For Isabel

by Antonio Tabucchi

  She grew quiet. The music had stopped. There was an unnatural silence in the room, as though we were outside of time. I could tell Lise wanted to go on, and I wanted to encourage her to go on, but I also didn’t want to speak and break the spell. I just nodded slightly, and she said: I was at the radio telescope researching galactic radio emissions and modulated signals from possible intelligent beings, and I was sending modulated signals myself, ah, you can’t imagine what it’s like to be up in the highest mountains in the world, with only raging snow outside, and to send off messages to the Andromeda Nebula. Maybe I can imagine it, I replied, even if I don’t have your experience. There were three of us in that position, Lise went on, a Japanese astronomer, a Chilean physicist, and I, and then two attendants who saw to our needs, and one night, one terribly snowy night, with ice crusting over the glass of the Observatory dome, I suddenly had an idea, an absurd idea, and I don’t know why I’m telling you this. Tell me, Lise, I said, I’d like you to tell me. It was an absolutely crazy idea, she said, I was sending modulated messages, and I tried a modulation that held a special place in my heart, I selected a code that was dear to me, I translated it into its mathematical modulation, and I sent it. She smiled her absent smile and repeated: it was crazy. Please, Lise, I said, please go on. Well, she said, the fact of the matter is this: you might not realize it, but to send a message to the Andromeda Nebula, counting light years, it would take a hundred of our calendar years, so, a century, and to get an eventual response would take another hundred years, another century; perhaps some future astronomer might receive the eventual response to the bizarre message I’d sent, someone who didn’t know me and knew nothing about me. She stopped, and this time she looked me in the eye and said: this is ridiculous, you must think I’m insane. Not at all, Lise, I assured her, I believe anything can happen in the universe, please go on. That night, she went on, there was a snowstorm, ice was building up on the glass, I stood in front of the radio telescope, not moving, feeling like I’d committed an absurdity, and just then, a message arrived from Andromeda, a modulated message, I ran it through the decoder and recognized it at once; there, in mathematical terms, but with the same frequency, the same intensity, was a message I’d heard for fifteen years of my life. She stopped and asked: do I seem crazy? You don’t seem the least bit crazy, I replied, it’s the universe that’s crazy. Well, she went on, I was afraid my colleagues would think I was crazy, I couldn’t lay it out for them in rational terms, I didn’t even show them the message – how could I explain it? – a few days later, I fled the Observatory, I roamed the world, reached India, and stayed a long while, and there, in a sacred text, I discovered that the cardinal points can be infinite or nonexistent, as in a circle; it was a disturbing find, because what’s left to an astronomer if you take away the cardinal points? So I started to study Indian philosophy and a theory which held that the man who’s lost his way needs to symbolize the universe with an integrative art form, in short, he needs his cardinal points, and that’s why I’m here, a person can’t believe it’s possible to reach the boundaries of the universe, because the universe has no boundaries.

  She stopped, and smiled her tired smile. And what about you, she asked, why are you here? I’m trying to reach a center, I answered, I’ve passed through many concentric circles and I’m looking for a clue, that’s why I came here. You believe in concentric circles? Lise asked. I don’t know, I said, it’s a practice like any other, maybe it’s an integrative art form, too, but I’m not a follower. Then what are you? she asked. Just think of me as someone who searches, I answered, you know, the important thing is to search. I agree, she said, the important thing is to search, and not whether you find something or you don’t.

  The conference room, the sign in English indicated, was on the second floor. At the top of the stairs, I was met by a small Asian woman wrapped in a sari and holding a list. She pressed her hands together in greeting, bowed her head, and asked: what is your name, sir? Slowacki, I answered. She consulted her list and made an x with her pen. Please go in, she said.

  It was an enormous room, poorly lit, with a light wood floor. The walls were bare, whitewashed. I saw Lise sitting on the floor; she was draped in an orange cloth. On the other side of the room was a wooden throne chair where the Lama would presumably sit. I walked around the room and left a card on the footstool to this chair. I signed Tadeus and wrote: room twenty-three. Then I went back to my room.

  Strange that you just popped up out of nowhere, he said.

  He had me sit down in the small armchair by the window while he sat in an inlaid throne chair next to the writing desk.

  I’d put my western clothes back on, but I was still barefoot. You also popped up out of nowhere, dear Mr. Xavier, I said. I’m not Xavier anymore, he said, I left that name behind in the world. Yes, I went on, you truly popped up out of nowhere, I’d heard that you vanished into India, someone told me this a few years back, but here you are instead, in the Swiss Alps, playing the holy man. Please respect my beliefs, he said. Oh, sure, I said, but I think your religion also teaches you to respect the beliefs of others, I too have my convictions, in my own way, I might not call them beliefs, let’s just say I have a commitment to myself. But who are you? he asked, staring at me. It’s written there on the card, I answered, I’m Tadeus. I don’t know you, he replied. But you did know Isabel, I said, and that’s why you invited me to your suite, the name Isabel has piqued your curiosity. Isabel belongs to the past, he answered. That could be, I said, but I’m here to reconstruct that past, I’m making a mandala. Come again? he said. Just that, I answered, of course you understand what a mandala is, let’s say that mine, in its way, is a type of mandala, only the rings are growing tighter, I’ve designed them, or better, I’ve passed through them, one by one, it’s a strange picture, you know, the picture coming out, but I’m squeezing closer to the center. Who told you I was here? he asked. A poet, I answered, well, the ghost of a poet. You’re speaking in code, Xavier said. You, too, I said, you’re being rather evasive, like you’re afraid to confess something. I have nothing to confess, he said. And then he went on: besides, I don’t see why I have to tell you anything, when I don’t even know you, about someone I met when I used to be part of the world. It’s simple, I said, it’s because Isabel told you about me. He grew quiet and stared off at the mountains. You want to swear Isabel never told you anything about me? I said. I don’t swear to strangers, he answered, besides, swearing’s not permitted in my religion. There was a strange, elusive light in his eyes, like some sort of code of silence, like he was trying to erase a promise or a memory. I wanted to call him Mr. Lama but didn’t dare; I had to check my normal arrogance. I said: listen, Xavier, you can tell me something about her, you know something about Isabel, or you found out something, help me reach my center. He took a piece of paper off the table and started drawing with some colored pencils. I watched in silence. I let him go. He took about fifteen minutes. Then he handed the drawing to me. It was a double circle and beneath it were the words: “Partenope: I wander distracted and abandoned.” Inside this double circle, he’d drawn the various phases of the moon and at the center, a moon with a big, round face, like in primitive drawings, the moon was orange-red. I said: Partenope – what’s that mean? He looked at me, and his expression felt ironic. Now Partenope holds me, he said, like on the epitaph. I said: Partenope is Naples, that’s in Italy, what was Isabel doing in Italy, excuse me, Mr. Lama, but that seems odd.

  He adjusted the colored cloth draped around his shoulders. He smiled at me with an ineffable smile and murmured: we had ties with Naples. All right, I answered, but who do I need to look for, who should I contact? He stared out the window. Night was falling. I thought I heard the lowing of a cow, and everything seemed absurd. Mandalas must be interpreted, he said knowingly, otherwise, it’s too easy to search for the center, study the center, look at the moon I drew, interpret it as you will, I hope you let your feelings guide you, and remember one thing: the line I wrote
is a password, or at least it was back then, you too wander distracted and abandoned, and now, please excuse me, my meditation awaits.

  He opened his door, and I stepped into the hall without even time to say goodbye.

  Ninth Circle. Isabel. Riviera Station. Realization. Return.

  The small station was deserted at that hour. I stepped outside, to a little garden with two palm trees and two park benches surrounded by a fragrant pittosporum hedge. You could sense the sea beyond. The ground was sand and sea pebbles. It was exactly how I always imagined a small Riviera station would be. A train went by at full-speed. Direct from France, no doubt, and France lay beyond the lights of the gulf. I sat on a bench, deciding what to do next. Should I walk down the short slope and look for Via Oberdan? The garden lamps were lit. I sat on a wooden bench, right beneath a palm tree, and looked up. The moon was in its last quarter, and white as milk. I looked to another part of the sky and saw a star that was dear to me. I stretched my legs, rested my head against the back of the bench, and kept staring at the sky.

  Music rose from below, sailing up over the hedge. I knew it, a Beethoven tune, Les Adieux, L’Absence, Le Retour.

  I saw a strange individual coming toward me. He wore a rumpled tailcoat and a white top hat, and had a violin on his shoulder. He was barefoot. He stopped in front of me and doffed his hat. Good evening, he said, and welcome to this small Riviera station where you might have dreamed you’d arrive one day. He asked my permission and sat down beside me. Excuse me, he said, but don’t bother looking for Via Oberdan, it’s not called that anymore, now it’s Via dei Lavoratori del Mare. I looked at him, questioningly, and he sighed. And the print shop you’re looking for, that’s closed now, too, closed up years ago, replaced by an elegant pastry shop now – Bignè. I’m looking for the Social Print Shop, I said, that’s what I’m looking for. He smiled and sighed again. Exactly, he answered, The Social Print Shop, the glorious Social Print Shop, destroyed by a bomb years ago, they never found the culprits, there were clues, investigations, even the shadow of a trial, and so, after all the machinery was blown up, and after all that time those gutted rooms were left standing, someone bought the place and put in a pastry shop, where you can eat magnificent desserts. Excuse me, I said, but what did the Social Print Shop print? He sighed again. It was an anarchist print shop, he said, it printed the last leaflets of the few surviving anarchists, cheap pamphlets, and the writings of Pietro Gori, the history of the Italian anarchists; but, he sighed again, sometimes he printed wedding invitations, too, you have to survive, right?, and old man God-you’re-boring had to survive. And who was Mr. God-you’re-boring? I asked. The last survivor of the glorious Social Print Shop, said the man with the violin, who blew up along with his machinery. The man with the violin sighed again. Excuse me, he said, I can’t seem to catch my breath, it was a steep climb, what with playing the violin. Curious, I looked at him. He ran his feet ecstatically through the sand, he’d set his violin between us on the bench. I’m amazed you know all this, I said, believe me, I’m simply amazed. Oh, please, he said, I know your entire journey, I’ve been following you ever since you arrived, no, in a way, I directed the entire score, consider me your orchestra director. He took out a cigarette butt and lit it. Want one? he asked. I told him no, then said: I’d be curious to hear about this journey of mine that you say you know so well. He smiled, looked up at the sky, and said: I’ll go over your trip to your last station – we won’t worry about the others – your last, well, next to last, because this is the last. He took a drag of his cigarette butt and said: so, you arrived in Naples and fell into the worst sort of story, come on, that’s not what we expected with that nose you have for sniffing things out, you’ve shown yourself to be a top-notch investigator, going to the Luna Rossa restaurant, tipped off by a certain Concettina, to meet with a certain Masaniello, who played the accordion in a restaurant in Mergellina, come on, you could have reached your objective without resorting to such clichés, but I have to hand it to you, you did succeed, Masaniello did have some information, because you know, one Naples password is vox populi, and you wandered distracted and abandoned, and, with Masaniello’s information, you managed to get to Vesuviano, to the Red Moon Center; you poor guy, your information was vague, but you did manage to reach your Luna Rossa.

  He ground the cigarette butt into the sand and asked: should I go on? Go on, I said, I’m curious. Okay, he went on, long ago, after you found two or three idiot secretaries, you finally arrived at an old attendant who’d been their secretary years before, he was a scrawny little guy with glasses, god knows why he was still kept there, seeing how the Center had become so powerful it was even funded now by the State, maybe because they considered him some sort of military surplus, but he remembered Isabel, and he recognized her in that photo you showed him, he told you about her, about when she’d stopped in the Red Moon, but he didn’t tell you anything about her life, maybe because he didn’t know anything, but he did give you this address, this little Riviera train station, and he told you to go to Via Oberdan, to the Social Print Shop, because that was the last place Isabel was sent. He paused and looked at me. Why did you say this last part of my journey was long ago? I asked. He smiled and looked up at the sky. The distant past, he said, the near past, the present, the future, sorry, I don’t really know tenses or time, it’s all the same to me. I looked at him. He was rubbing his feet through the sand. But who are you? I asked. I’m the Mad Fiddler, he said, I’m the one directing your concentric circles, or your stations, if you prefer; and I too have been sent. Then, with his bow, he drew a small circle in the sand. We’ve reached the center, he whispered, give me Isabel’s photo. I gave him the photo, and he laid it at the center of the circle. Then he stood up, raised his violin to his shoulder, and quietly began to play Beethoven’s Farewell Sonata.

  And right at that moment, I saw Isabel. She was walking up the slight hill, by the hedge; she was dressed in a blue silk gown, just as I saw her once at the City Hall, and she wore a small hat with a white veil. She held out her hand and I squeezed it; she raised her veil and I kissed her cheek. Hello, she said, as you can see, I still exist. I asked her to sit with me on the park bench. She held my hands in hers and said: come with me, I want to lead tonight. She slipped her arm in mine, like she used to. We walked down to the lane called Lavoratori del Mare. The fragrance of the pittosporum was intoxicating. Further down, you could see the lights of the gulf. Isabel, I said, where are you taking me? She brought her lips to my ear and whispered: wait, don’t be so impatient. We continued down the hill.

  The marina was deserted, the boats rocking gently on the water. On the far side of the marina, off the pier, a boat taxi was docked, its lights ablaze. Isabel led me onto the pier.

  I climbed on board first, then held out my hand to help her up. The boat taxi was completely empty. Isabel invited me to sit on the deck, in one of the blue-and-white folding chairs. We’ll be comfortable here, Isabel said, we can look at the night sky. She tied a white scarf around her neck, waved slightly toward a star, and the boat, as if under a spell, without a sound, pulled away from the pier and glided off, toward the distant lights of the gulf. And just then, I thought I recognized that gulf and those lights, and growing nervous, I said: Isabel, where are we? We’re in our then, she answered. I took hold of her hands and said: please, tell me what you mean. This boat taxi has passed through the fifth wall, Isabel answered, we’re in our then – see? – those are the lights of Portinho da Arrábida, we left from Setúbal, we’re in the boat taxi that took us from Setúbal to Portinho da Arrábida, this is the night we said goodbye, on the boat taxi that night, don’t you remember? We’re in our then. But this can’t be now and then at the same time, I said, Isabel, that’s not possible, we’re in our now right now. Now and then have been erased, Isabel answered, you’re saying goodbye to me like you did back then, but we’re in our present, it’s the present for us both, and you’re saying goodbye. All right, I said, if I have to tell you goodbye i
n our then, I want to know what your life’s been like.

  The lights of Arrábida were drawing closer. The boat taxi sounded its whistle, youu-youu, it called. Otherwise that warm night was quiet. Isabel smiled at me and squeezed my hand. Her white scarf fluttered in the night breeze. What’s the point of telling you about my life? she said, you know everything already, you’ve formed your circles with great skill, you know everything about me, my life was exactly like that, I ran away toward nothing, and I made it through, now you’ve found me in your last circle, but you need to know: your center is my nothing, the place I find myself now, I wanted to disappear into nothing, and I succeeded, and now you’ve found me in this nothing, with your astral drawing, but there’s something you need to know, you didn’t find me, I found you – you think your search for me is over, but you were only searching for yourself. What do you mean, Isabel? I asked. She squeezed my hand hard. I mean that you wanted to free yourself from your remorse, it wasn’t so much that you were searching for me as for yourself, to pardon yourself, a pardon and an answer, and I’m giving you that answer tonight, the night we said goodbye on a boat taxi going from Setúbal to Arrábida, you’re released from all your guilt, you’re not guilty of anything, Tadeus, there’s no little bastard child of yours in the world, you can go in peace, your mandala’s complete. All right, I said, but Isabel, where are you, in this now of yours? If you walk up the narrow road leading from the Riviera station where you arrived, she said, halfway up the hill, you’ll find a very small cemetery, and down the central path, in among the plainest graves, there’s one that no one visits, with a few wrought-iron flowers and a simple headstone that has no dates, no photograph, just an epitaph that reads: here lies Isabel known as Magda, come from afar and longing for peace. That’s where you lie? I asked. No, she said, that’s a cenotaph, just the memory of what was, two simple names, the essence of a life, I’m in nothing, and like I said before: you mustn’t feel any regrets, rest in peace on your constellation, while I continue along my path in my nothing.