God is in the details, a Jewish scholar said, a philologist, I think. But so’s the Devil. It was a summer day, blue, Tristano remembers, even the city he remembers as blue, though it was actually a rose-colored city, with pink and yellow buildings all along the moats and ancient walls by the sea. The buildings crowded along the bulwarks had sheets hanging out the windows to dry, like white flags, and they were snapping that day in the northwest wind. And Tristano, when he’d go see Taddeo, rode his red motorcycle, because he liked riding his motorcycle along the coast, the road just outside the city sloped down, winding sharply around rocky cliffs where tamarisk and prickly pear grew, and from there you could enjoy the vast panorama, the sky-blue sea, with sailboats on the horizon, and after a few curves, Taddeo’s pensione came into view. Not a real pensione, though; it was called Taddeo Zimmer, a low structure that Taddeo had put up with his own two hands, right below the cliffs, by a short, pebble beach. Eight small rooms with a kitchenette and bath, each with its own terrace divided from the others by privet shrubs in terracotta pots, to give the Germans – the Krauts, Taddeo called them – a sense of being in the Mediterranean, as he liked to say. He’d become a great friend of the krauts, and they were devoted clients, because Taddeo’s pensione was modest and his customers were mainly workers from the Ruhr Valley, and at night they’d sit with Taddeo and play cards. Taddeo had killed many Germans. He counted his kills in a filthy notebook, in German, jotting down the hour and place, ein, zwei, drei, vier, fünf, sechs, sieben, and next to those he’d killed with the highest military rank, he put three small stars like in the Michelin Guide. Taddeo and Tristano first met a few years before in those mountains behind them. Taddeo was a small wild boy who lived in the woods with his family of foresters, exterminated by the SS that the Republicans had guided into the woods. Hidden in the oak trees in front of their house, he’d witnessed their murder from a distance, through tortured, wild eyes, while he stood among the branches. But during the retreat, one of the Nazis left his squad to find a fresh egg in the chicken coop; Taddeo waited behind a holm-oak, and when the soldier went by, smashed his face in with a knotty branch. Then he took the soldier’s Maschinenpistole and climbed the slopes to join the partisans. By now, they didn’t have much to say to each other, he and Taddeo. The reality was he went to Taddeo’s because he enjoyed riding his motorcycle along that steep road to the sea, a road filled with wind and different scents … And now we’ve come to the detail. Instead of going by motorcycle that day, Tristano went by bus. Why? I couldn’t say. In the piazza that stretched out behind the moats, between the Mussolini-era post office and the first piers of the port, there was a small market of fresh-caught fish. Tristano was wandering by the fish still flopping in crates when he suddenly felt the urge to see Taddeo, the bus stop was nearby – it was just like that. He bought the proper fish for Taddeo to make his spicy cacciucco stew, he crossed the road, it was almost noon, only ten minutes to wait. Tristano remembers two precise sounds, as if he were hearing them now, the noon bells ringing and the bus honking its horn, announcing its arrival, right on schedule. And then a voice murmured in his ear: Glenn Miller’s more cheerful than Schubert. Tristano swung round, and all he could manage to say was, what are you doing here, where’d you come from, why aren’t you back in America? I’ve been waiting for you, Rosamunda answered … I’m not making this up, writer, that’s exactly what she said, I’ve been waiting for you, which is a crazy answer, because none of this made any sense, and then she added, I’m coming with you – we have to talk. But then during the trip they didn’t exchange a word, they got off at the second stop, took the road to the small town by the shore, and reached Taddeo’s pensione. Tristano handed the fish over to the girl who did all the general maid work, because Taddeo wasn’t back yet. Marilyn asked Tristano if they could get a room. The Zimmer, like all the other Zimmer, was a room with plaster walls that were whitewashed and textured for a Mediterranean effect, and prints of old photographs were hanging, fishermen in rolled-up trousers who sat mending fish pots. A small door led to the bathroom, a closet-sized room with a toilet, sink, and showerhead fixed to the wall with a plastic curtain to pull around it. The sliding glass door led onto the terrace sheltered by privet shrubs, Tristano stepped out and lit a cigarette. They hadn’t spoken a word yet. Marilyn tiptoed over to him and draped her arms around his shoulders. What do you want? he asked. You, she said. Tristano turned and grabbed her wrists. Rosamunda, he said, this is ridiculous, you can’t pretend nothing happened, things ended badly between us, let’s not make it any worse. There was a green park bench against the low terrace wall. Marilyn sat down and crossed her legs. None of that matters anymore, Clark, she said, I swear, none of that matters. But I don’t love you anymore – and don’t call me Clark – actually, Tristano said, I never loved you. Me neither, Marilyn said, but what the body wants is something else, and it’s the same for you, I know it is, I know because I remember. Forget it, Tristano said, try a little harder, you’re good at forgetting. They had their dinner on the covered veranda that Taddeo used as a restaurant. Hardly anyone was out there, it wasn’t high season yet. Taddeo served them in silence, as if they were any two customers. They didn’t talk, either, they were listening to the waves lapping against the pebbles on the shore. It was nearly dawn before he broke the silence. I have to go to Greece, he said, there’s a woman waiting for me, I’m in love with her. Marilyn stroked his chest and whispered, if she’s waited this long, she can wait a little longer, and she hugged him tightly, first, come with me, I have to go to Spain, come with me, I was lying before: I’m in love with you. In the frame of the window, a light went by in the distance, probably a fishing boat. Maybe I am, too, Tristano said, my body is, anyway, but for now, let me sleep, I’m tired.
… Do me a favor, call Frau for me, I need my injection, if she says she already gave me one, then you do it … you should do something besides just taking down my dictation, do something concrete to earn this story, so you’ll be telling it, so you’ll become the author … but do me a favor now, call Frau for me, I need my injection, I’m afraid I’ll start complaining, and heroes can’t complain, they just turn to the gods, or drop dead without a word, just strike them in the heel, me, I don’t have any gods, and my heel’s up to my balls, I’m slowly being devoured, you’ve seen it … Hurry up, call Frau for me, and then I’ll tell you something in the style of old Ernest, that old bastard Ernest, who saw so much in life before pointing a double-barrel shotgun at his heart, I’m sure you’ll like my story, it makes sense, writer, because you like literature, call Frau for me …
You’re like Pinocchio with a belly ache, Tristano said and imitated her: hii-ick. Marilyn hiccupped twice, you’re awful, she said, it’s true, I had my own paradoxical affair: my heart was so full of this frustrated love for you, there was very little room for a man in my life, and that paradoxical situation was, paradoxically, the only one that worked for me, Clark. Don’t call me that, Tristano answered, I already told you, I’m not Clark anymore, I’m Tristano now, and I don’t understand the comparison you’re making, Guagliona, but the fact is, Cary fucked you again and again and I can’t, and maybe that’s what love is to you, Guagliona, you’ve traded the clapper for the bell, and now what is it you want from me – a child? – it’s getting late, you’re longing to desire something, but time in life isn’t in step with the time of desire, a hundred years can go by in a single day, so look for someone else, the time for Tristano has up and gone.
… I think I promised you an episode in the style of old Ernest, I’m not sure if you like his writing, but I should tell you about Pancuervo first. You’ll want to know what that is. It’s a remote place in Spain where the rain stays mainly in the plain. And no one goes there. But Tristano’s life crossed paths with Pancuervo …
… who knows when it’ll go by, the girl said, here in Spain they drop the crossing bar as if the train’s arriving in five minutes, though it might not get there till tomorrow, that’s how this country w
orks. There should be a train for Pancuervo, the man said, but maybe there aren’t more trains for Pancuervo, kaput, and maybe Pancuervo doesn’t exist, it’s a place you invented … The sun was ruthless, but inside the small café, the air was still tolerable. The curtain of beer bottle corks rippled in the warm breeze and produced a sound like Asian music. They ordered something to drink, the owner was a small, pot-bellied man with a mustache like a sad eyebrow. Strange, he said, that man has a barber’s mustache but owns a café, his mustache is all wrong. Why? the girl asked, he needs a specific kind of mustache? He sipped his beer, sure, he said, take a look at people’s features here, it’s a lesson in anthropology; in my diary, I’ve drawn a series of mustaches in various categories; there’s a whole world of mustaches in this country, take the Civil Guard: they’ve got this kind. He drew a mark on his napkin. Lawyers have this kind instead. Another mark. Judges have this kind, almost like lawyers, but not quite. University professors have this kind if they support the regime and this kind if they don’t. Landowners have this kind, and this is the mustache of the great Spanish landowner who backs the Generalissimo. Whose own mustache is like so, practically like the others, but only the Generalissimo wears this kind, so you recognize it right off … if you really think about the story of our century, it’s a story of mustaches, the German’s little clipped mustache, the Russian’s big peasant mustache … Il Duce was hairless altogether, like we Italians are, we’re only hairy in our souls, like me, but you have no idea, my girl, you think you’re hairier than I am, and you’re a hill without a blade of grass. I’d like you to grow a mustache, the girl said, at your age, it would suit you. The man smiled. So I’d look more like Clark Gable, he said, sorry, but I’m not a movie star, and I’m not your partisan comrade anymore, and stop calling me Clark – got it? He signaled the café owner who was nodding off behind the bar. Dos más, he said, pointing to a bottle of beer. Anyway, I had a hunch I’d see you again, the girl said, that I’d see you one summer night, like I predicted in my letter. What letter? he asked, I never got any letter. The girl had a vague, lost air about her, as though she were watching the flies buzzing around. My letter didn’t include that June night, when you brought me to the pensione, she said, we didn’t really come together at the pensione. But I did fuck you all night, the man said, so plenty of coming together. You’re so crass, she said. And lucky for us, you’re very refined, the man said, and your point? That tonight, we’ve really come together, the girl said, but men will never understand, you men don’t understand these things. We don’t get metaphysics, the man said. And he started laughing quietly, trying not to. Clark, please, she said. Don’t call me Clark, he said, I’m not Clark anymore, I told you already, I’m Tristano, that’s what I want, my name’s Tristano now. Tristano’s so fake, the girl answered, so artificial, I don’t like it, it’s someone else’s name, maybe your brother, you always told me you had a brother and you never told me his name, maybe it’s your brother. The man smiled and started squiggling on his wet beer glass with his finger. Now you get it, he said, I’m my brother. She tried to take his hand, but he pulled away: he wanted to draw on his glass. Tristano, she said, yesterday you told me there are all different ways and levels of falling in love, and we’d feel less guilty if each of us took half the blame. He swore. Stop being so crass, she said, it doesn’t suit you; you know, Cary never tried to hold on to me, he loved me, or rather, he wanted what was best for me, or what I thought was best for me, he grew so terribly sad, but you see everyone as plotting against you, and you take your revenge in your own way, and always up the ante. The man dug in his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. He read to her: because Cary never tried to hold on to me or see me again, he loved me, or rather, he wanted what was best for me, or what I thought was best for me … he grew so terribly sad, and I was the cause of that pain, understand? He looked at her. Excuse me, my dear, he said, but you’re repeating yourself, they’re the same exact words from this letter, we’re in Spain, the crossing bar is down, the train might never come and the schedule’s off, and you, off-schedule, are repeating some loudspeaker warning about a canceled train – why? Because Cary was unhappy, she said, and I was really in love, that’s why: for me, it was like finding a home at last, and one night he phoned me, he said, please come, I need you, for me, it was like finding a home, I’m a poor drifter, American, an East-coast girl from a lower middle-class family, with a notary for a father and an idiot for a mother, you wouldn’t understand, Clark. Don’t call me Clark, the man said, and cut the bullshit – your father’s Sicilian and emigrated to Brooklyn, and the Americans took him with them when they landed in Sicily because he could provide contacts with the right godfathers – you know what I’m talking about – they sent you both on missions, you each had your specific duties, and as for Cary, well, I don’t know, he’s a sinister character, but that’s your business, it’s your life. He was the one freedom I allowed myself, the girl said, and you only live once. The owner came to clean the table and flicked the flies away with his rag. The train left, he said, it arrived and left again, perhaps you two didn’t realize, it was the train for Pancuervo. Freedom’s a supple word, the man said, you know, Guagliona, I keep asking myself if it’s the same word when I use it, maybe so, but a word in one person’s mouth is different in the mouth of another. The girl checked her watch. Clark, she said, what freedoms are you defending? The man looked out the window. The landscape was bleak, the hills were like white elephants. Let’s do an already-been-there, he said, you’re not the one who has to have an abortion, not to mention, my seed’s never taken hold – and it’s late besides – I’m the one who has to have an abortion, you know, I’m starting to think I was confused over the freedom I defended, and I’ve come with you to understand it better, why you’re trying to pull me into this ugly business, you’re all pretty simple, but that doesn’t make you any less dangerous, you’re all so simple you think if someone didn’t support communism, then Francisco Franco’s fine, and I really want to understand what your Marshall Plan consists of, if this is what it’s about. It does benefit me, personally, Marilyn said, I found a do-gooder, his seed’s taken hold, and I have no intention of getting an abortion – sorry to change the ending to your little story alla Hemingway. More bullshit, I’m sure, Tristano said, you’ve gone round the bend. He slapped some coins on the table. Maybe I’ll go home, he said, I’m not enjoying this little charade. She took his hand. You never get it, she said, it’s like you close your eyes at all the important parts – it’s true – it’s bullshit – but I need you, I need you to protect me, please, Tristano, I need you to protect me.
Tristano, Guagliona said, what are you doing, tell me; she was staring off to the sea that reflected in her eyes. Tristano spread wide his arms to embrace the horizon. I should defend freedom, he told her, the freedom I’ve gone looking for, and that I hold dear, but the truth is I’m not sure what freedom is anymore, now I’ve been dragged into something that doesn’t concern me – I don’t know – when we were in the mountains it was all so clear, or it seemed that way at least, and now nothing’s clear, and I’d like to understand … Sorry, a little aside: you should tell Frau I don’t want any morphine right now, but I need some ergotamine, I have a splitting headache, or maybe I’m just afraid I’ll get one, it’s probably on the dresser, see if you can find it, a bottle of pills … If I had to say where the conversation I was discussing took place, and especially, when it took place, that would be a real problem, writer. But that’s your fault, too – you never help me out at all – you don’t utter a word, never ask me anything, true, you’re following the orders I gave you when I called: not a peep out of you, I said, come, write, and not a peep out of you … but now you’re being too obedient, if I drop the thread, then come up behind me, the years are piling up, places, too; sometimes, all I need from you is a quick observation, a question to help steer me straight … help me out … I think you’re doing it on purpose, out of spite, you’re spiteful, too, in your own way;
you said to yourself: this old bag of bones is so arrogant, thinks it’s a privilege for me to write his life, and treats me like a goddamned idiot, all right, let’s see if he’ll give up finally and ask for help, ask me to lend a hand, shed some light on things, help him unravel some of his memories … that’s what you thought, right?, and now you’re waiting for me to start groveling … please … please, you know the basic outlines of my life, what I mean by this is where I was in forty-nine or fifty-four or sixty-seven or sixty-nine, when the first bomb struck, the first massacre, and so, seeing that you have these essential coordinates down, which I can’t keep track of because I’m confused, you could lend a hand. Is that what you want to hear? Well, I’m not going to say it … I don’t want a thing from you, I don’t need your help, I can take care of myself, Tristano said he had to go to Greece, it was when it was, what do I care? – and why should you? – what’s important is that Rosamunda wanted him to go to Spain with her; she said, come with me. He thought Guagliona was kidding around, so he started kidding around; why not? he answered, we’ll take a fancy car, a nice white Balilla, we’ll drive over the Pyrenees, the drive will be refreshing, beautiful, lots of winding roads, and I’ll stop at a lookout point where you can admire the most beautiful mountains, you’ll even be able to see Marmolada, where your American uncle used to take you on romantic strolls and had you lean on the alpenstock he kept in his trousers, and when I’m in the mood, I’ll tell you about a gifted French writer who was also a real louse. But my uncle’s you, Rosamunda says, silly Clark, you haven’t figured it out yet, you’re here, you’re telling me all this because I came to listen, you have a high fever, poor Clark, your leg’s being eaten away by gangrene, you’re on morphine and you didn’t realize my uncle’s you … sorry if under these circumstance, I thought I was your uncle … what time is it?… was I saying something?… be patient, maybe I fell asleep and I was talking in my sleep, Guagliona sometimes lays traps for me, you know? – she asks questions that catch me by surprise, she thinks my sense of my own identity has disappeared, as if I didn’t know that I was the Tristano they once called Commander Clark, who became a hero … it’s just that for a moment I lost consciousness and thought I was her uncle, and I was about to ask her how her American uncle is doing, I mean the handsome Cary, because I’m the one who calls him her American uncle, and you know what, I still remember how she’d answer, he’s great, she’d say, he has a new wife, and he’s dedicated a lyric poem to her that he sent out to relatives as a Christmas card along with a polaroid snapshot … oh, writer, I can just see them laughing like idiots in that white Balilla because Tristano said the line on the card could only be oh wife my wife, and then Guagliona continued: prepare the pot for the naughty little boy I’ve caught … but you mustn’t think this ended in laughter, no, no, of course it’s not that easy, Guagliona wanted to know more, insisted on knowing who that louse of a writer was that he’d mentioned in the Pyrenees. Tristano kept being vague about it, said he was one who’d journeyed to the belly of the night, and Guagliona, alarmed: he isn’t in favor of totalitarian regimes, is he? Guagliona fixated on these things; when she parachuted in she told us the first thing you see when you arrive in New York is the Statue of Liberty … spare me the lesson, Rosamunda, it’s true – we’re drawn to one another, like two magnets, but that’s all it is – you’re the type who says one thing and does another, I’m very aware of this because in this bed where I’m rotting away, I know your past that’ll be your future that I’m telling this writer, so let it be, and don’t get too nitpicky, and as to the writer I said was a real louse, just be patient and listen, it’s just a question of various points of view and needing to see the whole field, like this vast panorama we have before us … Be patient, my friend, I really can’t remember anything more now, really, it’s like everything’s gone white, even so, I still want to talk, talking distracts me from my headache … I have a headache … I’ve gotten these things for such a long time … since the Abderites said Tristano was out of his mind … well, sure, he was so out of his mind his head exploded, just his head, but really, it was the boy who exploded … no one’s ever understood headaches, the symptoms, sure, of course, and the problem of headaches, how to deal with them, how to get rid of them, but why vasodilation even exists, that’s a mystery; it seems to be something neurovegetative, or psychosomatic, what they say these days; when I was younger, I wound up pounding my head against the wall … Listen, I’m going to make up the rest of the story, just to keep myself talking – see – at least I’m being honest, I’m admitting that I’m going to make things up, let’s have Tristano lay his picnic out on the stone table right in the middle of the overlook, beneath two fir trees, with the horizon stretched out before them … Keep in mind, we’re in the Pyrenees … the French are a clever bunch: when there’s a panorama to admire they clear a space for you to park, they build a picnic shelter and bathrooms for monsieur and madame, put in two stone tables, and families can stop and eat and look out at the free, French Republican panorama, and everyone’s content. Even Tristano seemed content, even without a family, he laid out a paper tablecloth and paper plates that he bought at a supermarket in Saint-Jean-de-Luz, the plates had phrases on them from famous writers or titles of famous books, and the plates he’d bought were covered with the line, le meilleur des mondes possibles, and at the center was a portrait sketched in deep blue of the inventor of these literary plates, a gentleman who looked like an imbecile, his cheek resting on his hand, a lock of what seemed to be toupee hair resting on his forehead. The brand name, in small letters on the rim, said, se nourrir de littérature. Guagliona, Tristano said, I have this feeling we might be ahead of our time. You’re the one ahead, she answered, you and time don’t get along too well, sometimes you go backwards, sometimes you jump around, you’re not too consistent. Tristano smiled, because the view was pleasant, and also because the view seemed to be smiling, smiling at everyone who passed that way, it was important to notice, and Tristano noticed, and smiled back … Evening was falling over that smiling Pyrenean valley and the light was turning slightly blue, and Tristano was enjoying the serene night air and said he loved that writer who was so infested and mean, because that writer had actually become a louse, had sucked men’s blood and understood it was filthy and then he said, oh, evening was dear to him when it came, because he had a real soft spot for that poem. Guagliona nodded because apparently when evening came, it was dear to her as well, and then she wanted to know, if he called that writer a louse and thought he was so negative and hopeless, then why did he like him? And Tristano stared down at his now dirty paper plate with its quote from Voltaire, you know, he said, it’s because he dove headlong into the shit of this century of ours, and diving into shit takes courage; look, when we get to Spain, I’ll make you live an as-if, then if you feel like it, you can read it to yourself, but with me, you’ll live it as if we’re on the page, you’ll see, there’s a level crossing, a train that never comes, a still afternoon and a still life, and a man and a woman who sit drinking beer and watching flies, they’ve both had an abortion, the two of them, in their own way, and behind that crossing bar, there are hills like white elephants, a cemetery of elephants with vitiligo …
Tristano Dies Page 6