Antonio Tabucchi - Requiem - A Hallucination

The Seller of Stories paused for a moment and repeated the theatrical gesture with his arm, as if he wanted to seize hold of the moon. So what happened? I asked. One day, he said, I decided to write down the stories that came to me, and so I wrote ten stories, one tragic, one comic, one tragicomic, one dramatic, one sentimental, one ironic, one cynical, one satirical, one fantastic and one realistic and I took the resulting bundle of papers to a publisher. There I met the literary editor of the publishing house, a very sporty young man who wore jeans and chewed gum. He said he would read the whole thing and that I should come back in a week. I went back a week later and the literary editor said: You obviously haven’t read any American minimalism, I’m sorry, but you really should have read some American minimalists. I didn’t want to admit defeat and so I went to another publisher. There I met a very elegant lady, who wore a scarf round her neck, and she too asked me to come back in a week and so I did. There’s too much plot in your stories, the elegant lady told me, you obviously haven’t read any avant-garde writers, the avant-garde did away with plot completely, creating plots is positively retrograde now. I still didn’t want to admit defeat and so I went to a third publisher. There I met a very serious gentleman who smoked a pipe, he asked me to come back in a week and so I did. You have absolutely no sense of pragmatism, this very serious gentleman told me, your reality is completely fragmented, what you need is a psychiatrist. I left him and started wandering about the city. My practice had closed down, no one went there any more, I was sad and penniless, but even though I was sad, I still had an immense desire to tell my stories to people, and so I started walking and I thought: If I have all these stories to tell, maybe there are people who’d like to hear them, it’s a big city, and so I started wandering the city and telling stories, and now that’s how I earn my living.

The Seller of Stories lowered his arm and held out a hand to me as if he were offering me something. I give you tonight’s moon, he said, and I give you whatever story you feel like hearing, I know you want to hear a story. Yes, I would like to hear a story now, I said, I really would, but it can’t be a very long one, I’m meeting someone in a little while on the Cais de Alcantara and I wouldn’t want to be late. No problem, said the Seller of Stories, all you have to do is choose the kind of story you’d like to hear tonight. Look, I said, could I just ask you for a bit of information first? I’d like to invite this person I’m meeting to supper, you must know the city well, perhaps you could tell me the name of a reasonable restaurant near the Cais do Alcântara. There is one, said the Seller of Stories, right opposite the quay, it used to be a station or something, but now it’s a kind of social club, it’s got a restaurant, a bar, a disco and who knows what else, it’s very trendy, I think it’s what’s called postmodern. Post-modern? I said, post-modern in what sense? I’m not sure I could explain, said the Seller of Stories, I mean that it’s been done up in lots of different styles, for example, the restaurant is full of mirrors and the food they serve is sort of unclassifiable, I mean, it’s a place that broke with tradition by embracing tradition, you could describe it as a compilation of several different styles, that’s what I would call post-modern. It sounds like the ideal place for my guest, I said, and then I asked: Is it expensive? it’s just that I haven’t got much money on me and I’d also like to hear one of your stories, but I don’t know if I can afford it. It isn’t expensive, said the Seller of Stories, as long as you don’t order smoked swordfish or oysters, because it’s a fairly up-scale restaurant and you can get things like that there, but it won’t be expensive and, besides, my stories are cheap, since it’s late and given your situation, I can offer you a special price, anyway my stories are all different prices, depending on the genre. So what stories have you got to tell me tonight? I asked. Well, he said, I’ve got a rather sentimental one that might bring you comfort on a night such as this. I don’t want anything sentimental, I said, my whole day has been extremely sentimental and I’m up to here with it. I also have a very funny story, he said, a story that will make you roar with laughter. That’s no good either, I said, I don’t feel like roaring with laughter. The Seller of Stories sighed. You’re very hard to please, he said. Look, I said, just tell me what you’ve got on offer and how much each story costs. I have a dream story for two hundred escudos , he said, a really bizarre one. No, that won’t do, I said, I don’t want anything bizarre, my whole day has been bizarre in the extreme. And finally, I have a children’s story for three hundred escudos , he said, the sort of story people used to tell their children to send them to sleep, it’s not exactly a fairy story but it tells of a magical world, of a mermaid who used to work in a circus and who fell in love with a fisherman from Ericeira, it’s a really nice story, a bit melancholy, with a sad ending that will make you cry. All right, my friend, I said, perhaps I need to cry a bit tonight, tell me the story about the mermaid, I’m going to close my eyes and listen as if I were a child about to fall asleep.

The ferry coming back from Cacilhas sounded its siren as it came alongside the quay. The night really was magnificent, with the moon hanging so low over the arches of Terreiro do Paço that you felt you could have reached out your hand and caught hold of it. I lit a cigarette and settled down to watch the moon and the Seller of Stories began his story.

IX

THE WAITER HAD his hair tied back in a small pony-tail, he was wearing a pair of extremely tight trousers and a pink shirt. I’m Mariazinha, he said with a brilliant smile and then, addressing my guest, he asked: You haven’t got anything against people like me, have you? My Guest looked Mariazinha up and down and asked me in English: Is he mad ? No, I said, I don’t think so, he’s gay. Can homosexuals be gay ? asked my Guest, what is all this about ? But Botto 1was gay, I said, you should know that, you were his friend. Botto wasn’t gay , he said, he was an aesthete, it’s not the same thing at all .

Is your friend English? Mariazinha asked me, I can’t cope with the English, they’re so boring! No, I said, my guest isn’t English, he’s Portuguese but he lived in South Africa, he likes speaking English, he’s a poet. That’s all right then, said Mariazinha, I love people who can speak other languages, I can speak Spanish, I learned it in Estremoz, I worked at the Pousada Santa Isabel, ¿les gusta Estremoz, caballeros? My Guest looked at Mariazinha again and said: He’s mad . No, I said, I don’t think he is, I’ll explain later. Anyway here’s the wine list, said Mariazinha, the menu’s all here in my little head, I’ll tell you what there is later when you’re ready to order, I’ll leave you now, caballeros , I have to see to that big boy all by himself over there, he must be dying of hunger.

Mariazinha walked off, hips swaying, to attend to the needs of a gentleman sitting on his own at a corner table. Where have you brought me? asked my Guest, what sort of place is this? I don’t know, I said, it’s the first time I’ve been here, someone recommended it to me, it’s supposed to be post-modern, and if you’ll forgive me, you may be partly to blame for all this, I mean for postmodernism. I don’t understand, said my Guest. Well, I went on, I was thinking of the avant-garde movement, about the effect it had. I still don’t understand, said my Guest. Well, I said, how can I put it, it was the avant-garde movement that first upset the balance, and things like that leave a mark. But this is all so vulgar, he said, we had elegance. That’s what you think, I said, I don’t agree, Futurism, for example, was vulgar, it celebrated noise and war, I think it had a vulgar side to it, I’ll go further, there’s even something slightly vulgar about your own Futurist odes. Is that why you wanted to see me? he asked, in order to insult me. To be exact, it wasn’t me who wanted to see you, I said, it was you who wanted to see me. I received a message from you, he said. That’s a good one, I said, this morning I was in Azeitão sitting quietly under a tree reading, it was you who called me. All right, said my Guest, as you wish, let’s not argue, let’s just say I’d like to know what your intentions are. In relation to what? I asked. In relation to me, for example, said my Guest, that’s what interests me. You don’t find that a little egocentric? I asked. Of course, he replied, I am egocentric, but what do you want me to do about it, all poets are egocentric, and my ego has a very special centre, indeed if you wanted me to tell you where that centre is I couldn’t. I’ve come up with a few hypotheses myself, I said, I’ve spent my life hypothesising about you and now I’m tired of it, that’s what I wanted to tell you. Please , he said, don’t abandon me to all these people who are so certain about everything, they’re dreadful. You don’t need me, I said, don’t talk nonsense, the whole world admires you, I was the one who needed you, but now it’s time to stop, that’s all. Did my company displease you? he asked. No, I said, it was very important, but it troubled me, let’s just say that you had a disquieting effect on me. I know, he said, with me it always finishes that way, but don’t you think that’s precisely what literature should do, be disquieting I mean? personally I don’t trust literature that soothes people’s consciences. Neither do I, I agreed, but you see, I’m already full of disquiet, your disquiet just adds to mine and becomes anxiety. I prefer anxiety to utter peace, he said, given the choice.