For Isabel

by Antonio Tabucchi

  I’d already gone a fair distance when I heard the priest’s voice booming across the deserted square. My son, he called, I want to tell you that I pardon you. Thank you, Father, I whispered to myself. And I went on my way.

  Seventh Circle. Ghost Who Walks. Macao. Worldliness.

  It was a suffocating morning, the sun pale with humidity. A tropical storm seemed imminent. Along Porto Velho stood a line of hackney coaches. I climbed inside the first. The coachman was Chinese with a long, drooping mustache and a jaunty, tilted cap. He was sweating in his filthy frock coat. He looked at me suspiciously, perhaps because I was wearing a white shirt that came down to my hips and leather sandals. He said something I didn’t understand, probably in Cantonese.

  Listen, friend, I said in Portuguese, take me to the poet dressed in white, he lives on Boa Vista. Don’t know, he said, in broken Portuguese. I settled back on the seat and said: the poet with the long beard. Don’t know, he answered, sounding distressed. He lives on the Boa Vista promenade, I repeated, a poet, a gentleman always dressed in white. Don’t know, he said, even more distressed. Listen, old fellow, I said, enunciating my words, everyone in Macao knows that poet, every last one of you, he’s European, has a beard, lives with a Chinese woman, and is always dressed in white, the Chinese call him The Ghost Who Walks. Ah, he said with an enormous grin, The Ghost Who Walks, of course, Avenida da Boa Vista, he’s something else in Cantonese, but I’m sure that’s him, I know where to take you, trust me.

  It was a wood cottage on the Avenida by the sea. There was a cane mat on the porch. Three steps led up to a shuttered door. I knocked. No one answered, and I knocked again. I waited, calm and hopeful. After a few minutes, the door opened partway, to a Chinese woman, about thirty years old. She was beautiful, elegant, in a blue embroidered jacket that came down to her knees, her hair was gathered in a bun and her eyes were dark with makeup. Good afternoon, I said, I’d like to see the master poet, I sent a card announcing my visit, I hope that he might receive me. Who are you, sir? the Chinese woman asked. My name is Slowacki, I said, but you can also call me Waclaw, I too know something about poetry. The Chinese woman opened the shutter door and had me come inside. I found myself in a living room with a wood floor and bamboo furniture, the walls were lined with cane. The master poet is resting now, the Chinese woman said, he’s taken opium. All right, I said, perhaps I could speak with his wife. The Chinese woman had me sit down on a chaise-longue. I am his wife, she said, and I’m not his wife, I am his concubine, my name is Ngan-Yen, which in your tongue means Silver Eagle, may I bring you a mandarin liqueur? I agreed to a mandarin liqueur. Silver Eagle was swift and silent. She served me that unbearable liqueur I already knew, thick and sickeningly sweet, and then she clapped her hands. A Chinese servant appeared wearing a sort of coverall and cloth shoes. Fan the gentleman, Silver Eagle ordered, he’s hot. The Chinese servant began to pump a bellows at the ceiling, causing the linen ceiling fan to move. I felt a little breeze and was more comfortable. Madam Ngan-Yen, I said, will I have to wait very long? She nodded in a manner I couldn’t decipher. I’ll go wake him, she said, the time of opium must have passed for the master poet my husband; when I open the door, you may go into his bedroom.

  The Chinese woman opened the door, a bamboo shutter; I timidly stepped in and saw a man lying on the bed, covered by a white sheet. He had a long dark beard, his face was gaunt and his eyes were barely open.

  To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit? he whispered. I’m not exactly sure, I stammered, they told me that in this dream we’re both passing through, you might be able to give me some information about a person that you unfortunately don’t know, because she was born many years after you, but you, in your infinite wisdom, might be able to tell me where to find her. He let out a weak sigh and clapped his hands, the Chinese servant rushed in and the poet gave him a nod. The servant started working a set of foot levers that operated a cloth fanning device. Where are you from? the poet asked me. He looked like a dead Christ. His face was hollow, his eyes, sunken. I’m from endless time, I answered, from the endless time that outstrips us both, you, living in this now of yours, and I who lived in my then, you, writing your poetry, and I who wrote my poetry, not as beautiful as yours, mind you, simpler, without the personal tragedies of yours. There’s no personal tragedy in my poetry, he whispered, it’s the story of my generation, a period transformed into poetry. Of course, I said, but you never assumed this responsibility, and why do you live at the ends of the earth, in this remote province, and direct your poetic messages at Europe – why do that?

  The poet stood up. He was naked, emaciated. He pulled the sheet around him like a Roman Senator and cried out: who soiled, who tore the linen sheets I wished to die in – my chaste sheets?

  He wrapped himself up to the neck in the sheet, walked to the middle of the room and went on: that small garden that was mine, who tore down the tall sunflowers, who tossed them in the street?

  I stared at him. He looked like a scarecrow. He made me think of one of those awful photos from the Second World War, and I told him: Master, you remind me of a survivor, a prisoner, which probably means nothing to you, it’s not important. I don’t know what you’re talking about, he answered, I don’t know anything about anything, not the past, not the future, my poetry concerns the eternally inherent. He rang a silver bell and his concubine entered the room. We need two pipes, he said, bring them. And now, he said, tell me what it is that you want from me, but before you do, you must think carefully, you must enjoy a bowl of opium.

  The servant came in with two pipes. He heated the bowls, checked the water, prepared the potion. I slowly smoked mine, afraid of losing my wits. I said: I’m looking for Isabel, perhaps you know where I might learn something about Isabel, I’m making concentric circles, like the concentric circles squeezing my brain at this very moment. The Ghost Who Walks took a long pull from his pipe. Isabel, he said, there might be an Isabel in my poetry, or in my thoughts, they’re one and the same, but whether she’s in my poetry or in my thoughts, she’s a shadow who belongs to literature, why are you looking for a shadow who belongs to literature? Perhaps to make her real, I answered weakly, to give some meaning to her life, and to my rest.

  He rose from his pallet, draped his sheet around his shoulders again, took another pull of opium, and said: listen, kindred spirit, we’ve crossed over time, poetry does that and more, as does opium, all I can do is make up poems, poems about mountains, for instance, mountains I’ve never seen, and would have loved to see during my time in Coimbra; in its way, this is a clue, but that will be up to you, to find the place and the people; if you’re making concentric circles, it’s up to your impulse, your imagination, to form these circles, I never wrote the poems I have in my heart, and I might never write them, but I could make them up right here, if you like.

  He was quiet now and drew a deep breath. Then he closed his eyes and seemed to fall asleep. After a few minutes, I started to feel extremely embarrassed. I stood, cleared my throat, sat back down. Master, I said softly, Master, listen to me. He showed no sign of life. His eyes were closed and his thin chest didn’t rise, he didn’t seem to be breathing. Master, I begged, the poems.

  And then he jumped up, in all his emaciated nakedness, pulled the sheet around him, and bolted to the middle of the room, eyes possessed, as if death had come knocking, and he uttered these words: when will the embrasure shutters rise once more on the ruined castle, when will the edict come and the standards wave in the cold morning breeze?

  He paused, then went on in a low voice: all you need to do is find the castle. Like in a fairy tale, I said, excuse me, Master, but the mountains are full of castles. He stared straight ahead, at nothing. You have to look in the country of William Tell, he murmured. And he was quiet again.

  The situation seemed to have reached a full stop. The poet’s eyes bulged, staring straight ahead; his face was frightening. I wanted to ask him more, but didn’t dare, and so kept quiet. And then The Ghost W
ho Walks whispered in a voice as from the grave: there, you’ll find a man who won’t expect your visit, a holy man from India, I can’t make out his name, but you might guess it, if you search your life’s memories, the castle is a place of meditation, dedicated to a German writer who deeply loved my Orient.

  He opened his sheet again, showing his terribly thin chest, and he leaned on a Chinese chest of drawers and said: I’ll die tomorrow at dawn, you arrived just in time, Mr. Waclaw.

  He rang the silver bell, and his concubine appeared at once. Ngan-Yen, he whispered, see the gentleman out. He lay back down on the pallet and returned to his delirium. I followed the Chinese woman to the door, she carefully closed the woven shutter behind her, bowed to me, whispered something incomprehensible in Cantonese and then, in Portuguese, she said: safe travels. Thank you, I replied.

  The coach driver was waiting out front. I climbed in and told him to take me to Porto Velho.

  Eighth Circle. Lise. Xavier. Swiss Alps. Expansion.

  Good evening, I said, I’m Slowacki. Good evening, the woman said, I’m Lise, please, why don’t you join me, there’s no one here, and I don’t like eating alone.

  I sat down. The room was enormous and poorly lit. Toward the back, a weak flame was flickering from some kind of brazier above a high-backed chair. An enlarged photo dominated the main wall, a picture of Herman Hesse in a spotless panama hat. An exotic music I couldn’t make sense of was playing softly over an invisible intercom.

  What is that music? I said. Lise smiled. The difficulty in Indian music, she said, lies mainly in the harmony, for us westerners, it has two basic elements, the Tala and the Raga, this is music from the Northeast that’s used in traditional Manipuri dances, it’s a ritual music. You certainly know a lot about India, I said, while I don’t know a thing, I’m not familiar with Indian culture, it does feel strange, though, to find India here in the Swiss Alps. You get used to it, Lise said, it’s not as strange as you might think, you’ll see, in a little while, some music from Kerala will start playing, a Kathakali rhythm, and that’s how it goes all night, they always play the same tape, I know it by heart now. Have you been here long? I asked. Almost a month, she answered. That seems long, I said, at least it would be for me, I feel like I’m in a monastery, I’ve never liked monasteries, it’s all their rules, you see, eating so early, for instance – it’s unbearable. Rules are useful when the boundaries are lost, she answered, plus there’s a practical side: in the evenings, there’s meditation with the Lama, and when that’s done, it’s good to go back to your own room and continue meditating in private. What do you mean when you say the boundaries are lost? I asked, I don’t understand. If we keep talking, you’ll understand, Lise said, but for now, you should decide what to eat. I opened my menu and studied it. There wasn’t an item I recognized, I looked at my table companion and said: excuse me, Lise, but tonight I’m appointing you my guide, I don’t know any of these dishes. She smiled again. Her smile was strange, distant, as if she were here and, at the same time, far away. They’re all Indian, she said, you can trust me, I’m well-versed in India’s traditions and foods. Then what would you recommend? I said. She began to read the menu. Tonight we have a wide variety of dishes, she said, from all over India, an embarrassment of riches. You decide, I said. She looked up and smiled again. I found her smile unsettling; I couldn’t read it. All right, she said, to start with, I’d recommend a Thali, a light vegetarian dish typical of Southern India, vegetables cooked in curry, and papadums, you know, that fried flat bread that’s very light?, and an order of spicy rice, I think that will be perfect to start with. Trying to decide on the next dish, she ran her finger down the menu. And for your second course, I recommend the Gushtaba, that’s one of my favorites, it comes from Kashmir. Could you describe it? I asked. Simple, she said, it’s a simple dish, spicy meatballs, lamb, usually, cooked in a yogurt sauce, a traditional dish that’s eaten all over northern India. I agreed on her choices, and she called the waitress over, an olive-skinned girl dressed in a violet sari.

  The music changed. I heard an odd, stringed instrument now, tambourines, and in the background, a singsong voice and what sounded like a nursery rhyme. What do you mean by losing the boundaries? I asked, excuse me, Lise, I’d like to know. She smiled her distant smile. It means the universe has no boundaries, she answered, that’s what it means, and that’s why I’m here, because I too have lost my boundaries. She sipped her tea that the waitress had brought. I sipped mine as well. It was a green tea, very fragrant, jasmine-scented. And so? I said. She looked at me with her vague smile and asked: do you know how many stars there are in our galaxy? I have an idea, I said, do you know? About four-hundred billion, Lise answered, but in the universe we know, there are hundreds of billions of galaxies, the universe has no boundaries. Excuse me, Lise, I said, but how do you know all these things? She stared into empty space, and said: I’m an astrophysicist, or at least I was.

  Now I heard pipe music playing over the intercom, piercing notes that were almost unbearable, yet at times, were also moving. I glanced at the portrait of Herman Hess, and he too seemed to be smiling a distant smile.

  Lise lit an Indian cigarillo, the very fragrant kind rolled from a single tobacco leaf. Many years ago I had a son, she said as though she were speaking past me, to the empty space she seemed to have before her; and life, she said, took him away from me. I stayed quiet, I took one of her cigarillos, the brand was Ganesh, I noticed, with an elephant god on the package. I stayed quiet, and waited for her to go on. His name was Pierre, she went on, and nature was cruel to him, hadn’t allowed him certain mental faculties, but he had his own kind of intelligence, you just needed to understand it, and I did. She paused, then said: I loved him like you can love your own child, do you know how you can love your own child? Unfortunately, I never had children, I answered, but maybe you could tell me. More than yourself, Lise said, much more than yourself, that’s how you can love your own children. She set her tea down. What would you say to a glass of champagne? she asked, tonight I could really go for a glass of champagne while we wait for our Thali.

  I waved to the waitress who came over at once. The room was eerie. Someone had turned up the flame in the brazier, and red flickered over the portrait of Herman Hesse. Through the large windows, you could see the snowy mountaintops, the Indian music was now calling softly, like an invocation.

  This music sounds like a lament, I observed. The Indians really understand the lament, she said, and they reflect this in their art, when it comes down to it, this is my lament, my invocation, though our western parameters make sure I express myself in human words. We raised our glasses in a toast of sorts. Go on, Lise, I said. He had his own kind of intelligence, she went on, and I studied and understood it; for instance, we’d found a code, one of those codes that schools for boys like my Pierre don’t teach, but that a mother can invent with her son, tapping a spoon against a glass, for instance, I’m not sure I’m making myself clear, tapping a spoon against a glass. Would you mind going into a bit more detail? I said. Well, Lise said, you have to study the frequency and intensity of the message, and I understood frequencies and intensity, from my profession, from studying the stars in the Paris Astronomical Observatory, but that didn’t really guide me, it was because I was his mother, because you love your child more than yourself. I understand, I said, and so? Our code functioned perfectly, she went on, we’d learned a language humans don’t know, he knew how to tell me, Mama I love you, I knew how to answer, Pierre, you’re my whole life, and then simpler things, too, daily things, what he needed, if he was happy or unhappy, because I have to tell you, nature may have been cruel to them, but these people, just like us, know what it means to be happy or unhappy, to feel sadness, regret, joy, everything we feel, we proud miserable beings who think of ourselves as normal. She finished her champagne, we started eating, and she went on: I don’t know why I’m telling you all this – I don’t even remember your name. Slowacki, I repeated, my name’s Slowacki. A
ll right, Mr. Slowacki, Lise said, one day, life stole my boy from me, because life’s not just cruel, it’s evil. She stared again into empty space, as if no one was sitting across from her. What would you have done? she asked. I don’t know, I answered, it’s really hard to answer a question like that, what did you do? Lise let out a small sigh. During the day, I wandered around Paris, she said, I’d look in store windows, at dressed-up individuals walking around, at people sitting on park benches, I’d walk by Café de Flore, stare at the people talking together at their small tables, and I asked myself why, here on planet Earth, why was there a life fashioned in such a way that I didn’t understand, I’m not sure I’m making myself clear, it all seemed like a puppet theater, I spent my nights at the Observatory, but those telescopes weren’t enough for me anymore, I needed to observe vast interstellar spaces, I was here on Earth, I was a minuscule dot that wanted to study the boundaries of the universe, that’s what I wanted, it was the only thing that might give me a little peace, and you, what would you have done in my place? I don’t know, I answered, you’re asking tough questions tonight, Lise, what did you do? Well, she said, I learned that in Chile, in the Andes, there’s an observatory that’s the highest observatory in the world, one of the most well-equipped, by the way, but mainly, it’s the highest, and I wanted to go as high as possible, I wanted to cut myself off from this miserable earthly crust where life is vicious, I wanted to be as close as possible to the sky, so I sent off my résumé, they responded that they needed an astrophysicist like me, and I left, left France, left everything, I just brought along a small backpack full of books and a fur-lined coat, and I arrived at the highest observatory in the world. She stopped. Not much longer until the Lama’s lecture, she said. Please go on, I said. She went on. I asked them if I could work on the radio telescope, she whispered, I wanted to study extragalactic nebulae, do you know what the Andromeda Nebula is? Tell me, I said. Well, Lise went on, the Andromeda Nebula is a spiral system similar to the Milky Way, however it seems tilted, so the spiral arms aren’t completely visible, up to the early part of this century it wasn’t certain that it was outside the Milky Way, this problem was solved by Hubble on a telescope in 1923, when he studied the Triangle Constellation, these are the boundaries of our system, and I wanted to move toward the boundaries of the Universe.