Antonio Tabucchi - Requiem - A Hallucination

Mariazinha arrived with the soup. It turned out to be a very traditional coriander soup, nouvelle cuisine had invented nothing but the name. My Guest nodded and said: I would never have thought you could eat so well in Alcantara, in my day there were no restaurants in this area at all, just cheap bars serving boiled cod. That’s Europe for you, I said, the European influence. When I was alive, said my Guest, Europe was something remote, far off, it was a dream. Did you dream about it a lot? I asked. No, he said, not much, but my friend Mário did, he dreamed about it all the time, but he suffered a terrible disenchantment, I, as you know, preferred to go to Rossio station and wait for the trains to arrive from Paris, in those days the Paris train came in at Rossio, what I liked most was reading about the journey on other people’s faces. Yes, I said, you always did like to delegate. And you don’t? asked my Guest. Yes, I do it too, I replied, you’re right.

The next course arrived and we began to eat. I glanced questioningly at my Guest and he responded with a neutral look. How’s the sole interseccionista ? I asked. He shook his head. As you said about Futurism, he replied, it’s a bit vulgar. But it looks good, I said. Oh, it’s excellent, he said, that’s what lends it its slight vulgarity.

We ate in silence. The sound of muffled music filled the room, piano music, Liszt perhaps. At least the music’s good, I said. I don’t like music, said my Guest, I never did. That surprises me, I said, it really does. I only like popular music, he went on, waltzes and things like that, but I do like Viana da Mota, don’t you? I do, I said, he’s a bit like Liszt, don’t you think? Maybe, he said, but he’s very Portuguese.

Mariazinha came to clear away the plates. He gave a list of desserts with bizarre-sounding names, but my Guest seemed unenthusiastic. Your friend’s depressed, said Mariazinha, he looks so gloomy, poor thing, he’s English, isn’t he? I’ve already told you, I exclaimed, in a slightly irritated voice, he’s Portuguese but he just happens to like speaking English. No need to get angry, caballero, said Mariazinha, and removed the plates.

You look tired, said my Guest, would you like to go for a little walk? I could do with some air, I said, it’s been a long day, endless. I called Mariazinha over and asked for the bill. Let me pay, said my Guest. Certainly not, I protested, the restaurant was my idea, and besides I’ve been carefully saving my money all day just so that I could pay for this meal, so, please, don’t insist. Mariazinha blew out the candle on the table and accompanied us to the door. Hasta la vista, caballeros , he said, gracias y buenas noches. Goodbye, sir , said my Guest.

We crossed the road and walked past the harbour station. I’m going to walk as far as the end of the quay, said my Guest, won’t you come with me? Of course I will, I said. By the door to the harbour station was a beggar, with an accordion round his neck. When he saw us, he held out his hand and recited some incomprehensible litany of complaints. At the end of it all he murmured: God bless you, gentlemen, can you spare any change? My Guest stopped and thrust his hand into his pocket, pulled out his wallet and removed an ancient note. I’ve only got old money, he said, looking concerned, perhaps you can help me out. I felt in my pocket and pulled out a one hundred escudo note. It’s all the money I have left, I said, I’m cleaned out, but it’s a nice note, don’t you think? He looked at it and smiled. He held out the note to the Accordionist and asked: Do you know any of the old songs? I know “Old Lisbon”, said the Accordionist eagerly, I know all the fados . No, older than that, said my Guest, something from the 1930s, you must remember, you’re not a young man yourself. I might know it, said the Accordionist, tell me what you’d like to hear. How about “Your eyes are so lovely”? said my Guest. Oh, I know that one, said the Accordionist happily, I know it very well. My Guest handed him the hundred escudo note and said: Walk a few yards behind us will you, and play that tune for us, but quietly because we have to talk. He assumed a confidential air and whispered in my ear: I once danced to this tune with my girlfriend, but no one knows that. You used to dance? I exclaimed, I would never have thought it. I was an excellent dancer, he said, I taught myself from a little book called The Modern Dancer , I always liked books like that, ones that taught you how to do things, I used to practise at night when I got home from work, I used to dance on my own and write poems and letters to my girlfriend. You were really fond of her, I said. She was the clockwork train of my heart, he replied. He stopped walking and made me stop too. The Accordionist stopped as well, but went on playing. Look at the moon, said my Guest, it’s the same moon my girlfriend and I used to look up at when we went for a stroll to Poço do Bispo, isn’t that odd?

We’d reached the end of the quay. Right, he said, we met on this bench and we’ll say goodbye on this bench, you must be tired, you can tell the old man to go away now. He sat down and I went to tell the Accordionist that we no longer needed his music. The old man wished me good night. I turned round and only then did I realise that my Guest had vanished.

The garden was plunged in silence, a cool breeze had got up, it caressed the mulberry leaves. Good night, I said, or rather, goodbye. Who or what was I saying goodbye to? I didn’t really know, but that was what I felt like saying, out loud. Goodbye and goodnight to you all, í said again. Then I leaned my head back and looked up at the moon.

1António Botto (1897–1959), aesthete and poet. He was the author of the poems Canções (Songs) (1921), which caused a scandal in Portugal because of their blatantly homosexual content.

2A philosophical-political movement, mystical and nationalistic in character, founded by the poet Teixeira de Pascoaes in the first decade of the twentieth century. Its name comes from the word saudade , which describes the melancholic nostalgia one feels for people, things, pleasures and times now lost.

3See Note on Recipes, page 109

A NOTE ON RECIPES IN THIS BOOK

page

27

Feijoada

is a bean soup or stew — each region of Portugal has its own variety — embodying a lavish selection of meats (pork being obligatory), sausage and vegetables.

36

Reguengos de Monsaraz

is a well-known red wine from the region of that name in the Lower Alentejo.

37—8

Sarrabulho à moda do Douro

, a rich dish from the North, which requires no description as Senhor Casimiro’s Wife provides the recipe.

40

Papos de anjos de Mirandela

(angels’ double chins) are little confections of egg and almond, originating in the convents.

47

Migas, açorda

and

sargalheta

are specialities of the Alentejo region.

Migas

, as the plural form of the word suggests, come in many forms: the basis is always constituted by homebaked bread allowed to go stale, then cooked over the fire with a little fat until it is reduced to a fried and dried sort of pulp which can serve as an accompaniment to meat or fish.

Açorda

is a pulp made out of homebaked bread allowed to go stale and generally flavoured with garlic and

coentros

(fresh coriander leaves). It may serve to accompany meat or fish, or as the basis of more complicated recipes. The best-known variation is

açorda de mariscos

as mentioned on page 78, in which the pulp is flavoured with shrimp and other seafood and bound with fresh egg.