Antonio Tabucchi - Requiem - A Hallucination

He came limping over to me and I thought: I know this man, and then I said to him: Just a moment, we’ve met before somewhere, you’re the Lame Lottery-Ticket Seller, I know you from somewhere else. Where? asked the man, sitting down on my bench and breathing a sigh of relief. I don’t know, I said, I couldn’t say now, I just have an absurd feeling, the idea that I’ve come across you in a book somewhere, but it might just be the heat, or hunger, heat and hunger can play funny tricks on you sometimes. I have the feeling you’ve got quite a few odd ideas, said the old man, forgive me for saying so, but you do seem a touch obsessive. No, I said, that’s not my problem, my problem is that I don’t know why I’m here, it’s as if it were all a hallucination, I can’t really explain it to you, I don’t even know what I mean, let’s just say I was in Azeitão, do you know Azeitão? well, that’s where I was, at a friends’ house, in their garden, sitting under a big tree there, a mulberry tree I think, I was stretched out in a deckchair reading a book I particularly like and then I suddenly found myself here, ah, now I remember, it was in The Book of Disquiet , you’re the Lame Lottery-Ticket Seller who was always bothering Bernardo Soares, that’s where I met you, in the book I was reading under the mulberry tree in the garden of a farmhouse in Azeitão. I know all about disquiet, said the Lame Lottery-Ticket Seller, and sometimes I feel as if I’d walked out of a book too, a book full of splendid illustrations, richly laid tables, finely furnished rooms, but the rich man died, and the only Bernardo in the story was my brother, Bernardo António Pereira de Melo, he was the one who squandered the family fortune, London, Paris, prostitutes and, before I knew it, the lands we owned in the North had been sold for next to nothing, an operation in Houston for cancer saw off the rest, the money in the bank ran out and here I am, selling lottery tickets. He paused for breath and said: By the way, forgive me, I don’t wish to be rude, but since I’ve been addressing you formally as “o senhor”, right from the start, I don’t quite understand why you’ve been addressing me as “você”, allow me to introduce myself, my name’s Francisco Maria Pereira de Melo, delighted to meet you. I’m sorry, I said, I’m Italian and I sometimes get confused over the different forms of address, they’re so complicated in Portuguese, forgive me. We can speak in English if you prefer, said the Lame Lottery-Ticket Seller, the problem doesn’t arise in English, they just use “you” all the time, and my English is good, or perhaps you’d prefer French, there’s no confusion there either, it’s always “vous”, I speak excellent French as well. No, I replied, I’d rather speak Portuguese, this is a Portuguese adventure after all, and I don’t want to step outside my adventure.

The Lame Lottery-Ticket Seller stretched out his legs and leaned back on the bench. And now, if you’ll forgive me, he said, I’m going to read for a bit, I devote a few hours every day to reading. He took a book out of his pocket. It was a magazine, Esprit , and he said: I’m reading an article about the soul by a French philosopher, it’s odd to read things about the soul again, for a long time it’s hardly been spoken of at all, at least not since the 1940s, now it seems that the soul is back in fashion, people are rediscovering it, I’m not a Catholic but I believe in the soul in the vital, collective sense, perhaps even in a Spinozist sense, do you believe in the soul? It’s one of the few things I do believe in, I said, at least at this moment, in this garden where we’re sitting and talking, it’s my soul that was the cause of all this, I mean, I’m not sure if it’s my soul exactly, perhaps it’s my Unconscious, because it was my Unconscious that brought me here. Hold on, said the Lame Lottery-Ticket Seller, the Unconscious, what does that mean? the Unconscious is something found in the Viennese bourgeoisie at the turn of the century, we’re in Portugal here and you yourself are Italian, we belong to the South, to the Graeco-Roman civilisation, we have nothing to do with Central Europe, no, we have soul. That’s true, I said, I do have a soul, you’re right, but I have an Unconscious too, I mean, now I do, you see, the Unconscious is something you catch, it’s like a disease, I just happened to catch the virus of the Unconscious.

The Lame Lottery-Ticket Seller regarded me with an air of despondency. Look, he said, do you want to do a swap? I’ll lend you my Esprit and you lend me A Bola . But I thought you were interested in the soul, I objected. I was, he said resignedly, but my subscription runs out after this issue and I’m beginning to grow into my role now, I’m turning into the Lame Lottery-Ticket Seller, I’m more interested in the goal Benfica scored. All right, I said, in that case, I’d like to buy a lottery ticket, have you got a number that ends in a nine? you see, nine is my month, I was born in September, and I’d like to buy a lottery ticket that includes that number. I do indeed, sir, said the Lame Lottery-Ticket Seller, when were you born exactly? because I was born in September too. I was born at the time of the Autumn Equinox, I said, when the moon is mad and the ocean swells. A most fortunate moment to be born, said the Lame Lottery-Ticket Seller, you’re in for some good luck. I certainly need it, I replied, paying him for the ticket, but not on the lottery, I need it for today, today is a very strange day for me, I’m dreaming but what I dream seems to me to be real, and I have to meet certain people who exist only in my memory. Today is the last Sunday in July, said the Lame Lottery-Ticket Seller, the city is deserted, it must be forty degrees in the shade, I should think it’s the best day there is for meeting people who only exist in memories, your soul, I mean, your Unconscious is going to be kept very busy on a day like today, I wish you a good afternoon and good luck.

II

I’M TERRIBLY SORRY, said the Taxi Driver, but I don’t know where Rua das Pedras Negras is, could you give me some directions? He smiled a smile full of white teeth and went on: I’m from São Tomé, you see, I’ve only been working in Lisbon for a month and I don’t know the streets yet, in my own country I was an engineer but nothing needs engineering there, so here I am working as a taxi driver and I don’t even know the streets, I mean I know the city really well, I never get lost, it’s just that I don’t know the names of the streets. Oh, I said, it’s a street I know from twenty-five years back and I can’t remember how to get there either, though I know it’s near the castle. Let’s head in that direction then, said the Taxi Driver, smiling, and we set off.

Only then did I realise that I was sweating profusely. My shirt was drenched and it clung to my chest and back. I took off my jacket, but even then I went on sweating. Look, I said, perhaps you can help me, my shirt’s sopping wet, I need to buy a new one, can you suggest where I might go? The Taxi Driver braked and turned to me. Do you feel ill? he asked, a worried expression on his face. No, I replied, I don’t know, I mean I don’t think so, it must be the heat, the heat and some sort of anxiety attack, sometimes anxiety can make you sweat, anyway I need a clean shirt to put on. The man lit a cigarette and thought for a moment. Today’s Sunday, he said, the shops are all shut. I tried to wind down the window on my side, but the handle was broken. This fact only increased my anxiety, I could feel the sweat pouring from my head and a few drops fell onto my knees. The Taxi Driver was looking at me with real concern now. Then he said, I know, I’ve got a great idea, I’ll give you my shirt, if you don’t mind wearing it that is. You can’t do that, I said, you can’t drive around naked from the waist up. I’ve got a T-shirt on underneath, he replied, I can just wear that. But there must be somewhere in the whole of Lisbon where I can buy a shirt, I said, perhaps a shopping centre, a market, I don’t know. Carcavelos! exclaimed the Taxi Driver triumphantly, there must be a Sunday market in Carcavelos, that’s where I live, my wife goes shopping there every Sunday, or is it Thursday? I don’t know, I said, I’m not sure that’s a very good idea, there’s a beach at Carcavelos and today’s Sunday, it’ll be packed, it could be dreadful, can’t you think of anywhere here in Lisbon? The man struck his forehead with the palm of his hand. The gypsies! he exclaimed, I’d forgotten about the gypsies! He smiled his broad, candid smile again and said: Don’t you worry, my friend, you’ll get your shirt, I’ve just remembered that on Sundays the gypsies set up stalls at the entrance to the Cemitério dos Prazeres, they sell everything, shoes, socks, shirts, T-shirts, let’s try them, the only problem is I don’t know how to get there, I mean, I know vaguely where the Cemitério dos Prazeres is, but I don’t know which route to take, can you help me at all? Let’s see, I said, I’m a bit confused too, let’s review the situation, where are we now? We’re at Cais do Sodré, said the Taxi Driver, on the avenue, almost opposite the station. Right, I said, I think I know how to get there, but to start with let’s go up Rua do Alecrim, I’d like to drop in at the Brasileira to buy a bottle of wine. The Taxi Driver drove round the square and set off up Rua do Alecrim, he switched on the radio and gave me a sideways look. Are you sure you’re OK? he asked. I reassured him and leaned back in the seat. Now I really was bathed in sweat. I undid the top buttons of my shirt and rolled up the sleeves. I’ll wait here with the engine running, said the man, stopping on the corner of Largo Camões, but do be quick, because if a policeman turns up, he’ll move me on. I got out of the taxi. The Chiado was deserted apart from a woman, dressed in black and carrying a plastic bag, who was sitting at the foot of the statue of António Ribeiro Chiado. I went into the Brasileira and the barman gave me a mocking look, did you fall in the river? he asked. Worse than that, I said, I seem to have a river inside me, do you have any French champagne? Laurent-Perrier and Veuve Clicquot, he said, they’re both the same price and they’re nice and chilled. Which would you recommend? I asked. Look, he said, with the air of one who knows about such things, they’re always advertising Veuve Clicquot, to read the magazines you’d think it was the best champagne in the world, but I find it a touch acidic, besides I don’t like widows, I never have, anyway, if I were you, I’d buy the Laurent-Perrier, especially since, as I said, it’s exactly the same price. Fine, I said, I’ll take the Laurent-Perrier. The barman opened the fridge, wrapped the bottle up and put it in a plastic bag on which was written in red letters: “A Brasileira do Chiado, the oldest café in Lisbon”. I paid, went out into the sun again, still sweating like mad, and got into the taxi. Right, said the Taxi Driver, now you have to tell me the way. It’s easy, I said, drive into Largo Camões and where Silva’s the jeweller’s is, take the road going down, it’s called Calçada do Combro, then take Calçada da Estrela and when you reach Largo da Estrela, go up Domingos Sequeiros as far as Campo de Ourique, and then on the left you’ll find Saraiva de Carvalho which will take us straight to Largo do Cemitério dos Prazeres. You’ll have to tell me the streets one at a time, my friend, said the Taxi Driver pulling out, I’m sorry but you’ll have to be patient. I said, let me just close my eyes for a minute or two, I’m exhausted, look, it’s easy to remember: Calçada do Combro, Calçada da Estrela, Largo da Estrela, Domingos Sequeiros, Campo de Ourique, and when we get there I’ll tell you.

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