9
It was very easy, just like Francisco predicted. At the border, they didn’t even make me open my suitcase. In Lisbon, I stayed at a place behind the Trindade Theater and a few steps from the national library, a small hotel with a chatty, cordial concierge from the Algarve. On my first try, a woman answered the phone and I said: good evening, I’m Italian, I wanted to inform you of a new translation of Fernando Pessoa that might interest you. Let’s meet in half an hour at Bertrand’s Bookstore, she answered, in the periodical room, I’m in my forties, my hair’s dark, and I’ll be wearing a yellow dress.
10
Nuno Meneses de Sequeira received me at two o’clock in the afternoon. When I telephoned that morning, a male servant answered, the count is resting, he cannot receive you this morning, come by at two this afternoon. But where does the lady lie? I couldn’t say, sir, my apologies, please come at two this afternoon. I got a room at my usual little hotel behind the Trindade Theater, took a shower, and changed clothes. We haven’t seen you for a while, said the friendly concierge from the Algarve. Five months since the end of February, I said. And do you still work for libraries? he asked. That would seem to be my fate, I answered.
Largo de Camões was flooded with sunlight, in the small square, there were pigeons perched on the poet’s head, retirees on benches, old men, dignified and sad, a soldier and a serving girl, a melancholy Sunday. Rua das Chagas was deserted, now and then, an empty taxi drove past, there wasn’t enough of a sea breeze to cut the thick, damp heat. I stopped in a café to try and cool off a little, it was secluded and dirty, the blades of an enormous ceiling fan whirred uselessly, the owner was nodding off behind the counter, I asked for a sumo with ice, and he waved the flies away with a rag and wearily opened the refrigerator. I hadn’t eaten and wasn’t hungry. I sat down at a table, lit a cigarette, and waited for the time to approach.
11
Nuno Meneses de Sequeira received me in a Baroque salon with stuccos all over the ceiling and two enormous, chewed-up tapestries on the walls. He was dressed in black, his face shiny, his bald skull glistening, and he sat in a crimson velvet armchair; when I came in, he rose, bowed his head slightly, and invited me to sit on a small couch beneath the window. The shutters were closed and the room was filled with the oppressive, stagnant odor of old upholstery. How did she die? I asked. She had a terrible disease, he said, didn’t I know? I shook my head. What sort of disease? Nuno Meneses de Sequeira clasped his hands in his lap. A terrible disease, he said. She called me in Madrid two weeks ago, and she didn’t say anything about it, not even a hint, did she already know? She was already terribly ill, and was well aware. Why didn’t she say anything? Perhaps she didn’t think it was fitting, said Nuno Meneses de Sequeira, I’d be grateful if you didn’t come to the funeral, it’s strictly private. I didn’t intend to, I reassured him. I am grateful, he said faintly.
The silence in the room grew tangible, uncomfortable. May I see her, I asked. Nuno Meneses de Sequeira stared at me a while, ironically, I thought. That’s not possible, he said, she’s at the Cuf Clinic, that’s where she died, and then the doctor ordered a closed casket, it couldn’t be left open, given her condition.
I thought about leaving, and wondered why he’d called me, even if Maria do Carmo had wanted it, what the point was of having me come to Lisbon, I was missing something, or maybe there was nothing strange here, just a painful situation that was pointless to prolong. But Nuno Meneses de Sequeira hadn’t finished talking, he gripped the arms of his chair like he was about to stand, his eyes were wet, his expression strained, ugly, or perhaps it was the nervous tension he had to be feeling. You never understood her, sir, he said, you’re too young, far too young to understand Maria do Carmo. And you were far too old, I wanted to say but didn’t. You work in philology, hah! he snorted, your life is libraries, you couldn’t possibly understand a woman like that. Tell me what you mean, I told him. Nuno Meneses de Sequeira stood up, went to the window, opened the shutters slightly. I would like to dispel any illusion, he said, that you actually knew Maria do Carmo. You only knew a fictional Maria do Carmo. Tell me what you mean, I repeated. Nuno Meneses de Sequeira smiled, very well, I can just imagine what Maria do Carmo must have told you, a tear-jerker of a story, her unhappy childhood in New York, her republican father who died a hero in the Spanish Civil War, listen closely, dear sir, I’ve never been to New York in my life, Maria do Carmo’s the daughter of great landowners, she had a gilded childhood, fifteen years ago, when I met her, she was twenty-seven and the most courted woman in Lisbon, I was just returning from a diplomatic mission in Spain, and what we had in common was our love of country. He paused, as though to add weight to his words. Our love of country, he said again, I’m not sure if I’m making myself clear. It depends how you’re using the word. Nuno Meneses de Sequeira adjusted his tie, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, and took on a look of bored impatience. Listen closely, Maria do Carmo very much liked playing a game and played it her entire life, we always played it by mutual consent. I held up my hand, as if to stop him, but he went on: she must have reached her reverse. In a distant room came the chime of a pendulum clock. Unless you reached the reverse of her reverse, I said. Nuno Meneses de Sequeira smiled again, how beautiful, he said, a phrase that could easily come from Maria do Carmo herself, it’s proper that you’d surmise this, though believe me, it is a presumption on your part. A vein of contempt ran through his quiet voice. I stayed silent, my eyes lowered, focused on the carpet, a deep blue Arraiolos carpet with gray peacocks. I’m very sorry that you’re forcing me to be more frank, Nuno Meneses de Sequeira went on, I assume you like Pessoa. Very much, I admitted. Then perhaps you’re aware of his translations from abroad. What do you mean? I asked. Oh, not much, he said, just this: that Maria do Carmo received many translations from abroad, do you understand me? No, I said, I don’t understand you. Let’s just say you don’t want to understand me, Nuno Meneses de Sequeira corrected me, that you’d rather not understand me, and I understand that you’d rather not understand me: reality’s an unpleasant thing – you prefer dreams – please don’t force me to go into detail, details are always so vulgar, let’s just stick to the concept.
From the window, a siren sounded, perhaps a ship entering the port, and I suddenly longed to be a passenger onboard that ship, to enter the port of an unknown city called Lisbon and to have to telephone an unknown woman and tell her that a new translation of Fernando Pessoa had come out, and that woman’s name was Maria do Carmo, and she’d be at Bertrand’s Bookstore in a yellow dress, and she loved the fado and Sephardic food, and I knew all this already, but that passenger who was me and staring at Lisbon from the deck of a ship didn’t know this yet, and for him, everything would be new and identical. And this was saudade, Maria do Carmo was right: it wasn’t a word, it was a category of the spirit. In a way, this, too, was its reverse.
Nuno Meneses de Sequeira observed me in silence, looking calm and satisfied. Today, I said, is the first day of Maria do Carmo’s new life, let’s at least call a truce. He gave an imperceptible nod as if in assent, as if to say, that’s just want I wanted to propose myself, and then I said, I believe, then, we have nothing further to say, he rang a bell and a servant appeared in a loose striped jacket, Domingos, this gentleman is just leaving, the servant stepped aside from the door for me, ah, one moment, said Nuno Meneses de Sequeira, Maria do Carmo left this for you. He held out a letter that he’d taken from a silver tray on a table beside his chair, I slipped that letter into my pocket; when I’d reached the door he said, I feel sorry for you, and I answered, the feeling is mutual, though probably with a different nuance. I went down the stone stairs, into the afternoon light of Lisbon, and hailed a passing taxi.
12
I opened the letter at the hotel. On a sheet of white paper was written, all in capital letters and with no accents, the word, SEVER. I automatically reversed it in my mind and then below, also in capital letters with
no accents, I wrote in pencil: REVES. I considered that ambiguous word a moment that could be Spanish or French, with two utterly different meanings. I realized I had no desire to return to Madrid, I’d send a check from Italy and write to the Madrid hotel to have my luggage delivered, I phoned the front desk and asked the concierge to find a travel agency, that I needed a plane ticket for tomorrow, it didn’t matter which airline, the first available flight. What, you’re leaving already? said the concierge, you’ve never stayed such a short while. What time is it? I asked. According to my watch, it’s a quarter past four, sir. Well, then wake me for dinner, I said, around nine. I undressed calmly, pulled down the blinds, again, a distant siren sounded, muffled by the pillow beneath my cheek.
Perhaps Maria do Carmo had finally reached her reverse. I hoped it was as she wanted, and I thought that perhaps the Spanish word and the French word might coincide at a single point. Maybe the vanishing point of a perspective, like when you trace the perspective lines in a painting, and at that moment the siren sounded once more, the ship docked, and I slowly walked down the gangway and onto the piers, the port was completely deserted, the piers were perspective lines verging toward the vanishing point of a painting, and the painting was Las Meninas by Velásquez, and the pier lines converged on the background figure, and her enigmatic, melancholy expression was imprinted on my mind: and how funny, that figure was Maria do Carmo with her yellow dress, and I was telling her: I understand that expression of yours, because you see the reverse of the painting, what on earth do you see from that side? – tell me, wait for me, let me come, too, I’m coming now to see. And I set off for that point. And at that moment, I found myself in a different dream.
Translated by Janice M. Thresher
Clouds
– You stay here in the shade all day, said the young girl, don’t you like going in the water?
The man gave a vague nod that could have meant yes or no, but said nothing.
– Can I use tu with you? asked the girl.
– If I’m not mistaken, you just did, the man said, and smiled.
– In my class we also use tu with adults, said the girl, some teachers allow it, but my parents won’t let me, they say it’s impolite, and lei, sir, what do you think?
– I think they’re right, responded the man, but you can use tu with me, I won’t tell anybody.
– Don’t you like going in the water? she asked. I think it’s special.
– Special? the man repeated.
– My teacher told us we can’t use awesome for everything, that sometimes we might say special, I was about to say awesome, for me going in the water at this beach is special.
– Ah, said the man, I agree, it seems awesome to me too, even special.
– Sunbathing’s awesome too, the young girl went on, in the first few days I had to use the SPF forty cream, then I went to twenty, and now I can use the golden bronzing cream, the one that makes your skin sparkle like it has little gold specks all over it, see? But, sir, why are you so white? You came here a week ago and you’re always under the beach umbrella, don’t you like the sun at all?
– I think it’s awesome, said the man, I swear, to me sunbathing is awesome.
– Are you afraid of getting sunburned, sir? asked the young girl.
– And what do you think? answered the man.
– I think you’re afraid of burning, sir, though if a person doesn’t start out slowly, he’ll never get tan.
– That’s true, the man confirmed, it seems logical to me, though do you think it’s mandatory to get tan?
The girl mulled this over.
– Not entirely mandatory, nothing is mandatory except for mandatory things, but if someone comes to the beach, doesn’t go in the water, and doesn’t get tan, then why is he coming to the beach?
– You know what? said the man, you’re a logical girl, you have a gift for logic, and that’s awesome, to me the world today has lost its logic, it’s a real pleasure to meet a logical girl, may I have the pleasure of making your acquaintance? What’s your name?
– My name is Isabella, though my close friends call me Isabèl, but with the accent on the e, not like the Italians who say Ìsabel, with the accent on the i.
– Why’s that, you’re not Italian? asked the man.
– Of course I’m Italian, she objected, totally Italian, but I care about the name my friends give me, because on television they always say Mànuel or Sebàstian, I am totally Italian like you and maybe even more than you, sir, but I like languages, and I also know the Mameli anthem by heart, this year the president of the republic came to visit our school and talked with us about the importance of the Mameli anthem, which is our Italian identity, it took so long to unify our country, for instance that political guy who wants to abolish the Mameli anthem, I don’t like him.
The man didn’t say anything, he was squinting, the light was intense and the blue of the sea and the sky merged, swallowing the horizon line.
– Perhaps, sir, you didn’t get who I’m referring to, said the girl, breaking the silence.
The man didn’t speak, he kept his eyelids half closed, the young girl seemed to hesitate, drawing squiggles in the sand with her finger.
– I hope you’re not in his party, sir, she went on, as though encouraging herself, at home I was taught that one must always respect others’ opinions, but that guy’s opinion, I don’t like it, am I being clear?
– Perfectly, said the man, one must respect others’ opinions yet not disrespect one’s own, above all not disrespect one’s own, and why don’t you like this guy?
– Oh, well…Isabella seemed to hesitate. Apart from the fact that when he talks on television, he gets some white foam at the corners of his mouth, but this I could forget, the main thing is he swears a lot, I heard him with my own ears, and if he swears, I wonder why they yell at me when I swear, but luckily the president of the republic is more important than him, otherwise he wouldn’t be president of the republic, and he explained to us that we ought to respect the Mameli anthem and sing it like the national team does at the world championship, with our hands on our hearts, at school we sang it together with the president, we read the copies our teacher gave us, but he didn’t read, he knew it by heart, I think that’s awesome, don’t you agree, sir?
– Pretty special, confirmed the man. He dug into the bag he kept next to his beach chair, took out a glass bottle, and put a white pill in his mouth.
– Am I talking too much? she asked, at home they say I talk too much and might annoy people, am I annoying you, sir?
– Not at all, answered the man, what you’re saying is even special, please go on.
– And then the president gave us a history lesson, since as you know, sir, we don’t study modern history at school, in the last year of junior high the really good teachers get us up to World War One, otherwise we don’t make it past Garibaldi and the unification of Italy, but we learned a ton of modern things, because our teacher’s been great, but the credit should go to the president, because he’s the one who gave the input.
– Who gave the what? asked the man.
– That’s what they say, explained Isabella, it’s a new word, it means someone starts and drags the others along with him, if you want, sir, I’ll repeat what I’ve learned, really a ton of things that not many people know, d’you want to know them?
The man didn’t answer, kept his eyes closed, and was completely still.
– Did you fall asleep, sir? Isabella’s tone was shy, as though disappointed.
– I’m sorry, sir, perhaps I chattered so much I made you fall asleep, it’s also why my parents didn’t want to buy me a cell phone, they claim they’d have to pay an astronomical bill because I talk so much, you know, in our house we can’t afford anything extra, my father is an architect but he works for the municipality, and when you work for the municipality…
> – Your father’s a lucky man, said the man, his eyes still closed.
Now he spoke in a low voice, almost a whisper.
– Be that as it may, he continued, the profession of building houses is beautiful, much better than the profession of destroying them.
Isabella gave a little shriek of surprise.
– My god, she exclaimed, there’s a profession of destroying houses? I didn’t know that, they don’t teach that at school.
– Well, said the man, it’s not that it’s really a profession, you can also learn it in theory, like at a military academy, but then moments arrive when a certain knowledge has to be put into practice, and when all’s said and done that’s the goal, to destroy buildings.
– And you, sir, how do you know this? asked Isabella.
– I know it because I’m a soldier, answered the man, or rather I was, now I’m retired, let’s put it that way.
– So, you destroyed buildings, sir?
– What happened to tu? the man replied.
Isabella didn’t answer right away.
– The thing is, I’m naturally shy even if I don’t seem so because I talk too much, I asked you, sir, if you destroyed houses once too.
– Not personally, no, said the man, and neither did my soldiers, to be honest, mine was a war mission for peacekeeping, it’s kind of complicated to explain, especially on a day like this, but, Isabèl, I’d like to tell you one thing that maybe they didn’t tell you at school, in the end the story can be summed up like this: there are men like your father whose profession is to build houses, and men of my profession who destroy them, and things go on like this for centuries, some build houses and others destroy them, build, destroy, build, destroy, it’s a little boring, don’t you think?
Message from the Shadows Page 2
