Requiem

by Antonio Tabucchi

  The ferry coming back from Cacilhas sounded its siren as it came alongside the quay. The night really was magnificent, with the moon hanging so low over the arches of Terreiro do Paço that you felt you could have reached out your hand and caught hold of it. I lit a cigarette and settled down to watch the moon and the Seller of Stories began his story.

  IX

  THE WAITER HAD his hair tied back in a small pony-tail, he was wearing a pair of extremely tight trousers and a pink shirt. I’m Mariazinha, he said with a brilliant smile and then, addressing my guest, he asked: You haven’t got anything against people like me, have you? My Guest looked Mariazinha up and down and asked me in English: Is he mad? No, I said, I don’t think so, he’s gay. Can homosexuals be gay?, asked my Guest, what is all this about? But Botto1 was gay, I said, you should know that, you were his friend. Botto wasn’t gay, he said, he was an aesthete, it’s not the same thing at all.

  Is your friend English? Mariazinha asked me, I can’t cope with the English, they’re so boring! No, I said, my guest isn’t English, he’s Portuguese but he lived in South Africa, he likes speaking English, he’s a poet. That’s all right then, said Mariazinha, I love people who can speak other languages, I can speak Spanish, I learned it in Estremoz, I worked at the Pousada Santa Isabel, ¿les gusta Estremoz, caballeros? My Guest looked at Mariazinha again and said: He’s mad. No, I said, I don’t think he is, I’ll explain later. Anyway here’s the wine list, said Mariazinha, the menu’s all here in my little head, I’ll tell you what there is later when you’re ready to order, I’ll leave you now, caballeros, I have to see to that big boy all by himself over there, he must be dying of hunger.

  Mariazinha walked off, hips swaying, to attend to the needs of a gentleman sitting on his own at a corner table. Where have you brought me?, asked my Guest, what sort of place is this? I don’t know, I said, it’s the first time I’ve been here, someone recommended it to me, it’s supposed to be post-modern, and if you’ll forgive me, you may be partly to blame for all this, I mean for postmodernism. I don’t understand, said my Guest. Well, I went on, I was thinking of the avant-garde movement, about the effect it had. I still don’t understand, said my Guest. Well, I said, how can I put it, it was the avant-garde movement that first upset the balance, and things like that leave a mark. But this is all so vulgar, he said, we had elegance. That’s what you think, I said, I don’t agree, Futurism, for example, was vulgar, it celebrated noise and war, I think it had a vulgar side to it, I’ll go further, there’s even something slightly vulgar about your own Futurist odes. Is that why you wanted to see me?, he asked, in order to insult me. To be exact, it wasn’t me who wanted to see you, I said, it was you who wanted to see me. I received a message from you, he said. That’s a good one, I said, this morning I was in Azeitão sitting quietly under a tree reading, it was you who called me. All right, said my Guest, as you wish, let’s not argue, let’s just say I’d like to know what your intentions are. In relation to what?, I asked. In relation to me, for example, said my Guest, that’s what interests me. You don’t find that a little egocentric?, I asked. Of course, he replied, I am egocentric, but what do you want me to do about it, all poets are egocentric, and my ego has a very special centre, indeed if you wanted me to tell you where that centre is I couldn’t. I’ve come up with a few hypotheses myself, I said, I’ve spent my life hypothesising about you and now I’m tired of it, that’s what I wanted to tell you. Please, he said, don’t abandon me to all these people who are so certain about everything, they’re dreadful. You don’t need me, I said, don’t talk nonsense, the whole world admires you, I was the one who needed you, but now it’s time to stop, that’s all. Did my company displease you?, he asked. No, I said, it was very important, but it troubled me, let’s just say that you had a disquieting effect on me. I know, he said, with me it always finishes that way, but don’t you think that’s precisely what literature should do, be disquieting I mean?, personally I don’t trust literature that soothes people’s consciences. Neither do I, I agreed, but you see, I’m already full of disquiet, your disquiet just adds to mine and becomes anxiety. I prefer anxiety to utter peace, he said, given the choice.

  My Guest opened the wine list and read it attentively. How are you supposed to choose a wine without first having chosen your meal?, he said, this really is a bizarre restaurant. They serve almost exclusively fish dishes, I said, that’s why they mostly offer white wines, but if you prefer red, there’s a house red that might not be too bad. No, no, he said, tonight I’ll drink white wine too, but you’ll have to help me choose, I don’t know the names, they’re all new. Young or old?, I asked. Old, he said, I don’t like fizzy wines. I don’t know if you’ve noticed but there’s a Colares Chita, which is a wine from your day. My Guest approved and said: It’s a wine from Azenhas do Mar, in 1923 it won a gold medal in Rio de Janeiro, I was living in Campo de Ourique at the time.

  Mariazinha came over to us again and I ordered a bottle of Colares. Would you like to order your food now?, asked Mariazinha. Look, I said, if you don’t mind, we’d like to drink a glass of wine first before choosing, we’re thirsty and besides we want to drink a toast. That’s fine by me, said Mariazinha, the kitchen’s open until two and the restaurant closes at three, so feel free. He left us only to return soon after with a bottle and an ice bucket. Tonight we have a literary menu, he said as he was opening the bottle, Pedrinho chose the names, es el apocalipse, caballeros. Who’s Pedrinho?, I asked. Pedrinho’s the young fellow who advises us in the kitchen, said Mariazinha, he’s terribly cultured, he did a literature course at Évora. Not someone else from the Alentejo, I said. Have you got anything against them?, asked Mariazinha with a haughty look, I’m from there too, from Estremoz. No, I’ve got nothing against them, I replied, it’s just that my day has been full of people from the Alentejo, I’ve been bumping into them everywhere. We’re international, said Mariazinha, with a shake of his ponytail, and left us to ourselves.

  My Guest raised his glass. Let’s drink a toast, he said. Right, I said, to what? To the next century, he said, you’re going to need all the luck you can get, this was my century and I felt at home in it, but you might have some problems in the next one. Who’s “you”?, I asked. The people alive now, he replied, you fin-de-siècle people. We’ve already got masses of problems, I said, we really need a toast. I’d also like to drink to saudosismo,2 said my Guest, raising his glass again, I miss poor old saudosismo, there are no saudosistas left, Portugal’s become so very European. But you’re European, I said, you’re the most European writer of the twentieth century, I’m sorry, but you’re the last person who should say such things. But I never left Lisbon, he said, I never left Portugal, oh, I liked Europe, but only as an idea, I sent other people off to Europe: one friend to England, another to Paris, but not me, I stayed put in my aunt’s house. It was comfortable, I said, very comfortable. That’s right, he went on, perhaps I’ve always been a bit of a coward, do you know what I mean?, but I’ll tell you something, cowardice produced some of the bravest writing of the century, for example, that Czech writer who wrote in German, I can’t remember his name just now, but don’t you think he wrote some extraordinarily brave things? Kafka, I said, his name was Kafka. That’s right, my Guest said, and yet he was a bit of a coward too. He took a sip of wine and went on: There’s something cowardly about his diary, but what courage he had to write that magnificent book of his, you know, the one about guilt. The Trial?, I asked, is that the one you mean? Of course, he said, the most courageous book of the century, he has the courage to say that we are all guilty. Guilty of what?, I asked. I don’t know, he said, of being born, perhaps, and of what happens afterwards, we’re all guilty.

  Mariazinha came over wearing a luminous smile, his powder was beginning to melt slightly in the heat, but his expression remained ingratiating. Right, caballeros, he said, I’m going to tell you what the menu of the day is, it’s a poetic menu, but then nouvelle cuisine demands poetry, as a starter we have soup Amor de P
erdição and salad Fernão Mendes Pinto, what do you think? The names are certainly picturesque, I said, but you’ll have to explain what they mean. Right, said Mariazinha, the soup is a coriander soup made with lots of coriander and chicken giblets. The salad is an exotic mix of avocado, prawns and bean sprouts. Am I also to blame for “nouvelle cuisine”?, asked my Guest, I’m not responsible for those horrible names. No, I said, you’re absolutely right, nouvelle cuisine is a quite separate horror. Does your friend only speak English?, Mariazinha interrupted, what a bore! And what do you have as a main dish?, I asked. Now let me see, said Mariazinha, we have sea bass trágico-marítimo3 sole interseccionista, Gafeira eels à moda do Delftm and cod escárnio e mal-dizer. My Guest raised one eyebrow and whispered: Ask him how the sole is cooked. I asked and Mariazinha looked slightly irritated. It’s stuffed with ham, he said, that’s why it’s called interseccionista, because it’s made from fish and meat. My Guest smiled ironically and nodded. And what about the eels à moda do Delfim, I asked, how are they served? They’re cooked in moira, said Mariazinha, it’s a speciality of the house. I don’t know what that is, I said, can you explain? Look, said Mariazinha, you know what caldeirada is, a sort of fish stew, right?, well moira is the stock you get from the caldeirada, I’ll tell you how it’s made, you cut the fat off the eels and add coarse salt and vinegar to it. Then this mixture, which is very tasty, is added to the stewed eels themselves, it’s more or less the same as eels à moda da Murtosa, only more refined, that’s why we call it Gafeira eels à moda do Delfim. But Gafeira doesn’t exist, I said, it’s an imaginary place, a literary place. That doesn’t matter, said Mariazinha, Portugal’s full of lakes, you can always find a Gafeira. I’ll have that then, I said, but only a half-portion, just to get an idea.

  Mariazinha left and my Guest filled our glasses again. This place is incredible, he said. Forgive me changing the subject, I said, but I’d like you to tell me about your childhood, it really intrigues me. My childhood?, exclaimed my Guest, I’ve never talked to anyone about my childhood and we’re not going to talk about it now at supper. Go on, I said, tell me, it’s the most mysterious part of your life, this is the first and last time we’ll meet, I don’t want to miss the opportunity. Look, said my Guest, I had a happy childhood, really. It’s true my father died, but I hardly noticed it, I found another father, he was a good, silent man, he wasn’t a father exactly, more of a symbol, and it’s good to live with symbols. And what about your mother?, I asked, you were very close to her, your critics, or some of them at least, even suggest you had some sort of Oedipus complex. What!, said my Guest, I had a perfectly straightforward relationship with her, my mother was a simple person, she had no concept of pretence, look, I let people think I had a mysterious childhood by completely eliminating it from my writing, but it’s all nonsense, really, it was just to put the critics off the scent, they’re such busybodies, and so I set traps for them beforehand. You’re a liar, I said, an utter liar, you may have deceived your critics, but you’re not going to deceive me as well, you’re not being honest with me. Look, he said, I’m not honest in the sense you mean, the only emotions I experience are in the form of genuine pretence, I consider your kind of honesty a form of poverty, the supreme truth is to pretend, I’ve always believed that. You’re exaggerating, I said, now you’re a liar twice over, isn’t that right? Yes, that’s right, replied my Guest, the important thing is to feel. Exactly, I said, I was always convinced that you did in fact feel everything, indeed I always thought that you felt things normal people couldn’t feel, I always believed in your occult powers, you’re a sorcerer, and that’s why I’m here and why I’ve had the day I’ve had. And are you pleased with the day you’ve had?, he asked. I don’t quite know how to put it, I said, but I feel quieter, lighter. That’s what you needed, he said. I’m very grateful to you, I replied.

  Mariazinha arrived with the soup. It turned out to be a very traditional coriander soup, nouvelle cuisine had invented nothing but the name. My Guest nodded and said: I would never have thought you could eat so well in Alcantara, in my day there were no restaurants in this area at all, just cheap bars serving boiled cod. That’s Europe for you, I said, the European influence. When I was alive, said my Guest, Europe was something remote, far off, it was a dream. Did you dream about it a lot?, I asked. No, he said, not much, but my friend Mário did, he dreamed about it all the time, but he suffered a terrible disenchantment, I, as you know, preferred to go to Rossio station and wait for the trains to arrive from Paris, in those days the Paris train came in at Rossio, what I liked most was reading about the journey on other people’s faces. Yes, I said, you always did like to delegate. And you don’t?, asked my Guest. Yes, I do it too, I replied, you’re right.

  The next course arrived and we began to eat. I glanced questioningly at my Guest and he responded with a neutral look. How’s the sole interseccionista?, I asked. He shook his head. As you said about Futurism, he replied, it’s a bit vulgar. But it looks good, I said. Oh, it’s excellent, he said, that’s what lends it its slight vulgarity.

  We ate in silence. The sound of muffled music filled the room, piano music, Liszt perhaps. At least the music’s good, I said. I don’t like music, said my Guest, I never did. That surprises me, I said, it really does. I only like popular music, he went on, waltzes and things like that, but I do like Viana da Mota, don’t you? I do, I said, he’s a bit like Liszt, don’t you think? Maybe, he said, but he’s very Portuguese.

  Mariazinha came to clear away the plates. He gave a list of desserts with bizarre-sounding names, but my Guest seemed unenthusiastic. Your friend’s depressed, said Mariazinha, he looks so gloomy, poor thing, he’s English, isn’t he? I’ve already told you, I exclaimed, in a slightly irritated voice, he’s Portuguese but he just happens to like speaking English. No need to get angry, caballero, said Mariazinha, and removed the plates.

  You look tired, said my Guest, would you like to go for a little walk? I could do with some air, I said, it’s been a long day, endless. I called Mariazinha over and asked for the bill. Let me pay, said my Guest. Certainly not, I protested, the restaurant was my idea, and besides I’ve been carefully saving my money all day just so that I could pay for this meal, so, please, don’t insist. Mariazinha blew out the candle on the table and accompanied us to the door. Hasta la vista, caballeros, he said, gracias y buenas noches. Goodbye, sir, said my Guest.

  We crossed the road and walked past the harbour station. I’m going to walk as far as the end of the quay, said my Guest, won’t you come with me? Of course I will, I said. By the door to the harbour station was a beggar, with an accordion round his neck. When he saw us, he held out his hand and recited some incomprehensible litany of complaints. At the end of it all he murmured: God bless you, gentlemen, can you spare any change? My Guest stopped and thrust his hand into his pocket, pulled out his wallet and removed an ancient note. I’ve only got old money, he said, looking concerned, perhaps you can help me out. I felt in my pocket and pulled out a one hundred escudo note. It’s all the money I have left, I said, I’m cleaned out, but it’s a nice note, don’t you think? He looked at it and smiled. He held out the note to the Accordionist and asked: Do you know any of the old songs? I know “Old Lisbon”, said the Accordionist eagerly, I know all the fados. No, older than that, said my Guest, something from the 1930s, you must remember, you’re not a young man yourself. I might know it, said the Accordionist, tell me what you’d like to hear. How about “Your eyes are so lovely”?, said my Guest. Oh, I know that one, said the Accordionist happily, I know it very well. My Guest handed him the hundred escudo note and said: Walk a few yards behind us will you, and play that tune for us, but quietly because we have to talk. He assumed a confidential air and whispered in my ear: I once danced to this tune with my girlfriend, but no one knows that. You used to dance?, I exclaimed, I would never have thought it. I was an excellent dancer, he said, I taught myself from a little book called The Modern Dancer, I always liked books like that, ones that taug
ht you how to do things, I used to practise at night when I got home from work, I used to dance on my own and write poems and letters to my girlfriend. You were really fond of her, I said. She was the clockwork train of my heart, he replied. He stopped walking and made me stop too. The Accordionist stopped as well, but went on playing. Look at the moon, said my Guest, it’s the same moon my girlfriend and I used to look up at when we went for a stroll to Poço do Bispo, isn’t that odd?

  We’d reached the end of the quay. Right, he said, we met on this bench and we’ll say goodbye on this bench, you must be tired, you can tell the old man to go away now. He sat down and I went to tell the Accordionist that we no longer needed his music. The old man wished me good night. I turned round and only then did I realise that my Guest had vanished.

  The garden was plunged in silence, a cool breeze had got up, it caressed the mulberry leaves. Good night, I said, or rather, goodbye. Who or what was I saying goodbye to? I didn’t really know, but that was what I felt like saying, out loud. Goodbye and goodnight to you all, í said again. Then I leaned my head back and looked up at the moon.