Antonio Tabucchi - Requiem - A Hallucination

The Manager of the Casa do Alentejo returned bearing a silver tray with a bottle and two glasses on it and put it down next to the billiard table. Now then, he said, I think we should drink a glass of port before you attempt your shot, I’m sure you could do with a pick-me-up. He opened the bottle precisely, efficiently, and carefully wiped the mouth with a napkin to remove any fragments of cork clinging to the glass. He filled the glasses and held out the tray to me. He was clearly an expert, the Manager of the Casa do Alentejo, but his professionalism seemed out of place in a situation that called for a certain spirit of complicity, affability or even collusion. There wasn’t a trace of this in his behaviour or in his attitude, rather there was a professional politeness that underscored the tension of the moment. He raised his glass and I said: Listen, I’ve actually made two bets, a real one with you and a personal one with myself, would you mind if we drank to the latter? To your own personal wager, then, he said gravely, adding: I’ve wanted to open this bottle for ages, but it never seemed the right moment.

It was a magnificent port, slightly rough and intensely aromatic. The Manager of the Casa do Alentejo filled the glasses again and said: One more drink, I think the occasion demands it. Have you worked here long? I asked. Five years, he said, but before that I worked at the Tavares Restaurant, I’ve spent my life amongst the wealthy, it’s awful always living alongside the rich when you’re not rich yourself, because you pick up their way of thinking but you can’t actually join in, I’d have no problem living the way the rich do because I share their way of thinking, but I haven’t the means to do so, only the right mentality. That’s definitely not enough, I said. Anyway, today I’m going to drink this port despite them, continued the Manager of the Casa do Alentejo, I’m thoroughly pissed off, if you’ll forgive the expression. Not at all, I said, you’re perfectly entitled to feel pissed off. Do you know what my trouble is? he said, it’s that I’ve never allowed myself to feel pissed off, I was always worried about this or that, about the rich, how they were feeling, if they had everything they needed, if they had enough to eat and drink, if they were happy, good God, the rich always have everything they need, they always eat and drink well, they’re always happy, I’m a fool to have always worried about them, but I’m going to change my attitude now, I’m going to change my way of thinking, they’re rich and I’m not, that’s what I have to remember, I have nothing in common with them, even if I have lived in their world, there’s no common ground between us. That’s what they call class consciousness, I said, at least I think it is. I don’t know about that, he said thoughtfully, that’s some sort of political label and I don’t know much about politics, I never had time for it, I was always too busy working.

The Manager of the Casa do Alentejo filled our glasses again and anxiously raised his to his lips. Forgive that little outburst, he said, I’m sorry. There’s no need to apologise, I said, the odd outburst does you good, it helps to detoxify you, besides, class consciousness is very simple, you just came to the realisation that you don’t belong to the same class as the rich, it’s elementary. And I’ll tell you something else, he said, next time I’m not going to vote for their party, I’ve voted for them ever since the 1974 revolution, you see, I thought of myself as one of them and so I voted for their party, but the game’s over, I’m going to change my vote now that I’ve got class consciousness, do you really think I have? I do, I said, to calm him down, I think you’ve achieved genuine class consciousness, albeit a little late. Better late than never, he sighed, and filled our glasses again. Not too much, I said, it’s very strong this wine and I need quick reflexes for my screw shot. He smiled his melancholy smile and lit a cigarette. Do you mind if I smoke? he asked. Feel free, I said.

We fell silent, sitting in the armchairs. From far off, outside, came the sound of an ambulance siren. There’s someone who’s worse off than us, said the Manager of the Casa do Alentejo philosophically, and then he asked: Which party do you think I should vote for? That’s a difficult question, I said, I couldn’t advise you on anything so personal. But you understand my problem, he said, perhaps you could make a suggestion. Look, I said, if you really have to choose a party, choose according to the dictates of your heart, make a sentimental choice, or rather a visceral one, they’re always the best ones. He smiled and said: thank you, I really think it’s high time I did something like that, I’m sixty-five years old and if I don’t make a visceral choice now, when will I? He replaced the cork in the bottle and said: What’s left goes to the winner, I think it’s time for you to try your screw shot.

We got up and I noticed that my legs felt a bit unsteady, I thought that in that state it would be a miracle if I managed to hit the ball, nevertheless I picked up my cue, chalked the end and went over to the billiard table. I stood on tiptoe in order to hit the ball from above. My hand was trembling slightly, I really needed a rest, but the screw shot is played without a rest, hitting from above downwards. Perfect silence reigned in the room. I thought: It’s now or never, I closed my eyes and hit the ball. The ball began to spin, reached almost the middle of the table, brushing dangerously close to the pins, and then, as if by a miracle, it turned, curved, and very slowly, as if following a prescribed course, touched my opponent’s ball and stayed there. You won, said the Manager of the Casa do Alentejo, amazed, that shot deserves a round of applause. He laid his cue down on the table and clapped politely. At that moment, the doorbell rang. He excused himself and went to answer it. I wiped the sweat from my brow with a handkerchief and wondered if this might be the moment to change my shirt again, since I was once more drenched in sweat. I pulled off the shirt I was wearing, placed it on the armchair and put on the other blue shirt that I’d been carrying under my arm all day.

There’s a lady here asking for you, said the Manager of the Casa do Alentejo when he returned, she says her name’s Isabel. Would you show her into the bar, please, I said, I’ll be there in a minute. And I picked up the bottle of port.

VIII

THE NIGHT IS HOT, the night is long, a magnificent night for listening to stories, said the man who came to sit down next to me on the pedestal beneath the statue of Dom José. It really was a magnificent night, the moon was full, the air was warm and soft, there was something sensual, magical about it. There were scarcely any cars in the square, the city seemed to have come to a halt, people had obviously stayed longer than usual at the beaches and would return later, Terreiro do Paço was deserted. A ferryboat bound for Cacilhas sounded its siren before leaving, its lights were the only lights you could see on the Tagus, everything else was utterly still, as if caught in a spell. I looked at the man who had spoken to me, he looked like a tramp, he was very thin and was wearing tennis shoes and a yellow T-shirt, he had a long beard and was almost bald, he must have been about my age or slightly older, he looked at me and raised one arm in a theatrical gesture. This is the moon of poets, he said, of poets and storytellers, tonight is an ideal night for listening to stories, and for telling them too, wouldn’t you like to hear a story? Why should I? I asked, I can’t see any reason to. The reason is simple, he replied, because tonight there’s a full moon and because you’re here alone watching the river, your soul is lonely and filled with longing, and a story might bring you some happiness. My whole day has been full of stories, I said, I don’t think I need any more. The man crossed his legs, rested his chin meditatively on his hands and said: We always need a story even when we think we don’t. But why do you want to tell me a story? I asked, I don’t understand. Because I sell stories, he said, I’m a seller of stories, that’s my job, I sell the stories that I invent. I still don’t understand, I said. Look, he said, that’s a long story but not the one I want to tell you tonight, I don’t really like talking about myself, I like talking about my characters. No, no, I protested, I find your story very interesting, tell me more about yourself. It’s simple, said the Seller of Stories, I’m a failed writer, that’s my story. I’m sorry, I said, but I still don’t understand, couldn’t you tell me more? All right, he said, I’m a doctor, I studied medicine, but medicine wasn’t the science I wanted to study, when I was a student I spent my nights writing stories, then I graduated and started work as a doctor, I joined a practice, but I got bored with my patients, I wasn’t interested in their cases, what interested me was sitting at my table and writing stories, because I have a prodigious imagination, which is completely unstoppable, it takes me over and forces me to invent stories, all kinds of stories, tragic, comic, dramatic, jolly, superficial, profound, and when my imagination breaks loose, I feel as if I can barely live, I start to sweat, I feel ill, I feel restless, I feel odd, all I can think about are my stories, there’s no room for anything else.