For Isabel

by Antonio Tabucchi

  At this point, we were the only two left at the bar. The music started again, and the waiter brought over the absinthe. Tecs lit a long ivory pipe and took a couple of puffs. An Indian chief gave me this, she said, it’s a good-luck pipe, the Indian was from the Arapaho tribe, near Arkansas, he told me to smoke it at difficult times. “Everything Happens to Me” started playing again. And just when the saxophone broke into an expansive phrase, Tecs grabbed my hand and said: his name was Almeida, Mr. Almeida. Good lord, I said, Portugal’s full of Almeidas. Tecs gave me an encouraging smile. An Almeida from Cape Verde who was a prison guard at Caxias many years ago, she whispered, if he’s still alive, it won’t be that hard to track him down – you know your way around the municipal archives.

  I asked her if we could let the record finish. By now I wanted to hear the song to the end. Tecs raised her glass of absinthe and invited me to toast. I had a few drops left. What should we drink to? she asked. To Sonny Rollins, I said, he deserves it. To Sonny, she said. And then she added: and to your search.

  Fourth Circle. Uncle Tom. Reboleira. Restoration.

  I looked around. The bus was practically empty. Near the exit stood two black youths, their hair in corn rows, in front of me was an old woman with a shopping bag, on the long back seat, an unassuming man. I got up and walked toward the driver. A sign read: no talking to the driver. He was a very small Cape Verdean, his face indifferent. I told him I was going to Reboleira and I wanted to know the stop. He made a sound with his lips, a slight whistle. It’s the end of the line, he answered, staring straight ahead, everyone gets off, Reboleira’s the end of the line, and that’s it.

  I was the last to get off. Before me was a circular area filled with weeds, and at the center, some sort of enormous granite ball that must have been a monument to something or someone. Nearby stood a large metal plaque with the words, Welcome to Reboleira, and a map of the area, with streets and places marked. I tried to get my bearings. Rua Cabo Verde, Rua Angola, Rua. S. Tomé, Rua Moçambique. Four plain buildings facing each other, unpaved roads and squalid spaces, I turned right, walked along a narrow path bordered by struggling trees, you could tell there was no drainage or other infrastructure, at last I found Rua S. Tomé. I looked for number twenty-three; as usual, there weren’t any names by the buzzer, you had to remember the floor, the sixth to the left, or the sixth to the right? I just picked one, a thick voice answered, with a slight African accent that muddied the vowels. It’s Slowacki, I said, and he said: this is Almeida, come on up, sixth floor, right side, there’s no elevator.

  The door opened to a fat, old African woman with thinning hair. I stepped inside and found myself in a very small dining room, dirty dishes piled up on a round table. In the corner, a girl of about fifteen was ironing a great heap of laundry. My granddaughter, Maria Osita, the woman said, make yourself comfortable, my husband will be in shortly. She had me sit down on a chair facing the dirty dishes. In front of me, on the otherwise bare wall, hung a colored print of an island with a volcano.

  A man walked in, looking half-asleep, white hair rumpled. A black man, about sixty years old, with surprisingly pale eyes, almost the eyes of an albino, he was thin, in an undershirt, but his belly was swollen like a watermelon. Pleased to meet you, he said, I’m Joaquim Francisco Tomaz de Almedia, but you can call me Tom, actually, Uncle Tom, if you prefer, that’s what everyone calls me. Speaking in Creole, he had the two women leave, I didn’t really understand, but he clearly didn’t want them underfoot. Then he went to the cupboard and took down a bottle and two shot glasses. Cachaça, he said, made in my country. I tried to decline, but he wouldn’t hear of it. I took a sip; my mouth was on fire. Listen, Mr. Almeida, I said, I want to know everything. He stared at me with his pale eyes, poured himself another drink, and gulped it down. What everything? he asked. Everything, I said. Everything is nothing, he answered spreading his arms wide. If everything is nothing, then I want to know this everything that’s nothing, I answered, how she died, why she swallowed glass, who turned her in, you know, you guarded her for a week at Caxias, you could talk with her, you know everything about Isabel.

  He took another shot. Everything is nothing, he repeated. Mr. Almeida, you’re getting drunk, I said, you’re getting drunk. He lit a cigarillo. Better that way, he said, that way, there’s no more fear. Fear of what? I said, listen, Mr. Almeida, I’ve come a long way to find out, because a friend of mine urged me to find out, and at this point, the truth is burning inside me, I have to know the truth before going back such a long distance: did Isabel kill herself because someone turned her in, and if this is why, then how’d she die, and when, and how, I want to know the truth, you mustn’t fear the truth, so much time has passed, this country’s changed, no one can hurt you now, tell me everything. He stared at the ceiling and murmured: everything is nothing.

  I slammed my fist down on the table, and the glasses rattled. Enough! I said, enough, Mr. Almeida, or Uncle Tom, if you prefer, most of all, I want to know what made Isabel commit suicide – what were her motives – were they personal or political? I didn’t know her personal motives, he answered calmly, the young lady never spoke to me of personal motives. Damn it, I said, trying to contain myself, you were her guard, you must have had a chance to look at her, you must have noticed if she was pregnant – if her belly was swollen – you had eyes, didn’t you, to see her belly! Mr. Almedia stroked his eyebrows. These eyes saw nothing, he responded, serenely. Of course, I said, because nothing is everything and everything is nothing, but I’m told Isabel was pregnant, that’s what I heard from one of her friends. He drank another shot and said in Creole: good cachaça. Then he put his hand over his heart and whispered: the young lady was not pregnant, this I can swear to. That surprises me, I said, but anything’s possible; with Isabel, anything was possible, and so, Mr. Almeida, why did she swallow glass?

  The man’s wife opened the door and peeked in. Mr. Almeida waved her off without a word, and she promptly retreated. We both fell silent. Mr. Almeida relit his cigarillo that had gone out and murmured: it’s all a big scam, dear sir, a big scam. And I gathered my courage and took another sip of cachaça. Tell me about this scam, Mr. Almeida, please, you’re the only one who can tell me about this scam. The old man stood up and went and locked the door to the hallway, he inhaled and blew out two concentric smoke rings, which he stared at as if they were the most important thing in the world. The young lady never ate glass, he murmured, she didn’t die in prison, that’s just what everyone believes, but the truth’s something different.

  On impulse, I placed my hand on his and squeezed. If you know what the truth is, I said, Mr. Almeida, or Uncle Tom, if you prefer, then please tell me, nothing bad will happen to you. Mr. Almeida stepped over to the window and looked out. The glass was wet with rain. It was drizzling. Sometimes in the afternoon I stand at this window and look at the street, he murmured so I could barely hear, and I watch the dogs, this area’s full of stray dogs, you might not understand, my friend, but these dogs tie me to Cape Verde more than anyone I know, because Cape Verde’s full of stray dogs, too, and they’re usually yellow dogs, just like in Reboleira, and then I start thinking about what it is that ties this country to Cape Verde, and I’ve come to believe it’s the stray dogs, the yellow dogs, because, really, I don’t have anyone left in Cape Verde, my whole family is dead, I have a cousin who’s a government official, but he doesn’t want to know about someone like me, a guard in a political prison during fascism, he won’t even say hello, he’s an asshole, he has no idea what I did for democracy in this country and in his country, how many times I risked my life, that idiot doesn’t understand a thing: he’s an official. And what about you? I argued, haven’t you been an official your entire life as well? Yes, he murmured, but consider in what capacity, you know, dear sir, at times the prisoners arrived beaten to a pulp, because the PIDE had scooped them up, and they meant business, after the infirmary, prisoners went into the cells with their faces bruised, their lungs swollen from the
beatings, and then I, Uncle Tom, looked after them, made them coffee, iced their injuries, and they confided in me, gave me letters for their families that I mailed at the main post office, things like that, I helped them, I did everything I could, because I knew what my brothers in Cape Verde were suffering to be free, they were suffering the exact same things, and then one evening, Miss Isabel arrived.

  Uncle Tom paused. She didn’t have any identification, he went on, and she said her name was Magda. They beat her during her interrogation, and the secret police had already struck her in the car, her face was swollen and she had bags under her eyes, who knows why she felt like my daughter, a Cape Verdean like me, is it strange what I’m saying? – a true Cape Verdean like me, even though she was blond.

  Mr. Almeida grew quiet, he opened the window, leaned out, looked below, and tossed out his cigarillo butt. That’s how the scam started, he added, but to be honest, I have to admit I was also paid, no, really, I did it because they paid me, I mean, it wasn’t for ideological reasons, basically, I needed a little cash, my wife had given birth to our fourth child, and you know, dear sir, with what they pay a prison guard, I couldn’t support a family of seven, including my mother, like I needed to. At least to keep food on the table. You probably know Cape Verde’s national dish is cachupa, made with hominy, beans, cassava root, and beef or pork, and this is rich cachupa, but we only ate poor cachupa, with corn and a slice of blood sausage, so when they offered me that money, I thought: why not provide my family with a nice rich cachupa for a few months? And so I accepted, and got involved in the scam. Mr. Almeida, I said, this is the third time you’ve mentioned a scam, would you mind telling me what this scam was?

  Mr. Almeida returned to his seat and lit another cigarillo. His hands were trembling slightly. I realized he was nervous. You want a little cachaça? he asked. No thanks, I said. He puffed on his cigarillo and stared me in the eye, as if this secret compromised his integrity, and whispered: a simple scam, a scam, but it wound up all right in the end. And before I had a chance to respond he continued: so this is what happened, it was January, I think it was January anyway, it was cold, and that morning they brought in a female student they’d arrested at the university, there’d been a lot of student protests that week, and the police were arresting anyone they could get their hands on, they weren’t recording these arrests either, just throwing them into Caxias without questioning them or anything; in the afternoon, that girl broke a bottle and swallowed glass to kill herself, she was desperate, fragile, she’d been beaten and humiliated, I was advised and received my orders, I sounded the alarm and they came for the dead girl – it was a real mess – the authorities were afraid this would get out abroad, I opened Miss Isabel’s cell and handed her an overcoat, I told her to say she was the sister of the dead girl, she knelt down by the girl on a stretcher like there was nothing to it and said she wanted to accompany her sister to Santa Maria Hospital, and you might not believe it, but no one paid any attention, they just quietly let her go, the warden wasn’t there, the deputy warden was an idiot, I can’t tell you how frightened he was, Miss Isabel climbed into the ambulance with her supposed sister, and at the emergency room, she calmly got out of the ambulance and went on her way like it was nothing, that’s it, that was the scam.

  Mr. Almeida’s forehead was beaded with sweat. He’d given me his life’s confession, and his eyes begged me to understand. And I understood. I completely understood this old Cape Verdean who, in his own democratic way, had entered into a scam, as he put it, so he could eat a rich cachupa with his family. Maybe it was the biggest secret of his entire life, and he’d confided it to me. I was moved, I took a tissue from my jacket and held it out to him. He dried his forehead and whispered: was there anything else you wanted to know, my friend?

  I looked at him and poured myself a little more cachaça, so he’d trust me. Sure, I answered, I’d like to know who gave you the orders. The Organization, was all he said. I’m sure The Organization had a face, I said, someone, I’d like to know who. Mr. Almeida scratched his head. Do I really have to tell you? he asked. If you would, I said, it’s essential, truly essential. Mr. Almeida scratched his head again. I’m not sure I should tell you, he confessed, but at this point, so much time has passed, this country’s changed, so much time has passed. So tell me, I said. And Mr. Almeida, in what seemed a moment of decision, smashed his cigarillo out on a dirty plate. It was Mr. Tiago, he said, enunciating each word. And who was Mr. Tiago? I asked, where can I find him? I don’t know his last name, Mr. Almeida answered, I do know he had a photography studio in Praça das Flores, he was a famous photographer, even known internationally, he photographed Alentejo, and his books were published in France, like I said, he had a studio in Praça das Flores. All right, I answered, and if he’s not there now – if I can’t find him? That’s easy, Mr. Almeida said, just ask at the butcher shop on the corner, the butcher there knew him extremely well, and I’m pretty sure he’ll know how to track him down, that butcher knows me, too, because once in a while I’ll go and buy some meat for a rich cachupa, but we can’t allow ourselves a rich cachupa very often, you know.

  I looked at him, and he looked at me. I suppose our conversation is over, he said. I suppose it is, I answered, you know, Mr. Almeida, sometimes you sound like you’re British. I can’t say I know the British, he said, I’m just a Cape Verdean, or at least I was, I’m not even sure what I am anymore, I live here in the outskirts, you know, I’m most familiar with the outskirts.

  I got to my feet and headed for the door. Mr. Almeida shook my hand. I stepped onto the landing and he followed me out. Goodbye, Mr. Almeida, I told him, as I took the first stair. Goodbye, he said, but I’d rather be called Uncle Tom, the mailman’s the only one who calls me Mr. Almeida. Think of me as your mailman, I said, going down the stairs, but don’t worry, I won’t ring your buzzer a second time. He leaned over the railing and called in a low voice: you mustn’t think I’m a communist, that would be a mistake, I did it for rich cachupa. But that girl was nice.

  I reached that circle filled with weeds and looked around. Not even the shadow of a taxi. And why would there be one available in Reboleira? The bus I’d taken was still at the stop. A note on the dashboard read: next departure, eight o’clock. The doors were open. I climbed on board and resigned myself to the wait. It was only an hour.

  Fifth Circle. Tiago. Lisbon. Image.

  The tram stopped right in front of the Cister Pastry Shop. I took the opportunity to get myself a coffee. The server greeted me like he knew me. Maybe I knew him, too; I couldn’t remember. I smiled and nodded and left him a tip of fifty escudos, then walked along Rua da Escola Politécnica, toward Monte Olivete. It’s a cobblestone street with a sharp downward slope, a slippery street, and it was drizzling. I raised the collar of my jacket and continued downhill. I walked past the British Institute, pink and white, with its brick spires, I remembered that one of my girlfriends taught there, a sloppy girl, a bit careless but a wonder in bed, and she’d make us picnic baskets that were out of this world. Back then, you’d go to the Fonte da Telha beach, and no one was there, just the fishermen and their dogs, old yellow or rust-colored dogs. They reminded me of Mr. Almeida’s dogs.

  Praça das Flores was deserted. In front of a fancy restaurant – the kind with a bell you had to ring to get inside the door – a Mercedes pulled up and out stepped a man in blue and a lady in pink. I just hoped the butcher’s was still open. It was still open. In that area, stores closed late. The butcher was wrapping a leg of lamb up in thin paper. I decided to take a chance and said in Spanish: hola, buenas tardes. The man looked at me, puzzled. He might not speak Spanish, but surely he understood it. He had a ruddy, jowly face that suited a butcher, with blue capillaries spreading over his nose. He probably ate a lot of meat. He put the leg of lamb in the refrigerator and asked me how he could be of service. Some information, I said in my bad Spanish, a simple piece of information, I’m just looking for Mr. Tiago. The butcher regarded me with a s
erious expression that turned to puzzlement, and then he forced himself in poor Spanish: y quién es? What do you mean? I said, pretending to be credulous, you know very well who he is, he’s the famous photographer who had a studio around here some years back, Mr. Tiago, the photographer. He started slicing up a miniature ham and said meditatively, almost to himself: I’m taking this home for dinner, it’s from Chaves, do you like ham? I obliged him by accepting a small piece, and found it quite delicious. But maybe a little spicy for my taste, too much paprika; in Spain, I said, we cure our ham beneath the snow, mountain ham, of course. Beneath the snow? he said, I’ve never heard of such a thing, we have snow here in the winter, too, at least up in the Serra da Estrela mountains, up north, but we never bury our ham beneath the snow, but excuse me, why do you want to find Mr. Tiago? I had a sudden inspiration. Because I’m a journalist from País, I said, and I want some photos, we’re putting together a large feature story, in Spain. He stared at me and set his elbows on the marble countertop. I don’t understand, he said evenly. El País, I repeated, haven’t you heard of the paper El País, it’s the most important newspaper on the Iberian peninsula. The butcher stared at me with eyes, which, at that moment, truly seemed bovine. I don’t know that paper, he said, sounding annoyed, I use newspapers to wrap up meat.