Antonio Tabucchi - Requiem - A Hallucination

The Lighthousekeeper’s Wife had started going down the stairs and turned to tell me to be careful. We went out into the courtyard and she closed the door. Thanks ever so much, I said, take care and say hello to your husband. Would you like something to drink, she said, I’ve got some cherry brandy, I made it myself. All right, I said, only one glass, though, but it will have to be quick, I’m afraid, I’ve got to catch the train to be back in Lisbon by nine.

VII

“ALENTEJANOS FOR THE ALENTEJO and the Alentejo for the Fatherland” said the inscription above the door. I went up the wide staircase and emerged into a Moorish courtyard with a small fountain, a glass door and some marble columns lit by red lights, like the lights they use in sacristies. It had a slightly absurd beauty and only then did I understand why I’d arranged to meet Isabel there: precisely because it was such an absurd place. I walked on and, beyond, I saw a reading room, with small tables and newspapers threaded onto wooden poles, like in an English gentleman’s club. But there was no one in the room. I looked at my watch and realised that I still had plenty of time before my appointment. I walked slowly across the courtyard. I saw several doors and opened one at random. It opened on to a vast panelled room, eighteenth-century in style, with great glass doors crowned by half-moons painted with frescos. It was the dining room, of monumental size, with all the tables laid and an immense, polished parquet floor. On one side of the room there was a miniature theatre with a tiny red velvet curtain that drew back to reveal a space framed by two columns and dominated by two caryatids carved in yellow wood, two naked figures which, for some reason, I found indecent, perhaps because they really were. I closed the dining room door and returned to the courtyard. The night was hot, close, like a breath of warm air full of the seaweed smell of the sea. I opened another door and entered the billiard room. It was a large, cool room, its walls lined with fabric. A man, in black jacket and bow tie, was playing billiards on his own. When he saw me, he stopped, rested his cue on the floor and said: Good evening, and welcome. Are you a member? I asked. The man smiled, rubbed chalk on the tip of the cue and replied: What about you? Are you a member? Me, no, I said, I’m just a visitor, a guest. This club is for members only, he said, I’m the manager, but you were quite right to come in, no one’s been in all day, I’ve spent the whole day alone here, so it’s good to see another human being at last.

He was a very small man in his sixties, white-haired and elegant, he had pale eyes and a pleasant face. I arranged to meet someone here at nine o’clock, I said, it was a stupid thing to do, since I’m not a member and I’ve never been here before, and the person who’s coming here belongs only in my memory. The Manager of the Casa do Alentejo rested the cue on the table and smiled a melancholy smile. There’s nothing wrong with that, he said, you’ll feel perfectly at home here, this club is nothing but a memory, now. Forgive my asking, I said, but what does all this have to do with the Alentejo? The Manager of the Casa do Alentejo smiled again and said: It’s a long story, this club was founded by Alentejo landowners, people with land and money who fancied giving a European slant to their lives, they imagined Lisbon was like London and Paris; in the old days, before you were born, they all used to come here to play billiards with their foreign friends, drink port and play billiards, things were different then, this place isn’t the same now, the membership’s changed but not the club, some of the old alentejanos turn up occasionally, but not often, this is a place for memories now. The Manager of the Casa do Alentejo smiled his melancholy smile again. If you want to have supper here, there’s not much to choose from, he said, the cook has only made one dish today, it’s very good though, ensopada de borreguinho à moda de Borba. Thanks, I said, but I’m not sure I’ll be eating here, besides I’m not very hungry yet, I might just have a drink, but not right now. I see you’re not a great fan of Alentejo cooking, he said. On the contrary, I replied, I love the way they cook game and poultry in the Alentejo, in Elvas once, I had some stuffed turkey, which was simply out of this world, the best turkey I’ve ever eaten in my life. I couldn’t agree more, said the Manager, but I prefer the soups myself, I don’t know if you like poejada or not, there are two ways of making it, one is with soft cheese and the other is with eggs, which is how they make it in south of the Alentejo, that’s where I’m from, whenever I think about my childhood, I always think of the poejada my grandmother used to make, our cook makes it too, but you know, here in the city things turn out differently, the food is always more sophisticated, it’s nothing like a real poejada , it’s a soup for posh people. I think it’s because the things we remember from our childhood never return, I said. You’re right, he said, there’s no point in deluding ourselves.

The Manager of the Casa do Alentejo put more chalk on his cue. Do you like playing bar billiards? he asked. I do, I said. Then why don’t we play a game? he said. You’re on, I said, but only a quick one, I’d like to wait in the bar for the person who’s coming here to meet me. The Manager handed me a cue, carefully set up the pins and said: Let’s play the way people used to play, now everyone does it the American way, using huge billiard balls, a terrible game I think. I agree, I said.

The Manager of the Casa do Alentejo played the opening shot and again rubbed chalk on the end of his cue. He played precisely, scientifically, weighing up the state of play with a swift, geometric glance. He was economical in his movements, keeping them to a minimum: a slight lift of the elbow, a slight shift of the shoulder, though still barely moving either arm or shoulder. I see you’re a professional, I said, I’ve obviously got myself into deep water here. He gave another melancholy smile. That’s what my life’s become, he said, endless solitary afternoons here, playing bar billiards on my own.

I saw that I was in a difficult position. The smallest ball lay exactly midway between my ball and his, it was an impossible shot, which would require either some sort of juggling feat or a huge stroke of luck. I lit a cigarette and studied the situation. I think I’ve had it, I said, but I’m not giving up just yet, am I allowed to use a screw shot? The use of screw shots is allowed, said the Manager of the Casa do Alentejo ironically, but if you rip the baize you’ll have to pay for it. OK, I said, I think I’ll have a go anyway. I calmly smoked my cigarette and walked round to the other side of the billiard table to get another perspective on the trajectory my ball would have to follow. I’d like to propose something to you, said the Manager of the Casa do Alentejo. I looked at him, laid my billiard cue down on the table and took off my jacket. Go on, I said. We should place a bet on this shot, he said, I’ve got a bottle of 1952 port and it’s high time I opened it, so if you win it’s on me, if you lose, it’s on you. I made rapid calculations as to how much a 1952 bottle of port was likely to cost and how much money I had left in my pocket: I really was in no position to be placing bets, I couldn’t afford it. The Manager of the Casa do Alentejo gave me a challenging look. Aren’t you up to it? he said. I am, I said. There’s nothing I’d like better tonight than to drink a 1952 port. Then if you’ll excuse me, he said, and he went off to get the bottle. I sat down in an armchair and went on smoking. I would have liked to do some thinking, but I wasn’t in the mood. All I wanted was to be there, smoking, studying the billiard table and the strange geometric pattern the balls had created on the green cloth and from which I had to extricate myself. And the peculiar path my ball would have to follow in order to strike my opponent’s ball seemed to me a sign: it was clear that the impossible parabola I would have to achieve on the billiard table was the same parabola I was following that night, and so I made a bet with myself, well not a bet exactly, more of a conjuration, an exorcism, a plea to fate, and I thought: If I manage it, Isabel will appear, if I don’t, I’ll never see her again.