Indian Nocturne

by Antonio Tabucchi

  IV

  ‘What are we doing inside these bodies,’ said the man who was preparing to stretch out in the bed next to mine.

  His voice didn’t have an interrogative tone, perhaps it was not a question, just a statement, made in his way; in any case it would have been a question I couldn’t have answered. The light that came from the station platforms was yellow and traced its thin shadow on the peeling walls, moving lightly across the room, prudently and discreetly I thought, the same way the Indians themselves move. From far away came a slow monotonous voice, a prayer perhaps, or a solitary, hopeless lament, the kind of cry that expresses nothing but itself, asks nothing of anyone. I found it impossible to make out any words. India was this too: a universe of flat sounds, undifferentiated, indistinguishable.

  ‘Perhaps we’re travelling in them,’ I said.

  Some time must have passed since his first comment, I had lost myself in distant thoughts: a few minutes’ sleep maybe. I was very tired.

  He said: ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I was referring to our bodies,’ I said. ‘Perhaps they’re like suitcases; we carry ourselves around.’

  Above the door was a blue nightlight, like the ones they have in night trains. Blending with the yellow light that came from the window it gave a pale-green, aquarium-like glow. I looked at him and in the greenish, almost funereal light, I saw the profile of a sharp face with a slightly aquiline nose. He had his hands on his chest.

  ‘Do you know Mantegna?’ I asked. My question was absurd too, but certainly no less so than his.

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘is he Indian?’

  ‘Italian,’ I said.

  ‘I only know the English,’ he said, ‘the only Europeans I know are English.’

  The distant cry picked up again and with greater intensity; it was really shrill now. For a moment I thought it might be a jackal.

  ‘An animal?’ I said. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I thought he might be a friend of yours,’ he replied softly.

  ‘No, no,’ I said, ‘I meant the voice coming from outside – Mantegna is a painter, but I never knew him, he’s been dead a few hundred years.’

  The man breathed deeply. He was dressed in white, but he wasn’t a Moslem, that much I had understood. ‘I’ve been to England,’ he said, ‘but I used to speak French too, if you prefer we can speak French.’ His voice was completely neutral, as if he were making a statement across the counter in a government office; and this, I don’t know why, disturbed me. ‘It’s a Jain,’ he said after a few seconds, ‘he’s lamenting the evil of the world.’

  I said: ‘Oh, right,’ because now I’d realised he was talking about the wailing in the distance.

  ‘There aren’t many Jains in Bombay,’ he said then, with the tone of someone explaining something to a tourist. ‘In the south, yes, there are still a lot. As a religion it’s very beautiful and very stupid.’ He said this without any sign of contempt, still speaking in the neutral tone of someone giving evidence.

  ‘What are you?’ I asked. ‘If you’ll forgive my indiscretion.’

  ‘I’m a Jain,’ he said.

  The station clock struck midnight. The distant wail suddenly stopped, as if the wailer had been waiting for the hour to strike. ‘Another day has begun,’ said the man, ‘from this moment it’s another day.’

  I said nothing, his assertions didn’t exactly encourage conversation. A few minutes went by; I had the impression that the platform lights had grown dimmer. My companion’s breathing had slowed, with pauses between each breath, as if he were sleeping. When he spoke again I started. ‘I’m going to Varanasi,’ he said, ‘what about yourself?’

  ‘To Madras,’ I said.

  ‘Madras,’ he repeated, ‘oh yes.’

  ‘I want to see the place where it’s said the Apostle Thomas was martyred; the Portuguese built a church there in the sixteenth century, I don’t know what’s left of it. And then I have to go to Goa, I’m going to do some work in an old library – that’s why I came to India.’

  ‘Is it a pilgrimage?’ he asked.

  I said no. Or rather, yes, but not in the religious sense of the word. If anything, it was a private journey, how could I put it, I was only looking for clues.

  ‘You’re a Catholic, I suppose,’ said my companion.

  ‘All Europeans are Catholics, in a way,’ I said. ‘Or Christians anyway, which is practically the same thing.’

  The man repeated the adverb I’d used as if he were savouring it. His English was very elegant, with little pauses and the conjunctions slightly drawled and hesitant, the way people speak in certain universities I realised. ‘Practically . . . Actually,’ he said, ‘what strange words. I heard them so many times in England, you Europeans often use these words.’ He paused a moment longer than usual, but I was aware that he hadn’t finished what he was saying. ‘I never managed to establish whether out of pessimism or optimism,’ he went on. ‘What do you think?’

  I asked him if he could explain himself better.

  ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘it’s difficult to explain more clearly. Yes, sometimes I ask myself if it’s a word which indicates arrogance, or whether on the contrary it merely signifies cynicism. And a great deal of fear as well, perhaps. You follow me?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘It isn’t that simple. But perhaps the word “practically” means practically nothing.’

  My companion laughed. It was the first time he had laughed. ‘You are very clever,’ he said, ‘you got the better of me and at the same time you proved me right, practically.’

  I laughed too, and then said at once: ‘However, in my case it is practically fear.’

  We fell silent for a while, then my companion asked if he could smoke. He rummaged in a bag he had near the bed and the room filled with the aroma of one of those small, scented Indian cigarettes made from a single leaf of tobacco.

  ‘I read the gospels once,’ he said. ‘It’s a very strange book.’

  ‘Only strange?’ I asked.

  He hesitated. ‘Full of arrogance too,’ he said. ‘No offence meant you understand.’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t quite see what you mean,’ I said.

  ‘I was referring to Christ,’ he said.

  The station clock struck half-past midnight. I felt sleep getting the better of me. From the park beyond the platforms came the cawing of crows. ‘Varanasi is Benares,’ I said. ‘It’s a holy city. Are you going on a pilgrimage too?’

  My companion stubbed out his cigarette and coughed lightly. ‘I’m going there to die,’ he said, ‘I have only a few days left to live.’ He arranged his cushion under his head. ‘But perhaps it would be wise to sleep,’ he went on. ‘We don’t have many hours to rest – my train leaves at five.’

  ‘Mine leaves just a little later,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry,’ he said, ‘the attendant will come and wake you up in time. I don’t suppose we shall have occasion to see each other again in the form in which we meet today, these present suitcases of ours. I wish you a pleasant journey.’

  ‘A pleasant journey to you too,’ I answered.

  V

  My guidebook maintained that the best restaurant in Madras was the Mysore Restaurant in the Coromandel, and I was most curious to check it out. In the boutique on the ground floor I bought a white shirt, Indian style, and a pair of smart trousers. I went up to my room and took a long bath to wash away the grime of the journey. The rooms in the Coromandel are furnished in imitation colonial style, but in good taste. My room was at the back of the building and looked out over a yellowish clearing surrounded by wild vegetation. It was a huge room, with two large beds covered with two quite beautiful counterpanes. At the far end, near the window, was a writing table with a central drawer and then three drawers at each side. It was by pure chance that I chose the bottom drawer on the right to put my papers in.

  I ended up going down much later than I would have liked, but in any case the Mysore stayed open till
midnight. The restaurant had French windows opening onto the swimming pool and small round tables in booths of green-lacquered bamboo. The lights on the tables had blue shades and there was a great deal of atmosphere. A musician on a red-upholstered dais entertained the diners with some very discreet music. The waiter led me through the tables and was most helpful when it came to advising me what to eat. I treated myself to three dishes and drank fresh mango juice. The customers were almost all Indians, but at the table nearest mine were two Englishmen who had a professional look about them and talked about Dravidian art. They kept up a very pretentious, knowledgeable conversation, and for the duration of my meal I amused myself by checking in my guidebook to see if the information they were giving each other was correct. Occasionally one of them got a date wrong, but the other didn’t seem to notice. Conversations you overhear by chance are curious: I would have said they were old university colleagues, and only when they agreed not to take tomorrow’s flight for Colombo did I realise that they had only met that day. Going out I was tempted to stop in the English Bar in the lobby, but then I reflected that my tiredness had no need of alcoholic assistance and I went up to my room.

  When the telephone rang I was cleaning my teeth. For a moment I thought it might be the Theosophical Society, since they had promised they would confirm by phone, but moving to pick it up I rejected that hypothesis, given the time. Then it crossed my mind that before dinner I had mentioned in reception that one of the bathroom taps wasn’t working properly. And in fact it was reception. ‘Excuse me, sir, there’s a lady who wishes to speak to you.’

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ I answered with my toothbrush between my teeth.

  ‘There’s a lady who wishes to speak to you,’ the receptionist repeated. I heard the click of a switch and a low, firm female voice said: ‘I am the person who had your room before you, I’ve absolutely got to speak to you. I’m in the lobby.’

  ‘If you give me five minutes I’ll meet you in the English Bar,’ I said. ‘It should still be open.’

  ‘I’d prefer to come up myself,’ she said, without giving me time to reply, ‘it’s a matter of the utmost importance.’

  When she knocked I had scarcely finished getting dressed again. I told her the door was unlocked and she opened it, stopping a moment in the doorway to look at me. The light in the corridor was dim. All I could see was that she was tall and wore a silk scarf round her shoulders. She came in, closing the door after her. I was sitting on an armchair in the full light and I got up. I didn’t say anything, waiting. And in fact it was she who spoke first. She spoke without advancing into the room, in the same low, firm voice she’d had on the telephone. ‘Please forgive this intrusion. You must think me incredibly rude – unfortunately there are circumstances when one can hardly be otherwise.’

  ‘Listen,’ I said, ‘India is mysterious by definition, but puzzles are not my forte. Spare me any pointless effort.’

  She looked at me with a show of surprise. ‘It’s simply that I left some things that belong to me in the room,’ she said calmly. ‘I’ve come to get them.’

  ‘I thought you’d be back,’ I said, ‘but frankly I didn’t expect you so soon, or rather, so late.’

  The woman watched me with increasing amazement. ‘What do you mean?’ she muttered.

  ‘That you are a thief,’ I said.

  The woman looked toward the window and took the silk scarf from her shoulders. She was beautiful, I thought, unless perhaps it was the light filtered through the lampshade that gave her face a distant, aristocratic look. She wasn’t so young any more yet her body was very graceful.

  ‘You are very categoric,’ she said. She passed a hand across her face, as if wanting to brush away her tiredness, or a thought. Her shoulders trembled in a brief shiver. ‘What does it mean, to steal?’ she asked.

  The silence fell between us and I caught the exasperating sound of the dripping tap. ‘I called before dinner,’ I said, ‘and they assured me they’d fix it right away. It’s a noise I can’t stand; I’m afraid it won’t help me to get to sleep.’

  She smiled. She was leaning on the rattan chest of drawers, an arm hanging down her side as though she were very tired. ‘I think you’ll have to get used to it,’ she said. ‘I was here a week and I asked them to fix it dozens of times, then I gave up.’ She paused a moment. ‘Are you French?’

  ‘No,’ I answered.

  She looked at me with a defeated air. ‘I came in a taxi from Madurai,’ she said. ‘I’ve been travelling all day.’ She wiped her forehead with her silk scarf as if it were a handkerchief. For a moment her face took on what looked like a desperate expression. ‘India is horrible,’ she said, ‘and the roads are hell.’

  ‘Madurai is a very long way,’ I came back. ‘Why Madurai?’

  ‘I was going to Trivandrum, then from there I would have gone to Colombo.’

  ‘But Madras has a flight to Colombo too,’ I objected.

  ‘I didn’t want to take that one,’ she said. ‘I had my reasons. It won’t be difficult for you to work them out.’ She made a tired gesture. ‘Anyhow, I’ll have missed it by now.’

  She gave me a questioning look and I said: ‘It’s all there where you left it in the bottom drawer on the right.’

  The writing table was behind her; it was made of bamboo with brass corners and had a large mirror above in which I could see the reflection of her naked shoulders. She opened the drawer and took the bundles of documents held together by an elastic band.

  ‘It’s too stupid,’ she said. ‘One does something like this and then forgets everything in a drawer. I kept it in the hotel safe for a week and then I left it here while I was packing.’

  She looked at me as if waiting for me to agree.

  ‘Yes, it is pretty stupid,’ I said. ‘The transfer of all that money was an operation of high-class fraud, and then you go and make such a dumb mistake.’

  ‘Perhaps I was too nervous,’ she said.

  ‘Or too busy getting revenge,’ I added. ‘Your letter was remarkable, a ferocious vendetta, and he can’t do anything about it, if you make it in time. It’s just a question of time.’

  Her eyes flickered, looking at me in the mirror. Then she turned suddenly, quivering, her neck tense. ‘You read my letter as well!’ she exclaimed with contempt.

  ‘I even copied part of it out,’ I said.

  She looked at me with amazement, or with fear perhaps. ‘Copied it,’ she muttered. ‘Why?’

  ‘Only the last part,’ I said, ‘I’m sorry, I couldn’t help it. And anyway, I don’t even know who it was to. All I understood was that he’s a man who must have made you suffer a great deal.’

  ‘He was too rich,’ she said. ‘He thought he could buy everything, people included.’ Then she made a nervous gesture, indicating herself, and I understood.

  ‘Listen, I think I see more or less how it was. You didn’t exist for years, you were always just an empty name, until one day you decided to give a reality to the name. And that reality is you. But I know only the name you signed with; it’s a very common name and I have no desire to know anything else.’

  ‘Right,’ she said, ‘the world is full of Margarets.’

  She moved away from the writing table and went to sit on the stool by the dressing table. She put her elbows on her knees and her face in her hands. She sat a long time like that, without saying anything, hiding her face.

  ‘What do you plan to do?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she answered. ‘I’m very frightened. I must get to that bank in Colombo tomorrow, otherwise all that money’s going to go down the drain.’

  ‘Listen a moment,’ I said, ‘it’s late. You can’t go to Trivandrum now, and anyway you wouldn’t get there in time for the plane tomorrow. Tomorrow morning there’s a plane for Colombo from here; you’re lucky because if you turn up early you’ll get a seat, and according to the register you’ve already left the hotel.’

  She looked at me as if she didn’t understa
nd. She looked at me a long time, intensely, weighing me up.

  ‘As far as I’m concerned you really have gone,’ I added, ‘and there are two comfortable beds in this room.’

  She seemed to relax. She crossed her legs and sketched a smile. ‘Why are you doing this?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Perhaps I feel sympathetic toward people on the run. And then, I stole something from you too.’

  ‘I left my case at reception,’ she said.

  ‘Perhaps it would be wise to leave it there and pick it up tomorrow morning. I can lend you some pyjamas: we are almost the same size.’

  She laughed. ‘That only leaves the problem of the tap,’ she said.

  I laughed too. ‘But you’re used to it by now, I gather. The problem is all mine.’

  VI

  ‘Le corps humain pourrait bien n’être qu’une apparence,’ he said. ‘Il cache notre réalité, il s’épaissit sur notre lumière ou sur notre ombre.’

  He raised his hand and made a vague gesture. He was wearing a large white tunic and the sleeve rose and fell on his thin wrist. ‘Oh, but that isn’t theosophy. Victor Hugo, Les Travailleurs de la Mer.’ He smiled and poured me something to drink. He raised his glass full of water as if making a toast.

  To what? I thought. And then I lifted my glass too and said: ‘To light and shadow.’

  He smiled again. ‘Please do excuse me for this very frugal meal,’ he said, ‘but it was the only way to talk without being too hurried after your brief afternoon visit. I’m sorry that my prior engagements didn’t allow me to receive you at greater leisure.’