Francisco must have been here then. Yes, I remember Vitalina and Francisco well, I said, they were around the year I was here, Vitalina looked after the house and did the cooking, she made the best arroz de tamboril I’ve ever had, what happened to them? Francisco died of cirrhosis of the liver, said the Lighthousekeeper’s Wife, he used to drink a lot, he was a cousin of my husband, and Vitalina’s living with her son now in Cabo da Roca. The whole family are lighthousekeepers, I said. Yes, she said, the whole family, Vitalina’s son is lighthousekeeper at Cabo da Roca, but he’s earning good money, I think Vitalina’s much better off now than when Francisco was alive, she had a terrible time with him, he was always drunk, sometimes she had to go up to the lighthouse herself because he wasn’t in a fit state to. I know, I said, one night she came to ask me for help, it was a terrible night, rainy and misty, Francisco was drunk in bed and Vitalina came to wake me up, she wanted to turn on the radio but she couldn’t get it to work, so she came and woke me, I spent the whole night with her in the lighthouse. Poor Vitalina, said the Lighthousekeeper’s Wife, she had a hard life, it’s a real tragedy when all a man thinks about is drink. But Francisco was a nice man, I said, I think he loved his wife. Oh, he loved her all right, said the Lighthousekeeper’s Wife, he never hit her, but that didn’t stop him getting paralytic every night.