Antonio Tabucchi - Requiem - A Hallucination

I’d finally managed to open the window, but the air that entered was hot. I closed my eyes and thought about other things, about my childhood, I remembered how in summer I used to go on my bike to fetch cold water from the “Le Caroline” with a bottle and a straw basket. The car braked suddenly and I opened my eyes. The driver had got out of the taxi and was looking about him disconsolately. I’ve taken the wrong road, he said, look, I’ve come up the wrong road, we’re in Campo de Ourique, I took the road on the left as you said, but I don’t think it was Saraiva de Carvalho, I took another road and it’s one-way only, see what I mean? all the cars are parked facing in the other direction, I’ve come up a one-way street. It doesn’t matter, I said, the important thing is that you turned left, now we can just drive along this one-way street until we reach Largo dos Prazeres. The Taxi Driver placed his hand on his heart and said very gravely: I can’t, I’m sorry but I really can’t, I still haven’t sorted out my taxi licence and if a policeman sees me, he’ll slap a huge fine on me and then what will become of me? I’ll have to go back to São Tomé, that’s what, I’m sorry, but I really can’t do it. Look, I said, the city’s empty today, anyway, don’t worry, if a policeman stops us, I’ll talk to him, I’ll pay the fine, I’ll take full responsibility, I promise, please, I’m sweating like a pig here, I need a shirt, or even two shirts, please, you don’t want me to get ill here in this unknown street in Campo de Ourique, do you?

I didn’t mean to threaten him, I was being serious, but he clearly took my words as a threat, because he scrambled back into the taxi and drove off without a word of protest. If that’s what you want, he said, in a resigned voice, I don’t want you being ill in my taxi, I haven’t got my licence yet, you see, it would ruin me. We drove the wrong way down the length of the street which, for all I know, may well have been Saraiva de Carvalho itself, and came out in Largo dos Prazeres. The gypsies were right by the entrance to the cemetery, they’d set out a small market on wooden tables and blankets spread on the ground. I got out of the taxi and asked the driver to wait for me. The Largo was empty and the gypsies were stretched out asleep on the pavement. I went over to a table occupied by an old gypsy woman dressed all in black but for the yellow scarf on her head. On her table lay a pile of Lacoste polo shirts, perfect but for the absence of the crocodile. Excuse me, I said, I’d like to buy something. What’s wrong with you, my dear? asked the Old Gypsy Woman when she saw my shirt, have you got the fever or something? I don’t know what’s wrong with me, I replied, I’ve been sweating like mad and I need a clean shirt, possibly two. I’ll tell you what’s wrong with you in a minute, said the Old Gypsy Woman, but first, my dear, buy the shirts, you can’t go around like that, if you leave sweat to dry on your back it can make you ill. What do you think would be best, I asked, a shirt or a polo shirt? The Old Gypsy Woman appeared to think for a moment. Then she said, I’d advise you to buy a Lacoste polo shirt, they’re nice and cool, it’s five hundred escudos for a fake Lacoste and five hundred and twenty for a genuine one. My God, I said, a Lacoste shirt for five hundred and twenty escudos seems very cheap, but what’s the difference between a fake one and a genuine one? That’s easy, said the Old Gypsy Woman, if you want a genuine Lacoste shirt, you buy a fake one, which costs five hundred escudos , and then you buy a crocodile, which costs twenty escudos and is self-adhesive, you stick the crocodile on in the right place and there’s your genuine Lacoste shirt. She showed me a small bag full of crocodiles. What’s more, she said, for twenty escudos , my dear, I’ll give you four crocodiles, so that you’ll have three spare, because the trouble with these self-adhesive things is that they’re always coming unstuck. That seems very reasonable to me, I said, I’ll buy two genuine Lacostes then, which colour would you recommend? I like red and black best myself, she said, because they’re the gypsy colours, but black’s no good in this sun, besides you’re obviously rather delicate, and red’s too loud, you’re too old now for this colour red. I’m not that old, I protested, I can still wear bright colours. I’d go for the blue, said the Old Gypsy Woman, I think blue would be ideal for you and now, my dear, I’m going to tell you what’s wrong with you and why you’re sweating so much, look, for another two hundred escudos , I’ll tell you everything, what’s happening to you now and what else awaits you on this hot Sunday afternoon, wouldn’t you like to know your fate? The Old Gypsy Woman grabbed my left hand and looked hard at my palm. It’s rather complicated, my dear, said the Old Gypsy Woman, you’d best sit down here on this bench. I sat down, but she didn’t let go of my hand. Listen, my dear, she said, this can’t go on, you can’t live in two worlds at once, in the world of reality and the world of dreams, that kind of thing leads to hallucinations, you’re like a sleepwalker walking through a landscape with your arms outstretched, and everything you touch becomes part of your dream, even me, a fat old woman weighing one hundred seventy-five, I can feel myself dissolving into the air at the touch of your hand, as if I was becoming part of your dream too. What should I do? I asked, tell me. Right now, you can’t do anything, she replied, the day still awaits you and you can’t run away from it, you can’t escape your fate, it will be a day of tribulations but also a day of purification, afterwards, my dear, you may perhaps be able to feel at peace with yourself, at least I hope so. The Old Gypsy Woman lit a cigar and inhaled the smoke. Now give me your right hand, she said, so that I can finish my reading. She looked closely at my right hand and stroked the palm with her rough fingers. I see that you have to visit someone, she said, but the house you’re looking for exists only in your memory or in your dream, you can tell the taxi not to wait for you, the person you’re looking for is right here, on the other side of that gate. She pointed in the direction of the cemetery and said, off you go, my love, you have an appointment to keep. I thanked her and went over to the Taxi Driver. It looks like I’m going to stay here, I said, getting out my wallet to pay him, anyway, thanks very much, you’ve been really kind. Great polo shirts, said the Taxi Driver, looking at the two folded shirts under my arm, you made a good choice there. I paid him and picked up my jacket and the bottle of champagne. The Taxi Driver shook me energetically by the hand and gave me a card. My phone number, he said, if you ever need a taxi again, just phone, my wife will take the message, you can even book a taxi for the next day, if you want. The car drove off, but after only a few yards, reversed back towards me. You’re not still feeling ill, are you? the man asked from his window. No, I said, I’m better now, thanks. The Taxi Driver smiled and the car disappeared round the corner.

I went through the gate into the cemetery. There was no one there, just a cat strolling amongst the graves nearest the gate. To my right, at the entrance itself, right next to the gate, was a small lodge, the door was open. Excuse me, I said, can I come in? I closed my eyes to accustom them to the darkness, because the room lay in deep shadow. I managed to make out a few coffins piled one on top of the other, a vase of dried flowers and a table with a gravestone leaning against it. Come in, said a voice, and I saw that at the far end of the room, near a vast sideboard, sat a small man. He was wearing glasses and a grey overall and, on his head, a black cap with a plastic peak, like the ones worn by ticket collectors on trains. What can I do for you, sir? he asked, the cemetery’s closed, it’ll be open again soon, it’s lunch time now, I’m the cemetery keeper. Only then did I realise he was having his lunch. He was eating out of a small aluminium tin and was poised with his spoon in mid-air. I’m sorry, I said, I didn’t mean to disturb you, do forgive me. Would you care to join me? asked the Cemetery Keeper, carrying on eating. No, thank you, I said, enjoy your meal but, if you don’t mind, I’ll just wait here until you’ve finished, or I could wait outside if you’d rather. Feijoada , said the Cemetery Keeper as if he hadn’t heard me, every day it’s feijoada , my wife doesn’t know how to cook anything else. And then he went on: Certainly not, you wait here in the cool, you can’t wait out there in that heat, sit down, find somewhere to sit and sit down. That’s very kind of you, I said, would you mind if I changed my shirt too? I was drenched in sweat and so I bought two polo shirts from the gypsies. I placed the bottle of champagne on a coffin, took off my shirt and put on the “genuine Lacoste”. I was feeling better, I’d stopped sweating and the room was really cool. I first came here as a boy, said the Cemetery Keeper, fifty years ago now, and I’ve spent my life keeping watch over the dead. Really, I said. A silence fell between us. The man went on calmly eating his feijoada , from time to time taking off his glasses and putting them back on again. I can’t see a thing without my glasses, he said, or with them for that matter, everything’s blurred, the doctor says it’s a cataplasm. A cataract, I said, the word’s “cataract”. Well, cataract or cataplasm, it makes no difference, said the Cemetery Keeper, it comes to the same rotten thing. He took off his cap and scratched his head. What’s the idea of coming to the cemetery at this hour and in this heat? asked the Keeper, you must be mad. A friend of mine is here, I replied, the gypsy told me so, the gypsy selling polo shirts outside said I should look for him in here, he’s an old friend, we spent a lot of time together, we were like brothers, I’d like to pay him a visit, there’s a question I’d like to ask him. And do you think he’ll reply? said the Cemetery Keeper, the dead tend to be very silent, I should know, I know them. I’m going to try, I said, there’s something I’ve never understood, he died without explaining it to me. Something to do with women? asked the Cemetery Keeper. I didn’t reply and he went on: There’s always a woman somewhere in these stories. It wasn’t only that, I said, there may have been some malice involved, I don’t know how to explain, but I’d like to understand the reason for that malice, if that’s what it was. What was his name? asked the Cemetery Keeper. Tadeus, I said, Tadeus Waclaw. That’s some name, said the Keeper. He was the son of Polish parents, I explained, but he wasn’t Polish himself, he was well and truly Portuguese, he even chose a Portuguese pseudonym. And what did he do? asked the Keeper. Well, I said, he worked, but he was mainly a writer, he wrote some lovely things in Portuguese, well, lovely isn’t quite the word, the things he wrote were bitter, because he himself was full of pain and bitterness. The Cemetery Keeper pushed aside his lunch tin and got up, he went over to the vast sideboard and picked up a large book, like the registers teachers use in school. What’s his surname? he asked. Slowacki, I said, Tadeus Waclaw Slowacki. Is he buried under his real name or under his pseudonym? asked the Keeper, quite rightly in the circumstances. I don’t know, I replied, perplexed, but I think he was buried under his real name, that seems more logical to me. Silva, Silva, Silva, Silva, Silva, Silva … Slowacki, said the Keeper at last, here he is, Slowacki Tadeus Waclaw, first row on the right, no. 4664. The Keeper took off his glasses and smiled. It’s a reversible number, he said, did your friend like to joke? He did, I said, he spent his whole life playing jokes, he even played jokes on himself. I’m going to write that number down, said the Keeper, I like reversible numbers, I’m going to try it on the lottery, sometimes it’s odd finds like this that turn out to be really lucky.