Message from the Shadows

by Antonio Tabucchi

  He returned to the compartment where his traveling companion had fallen asleep with her knitting on her lap. He sat down and took out a notebook. If he wanted to, he could imitate Alice’s handwriting with a certain approximation. He thought of writing a note as she might have written it, composed around his absurd hypotheses. He wrote: Stephen and our child died in a car accident in Minnesota. I can’t live in America anymore. Please, Cat, comfort me at this terrible moment of my life. A tragic hypothesis, with a grief-stricken Alice who has understood the meaning of life, thanks to a terrible fate. Or a breezy, self-assured Alice, with a hint of cynicism: That life had become hell, an unbearable prison, let that big baby Stephen take care of the kid, they’re two of a kind, so long, America. Or a note somewhere between maudlin and sentimental, in romance-novel style: Despite all the time that has passed, you never left my heart. I can’t live without you anymore. Believe me, your Alice, a slave to love.

  He tore the page out of the notebook, crumpled it into a ball and stuck it in the ashtray. He looked out the window and saw a flock of birds flying over a stretch of water. They had already passed Orbetello, so this was Alberese. For Grosseto it would only be about ten minutes more. His heart raced again and he felt a kind of anxiety, like when you realize you’re late. But the train was right on time, and he was on it, so he was on time too. Only he hadn’t expected to be arriving so soon, his own self was running late. In his bag he had a linen jacket and a tie, but it seemed ridiculous to get off the train looking all spruced up, he was fine in shirtsleeves. With that heat besides. The train swerved brusquely at a switch point and the car swayed. The last car always sways more, it’s always a little annoying, but at Termini station he hadn’t felt like going all the way to the front of the platform and had slipped into the last car, partly hoping that there would be fewer people in it. His traveling companion’s head bobbed affirmatively, as if nodding her approval, but it was only the rocking effect, because she went on sleeping peacefully.

  He put the notebook away, straightened his slightly rumpled shirt, ran a comb through his hair again, and zippered up the bag. Through the window in the corridor he could see the first buildings of Grosseto and the train began to slow down. He tried to imagine how Alice would look, but by then there was no time left for such hypotheses; he should have considered them before, maybe it would have passed the time more enjoyably. Her hair, he thought, how will she be wearing her hair? She used to wear it long, but maybe she cut it, yes, she definitely must have cut it, long hair is no longer in style now. He imagined her dress would be white, for some reason.

  3

  The train entered the station and stopped. He stood up and lowered the window shade. He peeked out through the crack, but he was too far from the station building, he couldn’t see anything. He got his tie and took his time knotting it, then put on his jacket. He looked at himself in the mirror and smiled slowly. It was better. He heard the stationmaster’s whistle and the shutting of the doors. Then he raised the shade, lowered the window, and stood there. As the platform began to slide slowly alongside the moving train, he leaned out to see who was there. The passengers who had gotten off were filing into the underpass; under the projecting roof of the station platform were an old woman dressed in black, holding a child by the hand, a porter sitting on his baggage cart, and an ice-cream vendor in a white jacket, the ice-cream chest slung over his shoulder. He thought, it’s not possible. It’s not possible that she wouldn’t be there, under the platform canopy, with short hair and a white dress. He rushed out into the corridor to lean out the other window, but by then the train had left the station behind and was on its way again; he only had time to glimpse the sign GROSSETO as it was moving away. It’s not possible, he thought again, she must have been in the café-bar. She couldn’t stand this heat and she went into the café-bar, so sure was she that I’d come. Or else she was in the underpass, propped against the wall, with her absent yet astonished gaze of an eternal Alice in Wonderland, her hair still long and slightly ruffled, wearing the same blue sandals that he had given her one time at the shore, and she would tell him: I dressed like this, like old times, just for you.

  He walked down the corridor in search of the conductor. He found him in the first compartment, sorting some papers: evidently the man had come on board with the new shift and hadn’t yet begun his round to check tickets. Looking in, he inquired when there would be a train going back. The conductor looked at him with a slightly puzzled expression and asked: back where? In the opposite direction, he said, back to Rome. The conductor began leafing through the timetables. There would be one in Campiglia, but I don’t know if you’d make it in time to catch it, or…He studied the schedule more carefully and asked: do you want an express or would a local be all right? He thought about it and didn’t answer immediately. It doesn’t matter, he said then, you can tell me later, there’s plenty of time.

  Translated by Anne Milano Appel

  Night, Sea, or Distance

  There, from where things originate, they return, each paying the punishment of having come according to the unjust ordering of time.

  – Anaximander

  Every time he imagined how that night might have gone, he’d hear Tadeus’s voice, nasal and ironic, making one of those comments of his that meant everything and nothing: because it’s a good viaticum. And immediately everything would start to take shape, outlines would emerge: the Jardim do Príncipe Real, with its ancient tree and ring of yellow houses, the narrow street a tram rattled over, that cold evening of a far-off year, November, 1969, that third-floor room, tiny, crammed with books, and his friends in that room, the four of them, their faces back then, already grown men and women, sure, but they always looked younger in those days, who knows why, maybe it was how they dressed or wore their hair, anyway, they were kids, barely twenty, the four of them, full of hope and goodwill, there to speak with the famous poet, practically an old man now, who, in his youth was bellicose, ferocious, but then his will bent to events, to life, his ferocity turned to sarcasm and disappointment, and when it came to battles, he’d developed the skepticism of one who’d fought and lost and now believed the fight was in vain.

  And at times, when he imagined that night, he even tried to avoid Tadeus’s insidious comment; as if a strange reluctance, almost nausea, pushed him toward the final outcome, toward the breakdown and pain the victims would have to go through; and then he saw them already out on the street, that poor group of kids, saying goodnight to each other, then one of them telling a joke or saying one last thing, still three or four minutes like this, just by chance, no real reason for it that night, and just then the car would come, inescapable, for that rendezvous awaiting them, for that experience they truly had to go through, because they were the ones who’d gone through it. But also just then and just as inescapable, came Tadeus’s comment, almost meaningless yet devious, if you really thought about it, and then his imagination, the imagination of the one who, after so much time, was imagining that night, would push the four friends backwards, like a film projected in reverse, and he saw them climb the stairs backwards, return to Tadeus’s landing, reenter the apartment, that’s it: they were in the doorway, ready to leave again, everything taking shape again, and they had to relive the preamble, the introit to what they went through that night, they were in the doorway saying goodnight to the old poet, after an evening spent talking about poetry.

  Because it’s a good viaticum, Tadeus would repeat, one of those comments of his that meant everything and nothing. Is it poetry that’s a good viaticum? – but a viaticum for what – that would remain a mystery to them all: already in the doorway, coats on now, then goodnight, right, kids, bye, Luisa, Tiago, Tadeus, au revoir Michel, but then someone said: to night, sea, faraway. Maybe it really was Tiago, who was always returning to conversations that seemed finished, one of his traits, apparently referring to the viaticum, they all understood this, and it was also this, for some reason, that made one
of them shut the door again. There’s still another glass, what a pity not to finish Michel’s bottle, you always arrive with a bottle, Michel, come help finish it off, but then, that isn’t exactly the line, it would have to be: to night, sea, distance – not faraway – distance – there is a difference, said Tadeus. But that’s not why they stayed, to go back to one of the books of poetry they’d read from that night, to check a line that was actually: if it’s night, sea, or distance. No, they all knew they were staying for something else, because outside it really was night, sea, or distance, and Tiago’s comment had revealed something they all felt but no one had the courage to express: a discomfort, like a slight illness; not fear; no, more a mix of insecurity and longing, like feeling exiled in their own city and feeling homesick for their real city, which was the same city, but at a different moment, not that hostile evening, not that night, with its dark, pulsing waves ready to break. This is what they’d felt in the doorway, while they were saying goodnight; and so they took off the coats they’d just put on and reentered that small room crammed with books. Tadeus didn’t expect much more than their complicity in staying up to the early hours: when he read poetry, he’d lose all notion of time. He said: it’s like when I write poetry, time goes fsssss, like a deflating balloon, I’m in a world with no atmosphere, a vacuum – when I read it, too – don’t you find it has the same effect? He threw himself into an armchair, book in hand, and went: fsssss!, and they all laughed, because at that moment, Tadeus was acting like a kid, which he was good at. Not that he was old, but he definitely showed his fifty years, with the life he’d had. And now he was acting like a twenty-year-old, like the other twenty-year-olds. He went: fssssss, and said: that’s my soul leaking everywhere, my soul wants out, it just needs a hole, or it’ll suffocate. And the others laughed because they knew what he meant. And because laughter was called for that night. Now and then a car went by, the streetlights were off, a police ploy for keeping the subversives from gathering outside; the only light on the entire street came from the entranceway of the Adega Val do Rio and then further on, the Guitarra Dourada, with a neon guitar, one string burned out, and below, also in neon: CRUSTÁCEOS E MARISCOS. Tiago went to the window and said it felt like curfew, and then he placed his hand on his chest, like he was taking a strange oath or something was weighing on him, and he said: they won’t get to win this time, they won’t be able to rig these elections, too. But then he turned toward the glass and whispered: why would they let us win? – they’ve been in control for forty years. And then someone laughed, who can say, maybe no one, maybe just a sigh that sounded like nervous laughter, and at that moment there came a siren’s distant wail, ambulance or police, and Joana, perhaps wanting to cover up that grim sound, said: maybe we could read some more, and she looked around, her eyes anxious, the eyes of a young woman who wanted to believe in life and poetry, and her hands nervous, perhaps because she sensed that the others understood her entreaty but just couldn’t do it, couldn’t find any hope or illusion in reading lines of poetry.

  It had reached that point, the evening. Still early, though it felt more like the middle of the night; and the early evening was still present, still filled that space, and had formed a stagnant pool, a curse, like a spell to be broken, that made the people within those walls feel like captives. Who knows if one of them moved to break the spell, and if it was Tiago or Michel, who can say, and maybe, it was because he mysteriously sensed the spell holding them captive that he uttered those words as an incantation, raising his glass, with a voice that should have been full of good cheer but instead was grim: to November 1969, the month of the fall of Salazarism. Strange how November seemed present, conjured by those words. It had been a clear October day, and they spent it on the beach, with a picnic of fruit and sandwiches. Someone got up the nerve to dive into the ocean, the sun was hot and on the way home they felt their faces burning. And now, suddenly, you could feel November, could hear the trees rustling in the botanical garden, a nasty wind had risen, whistling in the cracks, and leaves flew past the windows.

  They should toast again, they sensed it, to the newly printed book that lay on the table, a small book of poems that Tadeus had picked up that night from the printers so he could read to them before it was published; but he seemed to be avoiding that toast, as though he felt embarrassed or reluctant or slightly ashamed for writing those poems and getting them published that November full of others’ illusions when he had no illusions left, a month already marked by defeat, which no one should pin their hopes on. Until someone, maybe Luisa or Joana, or maybe both, by strange coincidence, owing to a shyness that often results in trite phrases, raised their glasses and said in unison: to poetry. And Tadeus muttered, his voice nasal and ironic: because it’s a good viaticum.

  And just then, the one imagining how that night might have gone suddenly realized that Tadeus’s words were creating a vicious cycle; because it was then that the friends, detecting a hint of goodbye in those words, slipped on their coats, went to the door, opened it, stood there a moment saying goodnight, and just then, as if it were a goodbye, an incantation, an ironic omen, Tadeus repeated: because it’s a good viaticum. And then someone responded: to night, sea, or faraway; maybe Tiago, and it was also because of this, who knows why, but someone was shutting the door again and Tadeus was saying: there’s still another glass, what a pity not to finish Michel’s bottle.

  And everything began again, in the imagination of the one imagining that night, like a pantomime or witch’s spell: from the door to the armchairs, from the armchairs to the door, like poor creatures, bewitched and condemned to senseless repetition, forced to mime and run through yet again the prelude to the horrible experience awaiting them in the night, that an imagination didn’t have the courage to make them endure the way they had to endure.

  Until: enough. Now they’ve left, are finally headed down the stairs, the lightbulb on the second-floor landing is burned out, someone trips, someone laughs, Tiago, stop pushing (that’s Luisa or Joana), oh, stop being such little old ladies (that’s Tiago), and finally they’re on the main floor, the button pushed that operates the lock, a click, and now they’re outside, ah, finally free from the vicious circle of a comment holding them captive in the imagination of the one imagining how that night might have gone; finally outside, in the night, standing in front of the dimly lit Príncipe Real garden, almost no one passing, no, no one was out there, like a real curfew, a phantom city all around, barred windows, and them on the sidewalk, saying goodnight, a harmless joke or two, trying to rid themselves of the evening’s gloom still clinging to them like a damp veil.

  The car approached, headlights off, silently, and by the time they noticed, it had already pulled deftly to the curb, window partway down, dark inside, impossible to see the driver, just a gun barrel pointed in their direction, just barely shifting, in small ticks, taking aim at each of them in turn as if trying to decide which one to shoot. And then a very deep, calm voice: hold it right there, boys and girls, just stay where you are, but turn and face the wall, and raise your tiny hands. That’s what the voice said exactly – your tiny hands – and there was a hard violence to that strange diminutive, they heard it, something horrific and evil that hit them in the back and made them tremble, like a blast of icy wind. They stayed like that for some time, staring at the wall, hard to say how long, but long, it felt endless, and absurd: a few minutes before, talking about poetry, and now an unfamiliar voice and a pistol pinning them to the wall. Now your jackets, the voice commanded, one at a time, and back up. Tiago was first, held his jacket out, arm extended, not turning around, as though trying to avoid any contact with that menacing figure. He heard the jacket being turned inside out, heard coins and keys falling, said: there’s nothing in my jacket, if you want money, it’s in my pants pocket. The laughter he heard was almost pleasant, and then the voice, cutting: you communist faggot – did you think I was a thief? And Tiago found the strength to ask: then who are you, and what do y
ou want? And the voice: you’ll find out later, little rat. The hand out the car window was rummaging through both boys’ jackets, then afterwards, dropped each into the gutter between the sidewalk and the car. And now your purses, little ladies, said the voice. To Joana: you first, princess, I’m curious to dig through your little secrets, with that Virgin-Mary air of yours, I bet you’ve got plenty of little secrets in that purse, don’t you? The hand thrust into the purse, a fat hand, the back slightly puffy, with short, strong fingers.

  And at that moment, the seabass came. A fat, shiny, oily seabass writhing in the dark depths like the darkness of the car threatening the victims of the night: out the window, along with that swollen, stumpy-fingered hand, there was now a gasping seabass. So odd, a hand and a seabass out the window of a black car on Rua Dom Pedro Quinto on a November night in 1969.

  But this came from the imagination of the one thinking about how that night might have gone. And so, just then, his imagination produced a seabass. And stranger still: this seemed fitting, in the middle of this dismal, quasi-curfewed night, with a drizzling rain starting and leaves blowing about, it only seemed fitting that out the window of that menacing car, there was now a seabass. Plop. Out slipped the fish, down into the gutter between the car and sidewalk, into the same spot where the hand pointing the pistol had dropped the boys’ jackets and the girls’ handbags. And there, in the filthy gutter, the seabass lay, almost still, just a weak twitch of the tail now, and a gasping mouth. It was dying. A fat, gasping, dying seabass. Don’t touch it! Tiago shouted. He shouted at Joana, who’d knelt and taken the fish in her arms, foolishly, like she was cradling a baby. Don’t touch it, Tiago repeated, it’s filthy! But Joana didn’t seem to hear his cry of disgust and alarm. We can’t let this poor animal die, she said, bewildered; and Tiago continued: I’m not a communist, I’m a democrat, and I want to know who you are right now; and the voice in the car squealed, look who’s talking, then screamed: you democrat faggot – did you think I was a thief?