… I’d like to speak of this memory, but it’s so faded now, I can still just recall the eyes: blue, I think they were … that’s what the Greek poet says … he got it right … he wrote poems about the voice and lost his own … died of throat cancer … great poems … he liked men … if Tristano had met him … if their lives had coincided, if he hadn’t loved women exclusively, if that’s what he liked, a man like that, he could have loved him the way that poet wanted to be loved, because he was so fond of him … too many ifs: you can’t do life over … but I was speaking of eyes, luckily everything becomes a tune when you reach the point where all you can do is stare at the ceiling … j’ai la mémoire qui flanche, je me souviens plus très bien de quelle couleur étaient ses yeux, étaient-ils verts ou bleus?… Tristano got a letter once, maybe one day I’ll tell you more, there were words to a song in that letter, too, but it was a letter that was just a voice, like those the Greek poet heard … And maybe faraway faraway in time, maybe one day in someone else’s eyes, you might find a little something of my eyes …
In the entranceway, Tristano could already tell he was there. He’s whimpering, he said, do you hear him, Rosamunda? It was one of those real dog days of August, like they can have in Spain, and the city was deserted. Sunday, everyone gone, far away from that intense heat that settled into the stones, the asphalt, a phantom city, the museum phantom-like as well, solitary, the first paintings, like ghosts floating through a dream. Ooo, he called softly. The main hall repeated, Ooooooo, and was welcomed by the empty halls. And he remembered a white village on the coast, a wedding banquet, his mother holding his hand, the smile on the face of the parish priest and his mother saying, I hope it’s all right, Don Velio, that we’re not getting married in the church, Tristano wanted it this way – not that he has anything against priests – we’re only just getting married now because he’s been so ill, he was held prisoner in Austria and then he caught the Spanish flu, he thought he’d never come back, but he did come back a number of years after the war was over, and that’s when he learned he had a son, a little boy now, but we’re so grateful you’ve come to lunch, Signor Curate, it’s so kind of you, sir … He approached a jovial-looking prelate, but he was a painted prelate, oily, fat, and merry for centuries. Tristano whispered into Guagliona’s ear, Rosamunda, I never told you, my father’s name was Tristano and I was never baptized. But I was, Rosamunda whispered back; up in the mountains, I know you thought I was unflappable, a real female soldier, but I wasn’t, because I’m a good Christian, and I know you shouldn’t desire anyone else’s woman. I know you never desired women – you’re a good Catholic, after all, even if you are Protestant – you’ve always desired another woman’s man. They continued in the empty gallery; Tristano led the way like a tour guide with no one to guide, and headed up the stairs. Don’t bother with the other paintings, he said, they don’t concern us – not today – maybe you’ll come alone some other day and look around at all the beauty here, that will be your faded springtime, but today we’re going to visit the yellow dog – can’t you hear him crying? – I think he’s dying of thirst, let’s get him some water, who knows how many people walk by him all year long, and look at him indifferently, like you do a dog, and don’t give him even a drop of water, but today’s the day, not a soul around, I think the guard’s even asleep in his chair, if I were the director of this museum, I’d insist there always had to be a fresh bowl of water in front of that dog, but museum directors don’t care what their paintings want, are just concerned with doing their job, they don’t give a shit if this dog goes on suffering forever, like the painter wanted … The guard was sleeping, as Tristano had predicted. They went in, and the dog stared at them with the imploring eyes of a little yellow dog buried up to the neck in sand, put there to suffer so we would know for sæcula sæculorum how creatures with no voice suffer, and that’s all of us, really, or nearly all. Guagliona looked at the dog, then she turned away, leaned against the wall, and hid her face on her arm. It’s unbearable, she said, I can’t look. It’s just at the sand baths, Tristano said, the painter’s having him take a sand bath. Please stop talking, she said. You think electroshock in the nuthouse is any better? he said, you know, it was only a little lost dog, a foundling, I’m sure, a figlio di enne enne, father unknown, wandering around the outskirts of the city, a bag over his shoulder, a mouthful of bread, sleeping in cardboard boxes, not even going to the dog barber, in other words, really down and out, and so the painter decided to do something useful for society and for his prince, he came by with the snare of his palette, caught the dog, and buried him up to the neck in sand: now you’ll learn, stray dog, no more biting anyone, the streets are calm, the citizens can sleep in peace and the monarch is happy. He was cruel, Rosamunda said, a cruel painter. No, Tristano corrected her, he was kind, he was only cruel to himself, he was a loose dog. The gallery felt oppressive, smelled of mold and people’s breathing from the day before. I wish there was air conditioning, she said. Oh, come on, Rosamunda, Tristano said, we’re talking about Spain now: the Caudillo doesn’t give a shit about modernity – or about you Americans – he’s thinking about defending the West from communism, and sooner or later, just wait, someone will say this, and you think he gives a shit about air conditioning? – he’d settle for the cool of the vestry. They sat down on the floor. Tristano looked the dog in the eye, Guagliona glanced at him now and then, Tristano wasn’t sure what to say, and he asked himself why he’d brought her to see that painting … You know, writer, if Tristano had the gift of prophecy, he’d have told her that one day they’d see that dog again, he’d have said, Rosamunda, one day you’ll recognize that dog, and also, it’s not male, it’s female, it’s hard to tell the sex of a dog buried in the sand, but I know it’s female … Tristano didn’t have the gift of prophecy, though, and that’s why I’m telling you what I should have sensed, because certain signals need to be understood at the right time, and not when you’re dying … You feel okay? Rosamunda asked. Like I’m dying, he answered, like I’m dying. Well, you don’t seem like it, she whispered, your color’s good and after lunch you were brave enough to do it three times in a row, after devouring a whole platter of Madrid tripe. Tristano ordered her to stay put, stay where you are, Guagliona, my girl, he went over to the yellow dog, he dropped to his knees, arms sagging, like a puppet with its strings cut, one day in a restaurant outside of time and space, they served me love like cold tripe, and I told the missionary cook, thank you, but I would have preferred my tripe warm, tripe wasn’t a dish best served cold, I didn’t eat it, I didn’t want a different dish, I paid the bill and left. What are you talking about? Rosamunda said. It’s something Frau reads to me, he answered, but it’s not worth getting stuck on the details, it was a Pindaric flight, not important, I was talking about something to come, not last night. Then he straightened up and stood at attention in front of the dog. Commander Clark, he said, I’ve brought you the water you needed. He had a calabaza hanging from his belt, one of those empty gourds Castilian shepherds carried for fresh water, and he set it down in front of the painting, stepped back, and saluted. Let’s go, Guagliona, he said, it’s getting late, and the guard will want to close this cemetery.
… Let’s forget time exists and not count the days we have left; if we weren’t stupid enough to do that before, then let’s not start now, Mavri, it feels like I was dreaming and then I awoke and asked myself where I was, was it I, was I the same, and why?… but there are no reasons why, things happen on their own, without reasons, even if in dreams begins responsibility, that old line is right, tell me about your childhood, Mavri, and your friends, those who never reawakened like I did and are now in unmarked graves up in the mountains, they belong to the people of dreams, I don’t know how to talk with them … I’d like you to play that piece you played for me that night, but there’s no piano here, and I’m ashamed to ask you anyway, I hear it playing in the cypresses, let’s go to Cape Suonio, I want a view of the Aegean Sea from the Temple of Poseido
n, your friends can’t see anymore, they have empty eye sockets, they lie among the thorn bushes and nourish the roots of the chestnut trees, they called out to me a long while, but I didn’t listen; Mavri, we belonged to each other though we didn’t know it, these are my stones, thanks to them, I understood, stones teach us many things, maybe someday you’ll come with me, but for now, let me stay, take me to Crete, I want to see the house where you were born, don’t let it lie abandoned, it would almost be like your mother and father were twice dead, I’ll be the one to open that door again, you’ll step inside with me, I’ve imagined it so often, I feel I’ve lived there: the key’s hanging from a nail on the porch behind a dry laurel branch, it’s a large, heavy key to the inside wooden bolt, the first room you enter is spacious, that’s where they had the oil press, there are straw-bottom chairs, but by the window is a stone bench covered in Cretan-cloth cushions, and in the middle of the room is the table where your family ate, an enormous round stone used at one time for pressing olives, set on top of another stone … this will be our workshop, we’ll design our world there, put our books together on that stone … Mavri, I don’t want to spend my life in university lecture halls or my nights in an observatory searching the sky, because this world isn’t enough to discover other worlds, besides, look what we’ve done to it … I know you’ll leave me often, but when you return from giving your concerts, you’ll find me sitting there, on that stone … I hear a player piano, do you hear it, too?… writer, I’m talking to you … sorry, I was dreaming and a player piano woke me, but maybe I was dreaming about the player piano, too, and now it’s continuing outside my dream, it’s a waltz – you hear it?… Don’t tell me I’m just hallucinating, indulge me, it’s a waltz in A major, far away, but if you want to, you can easily hear it … it’s not a player piano, though, it’s a street organ, what the gypsies played at fairs when I was a boy … During the fireworks for the San Giovanni Festival, a gypsy played a barrel organ in piazza San Nicolò, he’d turn the crank and people would start to dance … No one cares about these old stories anymore, but praised be the poor song from the past that brings back long-dead days … that tireless pendulum clock on the bureau always has its eyes wide open, never even closes them at night, is spying every second, like a spider spies on flies, and the universe is there, galaxies and light-years, of course, one second after another, tick-tock, and the hour’s done … the gypsy heads off to another fair, always playing the same music, does another couple want to dance?… I know those two over there, she’s wearing white shoes and a blue pleated skirt, he’s left his jacket hanging on a chair and rolled up his shirtsleeves; ask her to dance … make her laugh, boy, can’t you see how her eyes sparkle, the lights of the square flicker inside them, Chinese paper lanterns, a bouzouki player’s just arrived, an old man who understands lovers, he’s seen so many of them dancing in his lifetime, this old man understands everything, he’s started to play “Tha Xanarthis” … of course you’ll come back, the woman says, you’re already back, and she laughs, she curls her hand around his neck and draws him close, people are clapping, they’ve made a circle around them, she runs her fingers through his hair and then she kisses him, other musicians have arrived, a lively scene now, everyone starts dancing, an old man is dancing by himself, hands raised, as though he’s clutching the air, and only his feet in leather boots are dancing, these two are frozen in the crush of dancers, they’re like a statue of two bodies the sculptor’s extracted from one stone, they keep their eyes closed, their foreheads drawn together as though they’re exchanging thoughts, thinking the same thing, that the boat for Crete departs tomorrow morning at seven and there’s a festival in Piraeus, so why bother going back to the city to sleep … I know a boarding house down by the harbor, Daphne says, when my grandfather came to study in Athens he stayed there, now it’s owned by Stratis, who’s from my town, I’d like to go and say hello, he knew me as a girl, I think he’d be happy to see me with you, Tristano.
You never did get that big fly out of here, you’re a liar just like Frau, can’t you hear it – or do you think my own ears are buzzing? – maybe they are, but what I’m hearing is a big fly, I know I’m right, get it out of here, open the shutters a little, you’ll see, it’ll find its way out, that much light won’t bother me, I’ll close my eyes, what time is it, is it already past noon? It’s afternoon, must be three, mmm, it feels like afternoon … strange, even from this bed, I can tell it’s afternoon – I can hear it – the afternoon has its own way of breathing, its own fragrance, a sound and a sniff, and there’s also a rooster that starts crowing in the afternoon, stupid rooster, what’s he got to crow about? – thinks he’s so brave, but he’s not brave at all, just puffed up and stupid, there were two men up in those mountains once, both brave men, fighting the same battle, but they were divided about the future of their country, he was one of them, behind that boulder, staring at a flower, the three western brigades would pass to his command, but he had to become a hero first, it’s not remotely easy to become a hero: a millimeter to the right and you’re a hero, a millimeter to the left and you’re a coward, it’s a matter of millimeters, he was there, staring at a flower, and the countryside before him was his arena, would he win the fight or shit his pants?… that can happen, you’re about to be a hero and everything turns to shit … Please, open the shutters, it must be evening already, I know, I was wrong before … are you getting all this down?… get it down word for word, you’re free to write other things the way you want, but not this part, no, write down my every word … Open the shutters a little, let the breeze in … heroism often – no – nearly always turns to shit – but you can’t say this, you can’t bring children up on this, how would you put your hand over your heart, because after heroism you have to put your hand over your heart, when you stand before the flag, you stand there, waiting for that cross on your chest, the authorities all lined up in front of you … war cross … not just any fucking medal … there’s the president of the Republic with his wife, Christ, what a pair, Tristano is watching them, luckily it’s just an Incom Weekly newsreel in black and white, and the lack of color makes the scene less awful, all the other authorities are there on the stand for the occasion: the Minister of the Interior, the Defense Minister, a general weighed down by all the medals on his chest, the cardinal, maybe even two cardinals, the band with their plumes; next Sunday this solemn ceremony of homeland heroism will be shown in all the movie theaters in Italy, or at least in the big cities, before that gripping American movie where she says that after all, tomorrow is another day, with that blood-red sunset in the background … and that Incom Weekly newsreel is historical, because younger generations have to know that what we have here is a national hero being decorated, yes, and he was really the one who performed this act of heroism, but that isn’t him, he’s like the unknown soldier, he represents all Italians, even we presidents and generals who weren’t in the Resistance, he represents us all, because the Italians were never fascists, and we recognize ourselves in him, the Italians always fought against fascism, always, they never dreamed of being fascists, not the Italians … I was the one dreaming, Tristano thinks, I wasn’t fighting against anyone, the fascists never existed, they were all in my imagination … the crooked president comes straight toward him accompanied by a high official who carries the war cross on a silver platter, they’re all banded together, Tristano; there’s no escape, Tristano thinks, now I’ll run away, that dawn back then I didn’t run away, I stayed behind that boulder and held on to my submachine gun, but now I’ll run away, it’s now or never, run, Tristano, run, or in a little while you’ll be a hero to these people, their equal, and it will all be over, irreversible … Writer, open the window, throw it wide open, I want to feel the cool of the evening, because the evening is dear to me when it comes, did they teach you that poem in school?, you must have had some nobody teacher who taught you that one, Tristano could have used some cool himself; instead he was sweating, the heat was unbearable, open my window, wri
ter, let the cool night in, ah, night, it’s night that should be praised, far more than evening, but it takes guts to praise the night, because the night brings dreams, and often nightmares, and it’s hard to face your nightmares, harder than facing the Nazis, that’s when you really see if you’re a hero; now, please let me be, I want to see if I can sleep.
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