For Isabel

by Antonio Tabucchi

  The situation was growing difficult. I didn’t know what else I could say. Stalling, I asked: could I have another piece of ham? He held it out to me on a spatula, and said, well?, in a definitive manner. And right then, I had another inspiration, the kind that comes from the gods; savoring the ham in my mouth, I whispered: you know who sent me? Well, it was Mr. Almeida – or, if you prefer – Uncle Tom. And the butcher broke into a grin. Uncle Tom, he said, that poor bastard, Uncle Tom. He dried his hands on his white apron and said: why didn’t you say so? Mr. Tiago moved to Rua Dom Pedro Quinto, with a view of Belvedere di S. Pedro de Alcântara, on the door, you’ll find a brass plaque – he can afford one at this point – and it will read: World and Photography.

  The plaque on the door was discreet, with the words World & Photo. I rang the bell, and the front door opened at once. The foyer seemed to be in the Manueline style, with stone vaults and a cloister of eighteenth-century azulejos. It felt like I was in the home of some painter I knew. But I was there for something important, not to dine with friends. A secretary met me, her short skirt revealing a pair of chubby legs, and she asked me what I wanted. All I said was I wanted Mr. Tiago. She asked for my name. All I said was: Slowacki. The secretary had me wait in a small, tastefully furnished parlor with photographs on the walls that I didn’t bother to look at. She told me Mr. Tiago would be busy for about another fifteen minutes with some fashion photos. I sat down, lit a cigarette, and started reading a news magazine.

  Perhaps Tiago was my age, or perhaps he was a few years younger, it was hard to tell. He had a buzz cut and wore a linen jacket and an Indian foulard around his neck. He was extremely elegant, smoking a cigarette in a long ivory holder.

  Good afternoon, he said, were you sent by the agency? I told him no. Sorry, he said, I was expecting a critic from an agency, someone to review my show. I put out my cigarette and stood up. No, I answered, I’m here on private business, regarding someone you met a long time ago. He looked puzzled but unfazed. Come into my studio, he said, we can speak more freely there.

  He led me down a hallway that opened out to a balcony, which looked out over an enormous space with very high ceilings and granite columns. It seemed like a convent refectory, and maybe it really was at one time. We went down a small, metal staircase painted green, and he had me sit on a couch adjacent to another, at the center of this large space. All around us were tripods and cameras, backdrops of various colors, white umbrella lights. The walls were covered in small color photos I couldn’t quite make out.

  Well? he said and crossed his legs as he sat on the couch. Well, I said, I’m here for Isabel. He looked confused, then his expression grew more ironic. He untied the foulard around his neck and draped it over the armrest. Isabel, he said, musing, Isabel, my dear sir, I’ve known dozens of Isabels in my life, it’s such a common name in Portugal, what Isabel do you mean – an actress, a model, or something else? Or something else, I answered. Perhaps you could explain a bit more, he said. I put on a patient look and said, I’ll thoroughly explain so you can thoroughly understand, Mr. Tiago: this Isabel went by Magda, but that was only a code name, and I think you very well know both her name and her code name, let’s just say she was Isabel known as Magda, the same name as another who may or may not figure into this story, now do you have something to say? His ironic expression turned back to confusion. Could you explain a bit more? he said. All right, I went on, I’ll explain a bit more: many years ago, you might say, about thirty years ago, Isabel known as Magda wound up in the Caxias political prison, and you, Mr. Tiago, were in The Organization, I’m not sure if it was the underground Communist Party, or a different underground party, seeing how all parties during Salazar’s dictatorship were underground, and you, well, you, Mr. Tiago, you had Isabel escape prison posing as someone else, Isabel arrived at Santa Maria Hospital and you had all trace of her disappear, but you know where those traces lead, you know something, and I want to know it, too.

  The photographer shifted positions and lit another cigarette in his long ivory holder. He seemed uneasy. Silent, he eyed me from head to toe. And then he said: are you a journalist? I allowed myself a chuckle. Though I didn’t want to be sarcastic, his question somehow invited sarcasm, and so I told him: you couldn’t be further from the truth, Mr. Tiago, I assure you, your guess is completely off-track, death is a curve in the road, to die is simply not to be seen. Then why? he asked, even more perplexed, to what end? To make concentric circles, I said, to finally reach the center. I don’t understand, he said. I’m working with colored dust, I answered, a yellow ring, a blue ring, like the Tibetan practice, and meanwhile, the circle is tightening toward the center, and I’m trying to reach that center. To what end? he asked. I lit a cigarette as well. It’s simple, I answered, to reach consciousness, you photograph reality: you must know what consciousness is.

  The photographer went over to what seemed to be a storage shelf. He rummaged in a box a while, then returned with some photos and held one out to me. Take a look at this picture, he said, a photo’s something that watches us, pursues us, maybe; look at this baby sitting on a blanket, a bow in his hair – that’s me. He paused. Now I ask myself, is this who I am? Is this who I was? Who I’ve been? Who was this I that I now say is Tiago and is with me every day? He held out another photo. A more recent picture this time, of a boy and girl. He smiled pensively and said, look at these two on their little bike, the girl in back is hugging the boy and leaning forward, smiling innocently for the camera, I took this picture years ago, and these were my children, and I ask myself, are they still my children? That’s not possible, I tell you, and I’d like to do a better job of documenting what was, but what was? He paused again, then said: if you only realized how tricky photography becomes when it’s studied by philosophers! – yet I am a photographer, I tell myself in moments of pride, and I, too, no, I especially have a right to my opinion, though I can’t seem to manage one, because photography surpasses me, is beyond me, and then I think: do the photographs of a lifetime represent time divided among several people or one person divided into several different times?

  I stared at him and smiled. My smile was friendly, though I could feel a slight irritation growing inside, like an itching of the soul. Listen, Mr. Tiago, I said, I understand your fascination with photography, it’s your profession and you want to reflect on it, but it’s a bit late for that, you should have started your reflecting a lot earlier, because a person must reflect a while before deciding something fundamental in his life, but you’re forgiven: I too began to write before I’d reflected on what writing truly was, and maybe if I’d understood from the start I would never have written a thing, but hold on, that’s not really the problem, now we’ve come to the real problem.

  The photographer looked at me, and once again, irony seemed to flicker across his face. He held a third photo between his fingers like a poker card, but he didn’t show it to me. All he said was: let me philosophize, at least on this last photo; I’m reminded that someone said the photograph is death, because it fixes the unrepeatable moment. He flipped the photo with his fingers, as if it really were a playing card, and went on: but I still ask myself: and what if it were life instead? – immanent, peremptory life that lets itself be caught in an instant, that regards us with sarcasm, because it’s there, fixed, unchanging, while we instead live in variation, and then I think the photograph, like music, catches the instant we fail to catch, what we were, what we could have been, and there’s no way you can counter this instant, because it’s righter than we are – but right about what? – perhaps about how this river changes, as it flows and carries us along, and about the clock, about time which controls us and which we try to control. Another of his pauses, a drag of his cigarette, and he went on: life against life, life in life, life on life? Perhaps. It’s a riddle I leave to you while you look at this photo.

  He held out the picture and waited for my reaction. I looked, and I saw Isabel. She was wearing a long, dark overcoat that came down to he
r ankles. There was no expression on her face, perhaps just slight surprise. She was standing at an airport check-in counter, a very small suitcase at her feet.

  The photographer stood up and asked me to join him. I’d like you to take a look at my show that’s opening next week in London, he said. I began to study the photographs on the walls. They were all Polaroids of faces or landscapes. He put a finger to his lips, as if this were a secret, but I doubt that’s what he meant, of course. You see, he said, I’ve photographed reality with my Polaroid, it’s a fantastic camera I bought in the United States, the show’s title is Polaroid-Reality. He pointed at some images. See? he said, that’s the Brooklyn Bridge, that’s a car accident in Manhattan, that’s a black girl who overdosed, that’s a malnourished boy in Ethiopia, the rest you can look at on your own. I walked around the enormous room. Very interesting, I finally said, really very interesting. He eyed me again from head to toe as though I were a statue and said: I’ll take a picture of you with my Polaroid, would you like to be the final subject in my show? Absolutely, I said, let’s call it a challenge, or a duel, like they used to have in the nineteenth century. Mr. Tiago had me sit on a stool, he put up a fake backdrop behind me, a seashore and a pine forest. Hold up that photo of Isabel, he told me. I held up the photo of Isabel. Don’t smile, he said, I detest photographic smiles. He raised his enormous Polaroid and snapped the picture. The camera spat out the photograph, and Tiago waved it around to dry. Then he looked at the picture and showed it to me. There was a stool, the backdrop of the sea in the distance, and the photo of Isabel in the foreground. Tiago kept staring at the picture. Where are you? he said, it’s like you don’t exist. Exactly, I said. Exactly what? he asked. Exactly, I answered. But where do you come from? he asked. I looked at him and smiled. From somewhere very bright, I said, so bright, sometimes the camera lens is blinded, in any case, this picture’s going with me. I slipped the photo into my pocket and said: and Isabel? He held out his hand to shake. Isabel left that same night for Macao, he answered, she took a direct flight to Hong Kong, Magda sent her – the real Magda – she sent her to a Catholic priest, I believe, who was in Macao or on the island of Coloane, I can’t remember, I have no idea who he was, I’m afraid, I don’t know his name, it could be he’s still alive, maybe you can keep tightening a circle around that person you’re searching for, I don’t know what else I could tell you, goodbye, sir. He walked me to the small iron staircase and shook my hand again. Sorry not to go up with you, he said, but you can easily find your way – and mind your image – one of these days, it’ll stay behind in the lens.

  Sixth Circle. Magda. Priest. Macao. Communication.

  The garden lane was deserted. The old Chinese gatekeeper wore a cap with The Grotto of Camões written on the plastic brim.

  We’re closing, the gatekeeper said, I’m about to close the gates. I don’t need much time, I tried with a smile, just a quick trip to the Grotto of Camões. He answered, reasonably: why go at this late hour? Come back tomorrow morning, sir, the garden will be cool, the cave will be cool, tomorrow morning you can enjoy the cool air, now all you’ll find are sleeping bats. Yes, I understand, I said, but it just so happens that I really do need to visit the cave tonight: I’ve had an inspiration. The gatekeeper removed his cap and scratched his head. I don’t understand, he said. What’s your name? I asked. He gave me a timid smile. In the registry office, my name is Manuel, he answered, because in the registry office here, we have Portuguese names, but my real name, my Chinese name, is something else. He uttered a Chinese name and smiled again. And what does your name mean in Chinese? I asked. It means Light Shining Upon Water, he said. This seemed like the perfect opportunity, and I slipped my arm into his. Listen, Light Shining Upon Water, I said, I have a shining light as well, and it’s this light that made me think to visit the cave this very night, look, see up there? I pointed to a bright star, the brightest in the sky. It’s from there, I said, that I get my inspiration, or my idea, call it what you will. He raised his arm as I did and pointed. The stars are guides, he said, they guide everything, and we pitiful humans just don’t know it. My friend, you comfort me, I said, because you understand me, you know, I got a message from that shining light, it’s called Sirius. He brought his raised arm alongside mine and looked at me doubtfully. You’re not familiar with the Macao sky, he said, his voice apologetic, sorry, but you’re really not familiar with our sky, that star has a different name in Chinese, in Latin, it’s something else, if I’m saying it correctly in your language, it’s called Canopus, that star is Canopus, you’re a bit confused, my friend: from these latitudes your star can’t be seen; I know the sky, I’ve studied it. Now I, too, scratched my head. All right, I said, I’ll give you that; still, I did receive a message – from Sirius or Canopus, I couldn’t say – but I have to get inside that cave where that great, half-blind poet praised Christianity in the sixteenth century, and I have to get in there tonight.

  He dug in his pocket and pulled out a bunch of keys. The only ones who come here are Chinese, all of them with birdcages, he said, following a logic that escaped me, they each have a little songbird in a cage and they’ll get their bird to converse with their neighbor’s bird, and this is how it’s done in China, the birdies chatter and make friends, and so their owners also make friends, and they, too, get to talk. He paused and stared at me, looking distressed. But you don’t have a birdcage, he went on, and there’s no one else here with a birdcage, the only ones left in the garden are two old mahjong players who’ll leave by the smaller gate, what else is there for you to do here now, except run into bats? I need to get into the cave tonight, I insisted, you know, friend, you might say it’s part of my destiny, that destiny the stars steer, you yourself believe in the stars, please let me stay, I’ll leave by the smaller gate, too, let me stay, please, maybe that half-blind poet of the sixteenth century will even help me out tonight, here in this garden that smells of magnolias. The gatekeeper looked at me with something like pity. This garden doesn’t smell of magnolias, he replied, this garden smells of piss, because all the Chinese piss on the trees, they’re too lazy to go to the bathrooms we installed near the fountain, and so this garden stinks of piss. Very well, I agreed, under the light of that star which guides my terrestrial journey, I’ll remain in this garden that stinks of piss; it’s true, I haven’t brought any birds in a cage, but I’m here to follow a destiny which I’ll eventually come to know.

  The gatekeeper stepped aside and handed me a small flashlight. This should help, he said, you can leave it at the outside gate when you go. I walked down the path, breathing deeply, waiting for the stink of piss, but nothing stank, a cool breeze had risen and carried the smell of the sea. Beneath a streetlamp, two Chinese were playing mahjong, I said hello and they nodded in return. One was building superior honors, with a row of four white dragons, the other was working on a set of characters. I thought I could use both dragons and characters that night, and I headed for the cave. I was halfway down the garden path when I heard a whistle behind me from one of the players. You want to watch? he called, we don’t have anyone to watch, and mahjong needs an audience. I signaled no with my hand and continued on my way; at the cave entrance I turned on the gatekeeper’s flashlight.

  And I simply walked in, like I would my own home. I thought I’d light a cigarette, I lit one, and just then a bat started to squeak. I caught the bat in the beam of the flashlight, in all that darkness, and the bat, squeaking, told me: hello, handsome, have you made contact?

  It was Magda’s voice.

  Hello, I answered, I have. Where are you speaking from? the bat asked. From Macao, I answered, I’m in a cave in Macao, and what about you, Magda, where are you speaking from? Oh, the usual place, she answered, go ahead and guess. I couldn’t say, I murmured. It’s easy, she said, it’s easier than you think, we actually met right here. Listen, Magda, I said, I’m in no mood for games, if you want to tell me, okay, otherwise, just drop it. The bat squeaked: I’m in the Brasileira do Chiado
, you big dope, I’m having a coffee granita. So when is it there? I asked. The bat let out a little ringing laugh. It’s the Sixties, you big, handsome dope – and when is it that you’d like your Magda to be talking with you? I heard the clinking of glasses and silverware, and then the bat squeaked: and to what do I owe this pleasure? You can thank Sirius, I said, or maybe Canopus, I can’t be sure now. You are so difficult, she said, and why are you in Macao? I’ll tell you why, I answered, but I want to hear your version first, what you spread around isn’t very convincing. My version of what? she asked, playing dumb. Of what happened to Isabel, I answered, you’re the one who spread that story around, all the final details we have about her came from you, I want to hear the real version, in your own words.

  I directed the flashlight over the walls of the cave. To my right was a bronze bust of the half-blind poet. A few stalactites hung from the ceiling. All right, the bat squeaked, so listen. I found the bat with my beam, it let go of the rock with one foot, and now dangled only by the other. I could see Magda clearly, sitting in her chair in Brasileira, calling the waiter over to order another drink, an agua de cebada. The waiter didn’t understand, and Magda, in a condescending tone, carefully explained that it was barley water, but in Valencia, it was called agua de cebada, that’s what the Spanish say, and it was high time the Portuguese learned this, if they wanted to call themselves Iberians. I lit another cigarette and waited.