Letter from Casablanca (12 page)

“We don’t want to involve you … It would be a special thing … Believe me, we feel terrible about having to ask you … Even if you say no to us, our friendship for you won’t
change, you know … So … Think aboul it… We don’t ask for an answer right now. We just want you to know that you’d be a great help to us.”

We went to have an ice cream at a café in the piazza. We chose a little table outdoors, far away from the people. Francisco had a tense expression. Perhaps he, too, was embarrassed. He knew that this was something that even if I refused, I would never be able to forget. Maybe he was really afraid of my possible remorse. We ordered two water ices at the cafe. We remained silent a long time, slowly sipping the ices. “There are five letters,” said Francisco, “and a sum of money for the families of the two writers who were arrested last month.” He told me their names and waited for me to speak. I said nothing and drank a little water. “I believe it’s not necessary to tell you that it’s clean money—it’s the demonstration of solidarity from three democratic Italian parties we asked for help. If you consider it relevant, I can have you meet with the representatives of the parties in question. They will confirm it to you.” I said that I did not consider it relevant.

We paid, we took a walk around the piazza. “All right,” I said. “I’ll leave in three days.” He gave me an energetic, rapid handshake, thanked me. “Now, remember what you have to do. It’s a very simple thing.” He wrote a number on a ticket. “When you arrive in Lisbon, telephone this number. If a man’s voice answers, hang up. Keep on trying until a woman’s voice answers. Then you must say, ‘A new translation of Fernando Pessoa has come out.’ She will tell you how to meet. She’s the one who keeps the exiles who live in Rome in touch with their families at home.”

It had been very easy, as Francisco had predicted. At the border they did not even have me open my suitcase. At Lisbon I stayed in the center behind the Trinity Theatre, two steps from the national library, in a small hotel where there was a cordial, talkative Algarvite concierge. At my first attempt at
telephoning, a woman’s voice had answered me, and I had said, “Good evening. I’m an Italian. I’d like to let you know that a new translation of Fernando Pessoa has come out. Perhaps it would interest you.” “Let’s meet in half an hour at Bertrand’s Bookstore,” she had replied, “in the periodical room. I’m in my forties, I have dark hair, and I’m wearing a yellow dress.”

Nuno Meneses de Sequeira received me at two o’clock in the afternoon. When I had telephoned in the morning, a servant had answered. “The Count is resting now. He can’t receive you this morning. Come by at two in the afternoon.” “But where is the lady’s body?” “I don’t know what to tell you, sir, excuse me. Come at two in the afternoon, please.” I got a room at my usual small hotel behind the Trinity Theatre, took a shower, and changed my clothes. “I haven’t seen you for some time,” the concierge told me, the cordial Algarvite. “Five months the end of February,” I said. “And your work,” he asked, “still for libraries?” “That’s my fate,” I answered.

Largo Camões was bathed in sunlight. In the little square there were pigeons perched on the head of the poet, some pensioners on the benches, shy, dignified old people, a soldier and a serving girl—the sadness of Sunday. Rua das Chagas was deserted. A rare unoccupied taxi went by. The sea breeze was not enough to alleviate the thick, damp heal. I stopped in a café to search for a little cool. It was secluded and dirty. On the ceiling the blades of an enormous fan whirred uselessly. The owner dozed behind the counter. I asked for an iced
sumo
. He waved away the flies with a rag and wearily opened the refrigerator. I had not eaten and was not hungry. I sat down at a table and lit a cigarette, waiting for the time.

Nuno Meneses de Sequeira received me in a Baroque salon with many stuccos on the ceiling and two huge gnawed tapestries on the walls. He was dressed in black, had a shiny face,
and his bald skull glistened. He was seated in an armchair of crimson velvet. When I entered, he stood up, bowed his head imperceptibly, and invited me to sit down on a divan under the window. The shutters were closed and a heavy odor of old upholstery stagnated in the room.

“How did she die?” I asked. “She had an ugly disease,” he said. “You did not know?” I shook my head. ‘“What kind of disease?” Nuno Meneses de Sequeira folded his hands on his lap. “An ugly disease,” he said. “She telephoned me in Madrid two weeks ago. She didn’t say anything to me about it, not even a hint. Did she know about it yet?” “She was already very ill, and she was well informed.” “Why didn’t she tell me anything?” “Perhaps she did not consider it opportune,” said Nuno Meneses de Sequeira. “I would be grateful if you did not come to the funeral. It will be strictly private.” “I had no intention of doing so,” I reassured him. “I am grateful to you,” he murmured faintly.

The silence in the room became tangible, uncomfortable. “May I see her?” I asked. Nuno Meneses de Sequeira looked at me a long time, ironically, I thought. “It is impossible,” he said. “She is at the Cuf Clinic. She died there, and then the doctor ordered the casket closed. It was not possible to leave it open, given the conditions.”

I thought of leaving. I wondered why he had telephoned me, even if it had been Maria do Carmo’s wish, what the purpose was in having me come to Lisbon. There was something that escaped me, or maybe there was nothing strange. The situation was simply painful, and it was useless to prolong it further. But Nuno Meneses de Sequeira had not finished talking. He kept his hands on the arms of the armchair as if he were about to rise at any moment. He had watery eyes and an expression that was tense, ill-tempered, or perhaps it was the nervous tension that he must have felt. “You never understood her,” he said. “You are too young. You were much younger than Maria do Carmo.” “And you were much
older,” I would have liked to say, but I kept quiet. “You work in philology, ah, ah.” He made a little laugh. “Libraries are your life. You could not understand such a woman.” “Please explain yourself,” I said. Nuno Meneses de Sequeira stood up, went to the window, opened the shutters slightly. “I would like to dispel an illusion,” he said, “that of your having known Maria do Carmo. You knew only a fictional Maria do Carmo.” “Please explain yourself,” I repeated.

“Well,” smiled Nuno Meneses de Sequeira, “I imagine Maria do Carmo must have told you a tearful story of her unhappy childhood in New York, a republican father who died heroically in the Spanish Civil War. You will do well to listen to me, dear sir. I have never been to New York in my life. Maria do Carmo is the daughter of large landowners. She had a golden childhood. Fifteen years ago, when I met her, she was twenty-seven years old and was the most courted woman in Lisbon. I had returned from a diplomatic mission in Spain, and we both had our love for our country in common.” He paused as if to give greater weight to his words. “Love for our country,” he repeated. “I do not know if I make myself understood.” “It depends in which sense you use the word,” I said. Nuno Meneses de Sequeira adjusted the knot in his tie, drew out from his pocket a handkerchief, assumed an attitude both dry and patient. “You will do well to listen to me. Maria do Carmo liked a game very much. She played it all her life. We always played it by mutual consent.” I made a gesture with my hand as if to prevent him from continuing, but he went on: “She must have reached her backwards side.” In a room far away a pendulum clock struck. “Unless she reached the backwards side of her backwards side,” I said. Nuno Meneses de Sequeira smiled again. “How beautiful,” he said. “Indeed, it could be a sentence by Maria do Carmo. It is logical that you believe this hypothesis, even if it is a presumption, believe me.” There was a vein of contempt in his soft voice. I remained
silent, my eyes lowered, looking at the carpet. It was an Arraiolos carpet of deep blue with some gray peacocks.

“I am distressed that you oblige me to be more explicit,” continued Nuno Meneses de Sequeira. “I assume that you like Pessoa.” ‘I like him very much,” I admitted. “Then perhaps you are also aware of his translations that go abroad.” “What do you mean?” I asked. “Nothing special,” he said. “Only this: Maria do Carmo received many translations from abroad. You understand me, do you not?” “I don’t understand you,” I said. “Let us say that you do not want to understand me,” Nuno Meneses de Sequeira corrected me, “that you prefer not to understand me, and I understand that you prefer not to understand me. Reality is unpleasant and you prefer dreams. I beg you not to insist on details—details are always so vulgar. Let us limit ourselves to the concept.”

From the window came the sound of a siren. Perhaps a ship had entered the harbor. Immediately I felt an immense desire to be one of the passengers on that ship, to enter the harbor of an unknown city called Lisbon, and to have to telephone an unknown woman to tell her that a new translation of Fernando Pessoa had come out, and that woman was called Maria do Carmo. She would come to Bertrand’s Bookstore wearing a yellow dress, she loved the
fado
and Sephardic food, and I already knew all this. But that passenger, who was I and who was gazing at Lisbon from the deck of the ship, did not know it yet, and everything would be identical and new for him. And this was
saudade
. Maria do Carmo was right—it’s not a word, it’s a category of the spirit. In its way it, too, was backwards.

Nuno Meneses de Sequeira observed me in silence. He seemed calm and satisfied. “Today is the first day of Maria do Carmo’s new life,” I said. “You could at least concede a truce.” He nodded his head imperceptibly as if in assent, as if to say, “That’s really what I wanted to propose to you.” And
then I said, “I believe we have nothing further to say to each other.” He rang a bell and a servant in a striped jacket appeared. “Domingos, the gentleman is leaving.” The servant stepped aside at the door so that I could precede him. “Ah—one moment,” said Nuno Meneses de Sequeira. “Maria do Carmo left you this.” He extended a letter that, was on a little silver tray on a small table next to his armchair. I look it and put it in my pocket. When I was at the door, Nuno Meneses de Sequeira said something else to me. “I feel sorry for you,” he said. “The feeling is mutual,” I said, though probably with a different nuance. I walked down the stone stairs, went out into the afternoon light of Lisbon. A taxi drove by and I hailed it.

In the hotel I opened the letter. On a sheet of white paper was written, in capital letters and without accents, the word
SEVER
. I reversed it mechanically in my mind and then under it I, loo, wrote with a pencil, in capitals and without accents,
REVES
. I meditated for a moment on that ambiguous word, which could be Spanish or French and have two absolutely different meanings. I thought that I had no desire to return to Madrid. I would have a check sent from Italy and would write to the Madrid hotel to send my luggage. I telephoned the front desk and asked the concierge to find an agency. I needed a plane ticket for the next day, the airline was not important, the first available flight. “What, are you leaving already?” asked the concierge. “You’ve never had such a short visit before.” “What time is it?” I asked. “It’s five-fifteen by my watch, sir.” “Well, then, wake me for supper, around nine.” I undressed calmly, closed the shutters. The sheets were cool. Again the faraway wail of a siren reached me, muffled by the pillow on which I rested my head.

Perhaps Maria do Carmo had finally achieved her backwards side. I wished for her that it was as she had desired, and thought that the Spanish word and the French one perhaps coincided at one point. It seemed to me that this was the
vanishing point of a perspective, as when the perspective lines of a picture are drawn. And at that moment the siren wailed again, the ship docked, I went slowly down the gangplank and began to walk along the quays. The harbor was completely deserted. The quays were the perspective lines that verged toward the vanishing point of a picture. The picture was
The Young Ladies in Waiting
by Velásquez. The figure in the background, on which the lines of the quays converged, had that melancholy, enigmatic expression that was impressed on my memory. And how funny—that figure was Maria do Carmo in her yellow dress. I was saying to her, “I understand why you have that expression, why you see the backwards side of the picture. What do you see from that point? Tell me. Wait for me to come, too. I’m coming to see now.” And I walked toward that point. And at that moment. I found myself in another dream.

Born in Pisa in 1943, Antonio Tabucchi studied at the University of Pisa and did research at the Scuola Normale there. He currently teaches Portuguese Language and Literature at the University of Genoa and is married to Maria José de Lancastre, with whom he translated and edited the Italian edition of the works of Fernando Pessoa (
Una sola moltitudine
, 1979) for Adelphi. He has two children and lives for most of the year at his home at Vecchiano in the Tuscan countryside, although he also spends long periods in Lisbon, which he regards as his adoptive city. As part of the “European Foundation Libraries in Extra-European Countries” project (sponsored by the Gulbenkian Foundation in Lisbon and the University of Genoa), Tabucchi has made extensive research trips to Latin America and India.

Antonio Tabucchi made his debut as a novelist with
Piazza d’Italia
(Bompiani, 1975). This winner of the I’lnedito Prize was followed by
11 piccolo naviglio
(Mondadori, 1978), and
II gioco del rovescio
(II Saggiatore, 1981), which won the Pozzale-Luigi Russo Prize. Two additional books,
Donna di Porto Pun
and
Notturno indiano
, were published by Sellerio in 1983 and 1984, respectively. Tabucchi’s most recent collection of stories,
Piccoh equivoci senza importanza
. was published
by Feltrinelli in 1985 and won the prestigious Comisso Prize for that year. Tabucchi’s work has been translated into German, Spanish, Portuguese, Polish, and Hungarian. This edition of his prize-winning
Il gioco del rovescio
(here titled
Letter from Casablanca
) marks his first appearance in English.