First Archipelago Books Edition, 2017
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Archipelago Books
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Tabucchi, Antonio, 1943-2012, author. | Harris, Elizabeth (Translator), translator.
Title: For Isabel : a mandala
Other titles: Per Isabel. English
Description: First Archipelago Books edition. | Brooklyn, NY : Archipelago Books, 2017.
Identifiers: LCCN 2016051212 | ISBN 9780914671800 (pbk. : alk. paper)
Classification: LCC PQ4880.A24 P4713 2017 | DDC 853/.914–dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016051212
Book design and typesetting: Tetragon, London, UK
Distributed by Penguin Random House
www.penguinrandomhouse.com
This book has been published with a translation grant awarded by Italian
Ministry of Foreign Affairs and International Cooperation.
Archipelago Books gratefully acknowledges the generous support from Lannan Foundation, the National Endowment for the Arts, the New York City Department of Cultural Affairs, and the New York State Council on the Arts, a state agency.
Ebook ISBN 9780914671817
v4.1
a
This book, if considering the mandala, would be dedicated to a woman in the circle of Evocation. But with more earthly considerations, it’s dedicated to my friend Tecs, which is not her actual name, though it is what I call her. And along with her, to my old friend Sergio.
Who knows, the dead might have a different custom.
Sophocles, Antigone
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Justification in the Form of a Note
First Circle. Mónica. Lisbon. Evocation.
Second Circle. Bi. Lisbon. Orientation.
Third Circle. Tecs. Lisbon. Absorption.
Fourth Circle. Uncle Tom. Reboleira. Restoration.
Fifth Circle. Tiago. Lisbon. Image.
Sixth Circle. Magda. Priest. Macao. Communication.
Seventh Circle. Ghost Who Walks. Macao. Worldliness.
Eighth Circle. Lise. Xavier. Swiss Alps. Expansion.
Ninth Circle. Isabel. Riviera Station. Realization. Return.
Translator’s Acknowledgments
Justification in the Form of a Note
Private obsessions; personal regrets eroded but not transformed by time, like pebbles smoothed down by the current of the river; incongruous fantasies and the inadequacy of reality: these are the driving principles behind this book. But I also can’t deny the influence one summer night of watching a monk dressed in red while he sprinkled colored powder on the bare stone and made me a Mandala of Consciousness. And on that same night, finally getting to a short essay by Hölderlin, which I’d been meaning to read and had carried around in my suitcase for a month. Here’s what I underlined in the Hölderlin that night, before the final phase of the moon: “The tragic-moderate weariness of time, whose object is not in fact of interest to the heart, follows the onrushing spirit of time most intemperately, and that spirit then appears wild, not sparing mankind like a spirit by day, but being relentless instead, like the spirit of the eternally living unwritten wilderness and the world of the dead.”*
You might find it curious that a writer past fifty, who’s published so many books, would still feel the need to justify his adventures in writing. I find it curious myself. Probably, I haven’t resolved this issue, if it’s a matter of feeling guilty towards the world or simply not working through a loss. Naturally, other explanations are also acceptable. I do want to point out, though, that on that summer night, I happened to fly off to Naples with my imagination, because in that distant sky, there was a full moon. And it was a red moon.
A.T.
* * *
* Translated from the German by Shaun Whiteside.
First Circle. Mónica. Lisbon. Evocation.
I’d never been to Tavares in my entire life. Tavares is the fanciest restaurant in Lisbon, with nineteenth-century mirrors and velvet chairs; the cuisine is international, but they also serve typical Portuguese dishes, though delicately prepared: you might order clams and pork, for instance, what you’d get in Alentejo, and you’ll wind up with something more like a Parisian dish, or so I’d been told. But I’d never been, I’d just heard about it. I took a bus to Intendente. The square was full of whores and pimps. It was late afternoon, I was early. I went to an old café I knew, a café with billiard tables, and I started watching a game. An old man with only one leg was leaning on a crutch while he played; his eyes were bright, his hair kinky and grey, and he was hitting pins like there was no tomorrow, he cleaned everybody’s clock in the place, then sat down and slapped his belly like he’d just had a good meal.
You want to play, my friend? he asked. No, I answered, I’m sure I’d lose. If you want, though, we could play for a little port, I could use an aperitif, but I’d be glad to offer you one, if you’d prefer. He looked at me and smiled. Your accent’s strange, he said, you a foreigner? Somewhat, I answered. Where’re you from? he asked. Outside Sirius, I said. I don’t know that town, he said, what country’s it in? The Great Dog, I said. Huh, he said, so many new countries in the world these days. He scratched his back with his cue. So what’s your name? he asked. Waclaw, I answered, but that’s just what I was baptized, my friends call me Tadeus. His suspicious look disappeared, and he gave me a wide grin. Then you’re baptized, he said, so you’re Christian, let me offer you a drink, what’ll you have? I told him a white port, and he called the waiter over. I know what you need, the man went on, you need a woman, a beautiful African woman, eighteen years old, good price, practically a virgin, just came yesterday from Cape Verde. No thanks, I said, I have to be going soon, I’ll be getting a taxi, I have an important appointment tonight, I don’t have time for girls right now. He stared at me, puzzled. Hmm, he said, so what’re you looking for around here? I lit a cigarette and was quiet a moment. I’m looking for a woman, too, I said, and I’m going around asking about her, I just stopped in here to pass the time, because I have an appointment with a lady who can give me some information, and I want to hear what she has to tell me; actually, I’d better go, there’s a taxi free at the stand, I’d better hurry. Wait a second, he said, why’re you looking for this woman – do you need her? Maybe, I answered, you might say I lost track of her and I’ve come from the Great Dog just to look for her, I’d like to know more about her, and that’s why I have this appointment. And where is this appointment? he asked. In the most elegant restaurant in Lisbon, I told him, a place full of mirrors and crystal, I’ve never been, I suppose it’ll cost quite a bit, but I’m not the one paying, what can I say, my friend, I’m here on leave, I barely have a coin to my name, so I’d better accept the invitations of others. Is it a fascist place? the old man asked. I couldn’t say, I answered, to be honest I never really thought about it in those terms.
I rose quickly, said goodbye, and left. The taxi was still at the stand. I slipped inside and said: good evening, Tavares, please.
We met at the Escravas do Amor Divino boarding school for girls in Lisbon. We were sixteen years old. Isabel was a legend for the entire class because she’d attended the French high school. In that period, you know, the French high school was a place of resistance, all the teachers who taught there couldn’t find positions at the public schools because of their anti-fascist beliefs, a
nd going to the French school meant that you knew the world, that you went on field trips to Paris, that you were connected to Europe. We, instead, were from the public high school, a real shithole – pardon the expression – where you studied the Salazarista corporative constitution and the rivers of Portugal and you divided the national poem, The Lusiads, into stupid sections, it’s a beautiful poem about the sea, but you wound up studying it like some African battle. Because there were colonies back then. But they weren’t called colonies; they were called Overseas. Nice name, don’t you think? And some people had grown rich from Overseas, I have to say that was normal for the families of those girls at the boarding school, all seasoned Salazarists, real fascists, but not our parents, I mean mine and Isabel’s, another reason, maybe, why we became friends, because our families had this in common. She came from an old Portuguese family that had nothing to do with Salazarism, a family in decline, with property up north, in Amarante, where they make bread in the strangest shapes, but like I said, it was a family with no money or power, their lands up north had all been entrusted to tenant farmers or land agents, with no returns. We spent a few summer vacations, Isabel and I, in their house in Amarante. It wasn’t a house, it was a Medieval stone tower, filled with heirlooms and coffers, that overlooked the river, and we were happy there. Those summers were beautiful, back then. Isabel wore a straw hat. Her oval face was even lovelier under this funny hat someone in the family had brought back from Tuscany. And then she’d paint. She was convinced she’d be a painter, and she painted windows. Windows with shutters closed, windows with shutters open, windows with curtains, windows with iron bars, but always windows like those found in Douro or Minho, with their beautiful wooden frames, and often lace curtains. But she never included human beings, they ruin the mystery, she said, see, this window I’m painting is so mysterious with no one there, but if I put in the person who’d be at that window, the mystery would vanish, it’s the veterinarian in Amarante, he has a goatee and wears a hairnet while he’s sleeping to keep his hair in place, just imagine, he stands by the window and does knee bends, you know, yesterday, while I was painting his window, he showed up and just stood there all stiff at the windowsill, pretending he didn’t see me but of course he did see me, he just gazed up toward the heavens, looking inspired, apparently extremely proud to be in my painting, but screw him – I’m not putting him in. And then we’d go for a walk. Just outside Amarante, the river creates channels of still water where frogs breed. We’d spend our mornings fishing for frogs, but in Portugal, people don’t know how to fish for frogs because no one eats them, and we came up with a system like boys use for catching lizards. We tied a slip knot in a rush blade, slowly brought the loop over a frog’s head, and when it got ready to jump – plop – we caught it. Back then there weren’t plastic bags, so we used a mesh bag, the kind for groceries, and the frogs would poke their heads through the mesh, and we were quite the sight, me in my trousers and Isabel in her straw hat from Florence, while we strolled through Amarante carrying our bagful of frogs. People thought we were nuts, which we enjoyed, because at that age you enjoy such things. We’d kill the frogs in the evening, and this became my job, because Isabel refused. Their heads have to be cut off with a quick slice of the knife, and for a few minutes, they kick their legs, headless, as long as their life force continues. Listen, Isabel would say, someday if I kill myself, I think I’ll go just like this, with a few kicks, because if you can’t cut off your own head, you can always hang yourself, which is something similar, four kicks into empty air, and goodnight everybody. We cooked the frogs’ legs à la Provençal, the way Isabel liked them, because during her time at the French school she’d been to France, to Arles, and she’d eaten frogs’ legs à la Provençal, with garlic and parsley, and she said it was the best dish in the world. But we soon grew tired of eating frogs’ legs à la Provençal. Those disturbing little legs, so white and so delicate, almost tasteless, while the rest of the family was eating roast kid and egg soups. And at that age, we had a good appetite. Sure, it’s easy to mythologize exotic food eaten in Provence, but then you get hungry. And so we started setting the frogs free in the garden, and the garden grew full of frogs, they were everywhere, in the grass, the bushes, the goldfish pond, the clumps of bamboo. Luckily Isabel’s parents had a sense of humor, they didn’t mind that invasion, they were always cheerful, open-minded, understanding. Then they died in a car accident, but that’s another story, no, it’s the same story. Fridays, we went to Barcelos, which had the most beautiful market in the whole region. Maybe you can’t picture how beautiful the small-town markets were back then. Or maybe you can. We caught an early-morning bus to Braga, then another from there to Barcelos. The bus arrived around noon. Time enough to wander a little and look at the terracotta ceramics, you know, in Barcelos they make painted terracotta roosters, the symbol of Portugal, and all sorts of other little ceramic things, dolls, typical figurines, nativity sets, musical bands, cats, pitchers, and decorative plates, and then it was time for lunch. We always picked cheap places, taverns filled with regular customers and market vendors. Little old men and little old ladies who came from all over Minho, one looking for a chicken, one wanting to buy a gosling or cow, the quaintest were the brokers, who wore neckerchiefs and drank young wine, they were marvelous, even at their table they acted like they were at the market, screaming, rolling up their sleeves, sweating. It was hot, in Barcelos, and in the tavern, you’d smell the mix of food and the stink of animals off the square, it was beautiful and new for Isabel and me, two girls who spent the year in a city like Lisbon, and we were thrilled; we were fascinated by the brokers, wanted to buy something ourselves, and one day we bought a kid, a sweet little creature, black and white, with spots on his muzzle and delicate legs; we rode home on the bus with him in a large basket, and because he wasn’t weaned, for a time we fed him milk from a bottle. We put him in the garden, made him a leaf hut, and in the mornings, when we went shopping in Amarante, we led him around on a leash. I can’t begin to describe the looks we got, me in my trousers and Isabel in her straw hat from Florence, no bag of frogs now, just a little goat on a leash, and what’s more, at the bakery, Isabel wanted to buy that bread in the shape of a male organ, like they make in Amarante, only it’s the servants who buy that bread for making canapés, and we bought it just to get attention, and we stuffed our bag full of these loaves, it was scandalous, everyone staring at us, even that fitness fanatic of a veterinarian wouldn’t show up at the window anymore. In other words, it was a hoot. And then the summers ended. They ended because we wound up at the university. No, really, because Isabel’s parents had died. Like I said, they died in a car accident. On Póvoa de Varzim Road, after lunch, after Isabel’s papa had a lot to eat and drink. No one knows who was to blame, because it was a head-on collision. But I think Isabel’s papa had drunk too much, because I knew him, he liked to drink. They didn’t die right away. They were in a coma for three days then died at the same time, he and his wife. Funny, don’t you think? Both of them going into a coma and then dying at the same time because there was nothing else to do: the heart stops beating and that’s when the doctors pull out the tubes. But that’s what happened. Isabel and I spent three days and three nights at the hospital in Oporto, in the intensive care unit. The nurse let us sleep in a side-room, and now and then we’d slip into their rooms. Papa, Papa, it’s me, Isabel would say, Mama, do you hear me? – do you remember the frogs we brought back to the house in Amarante, me and my friend, Mónica, look, we want to get more next summer, come on, Mama, wake up, come out of this goddamned coma, I want you to smile at me, to tell me what to wear, like before, to scold me parce que je ne suis pas parfaite the way you’d like, I need you to, Mama. But her mama didn’t scold her anymore and neither did her father. They died together, like I told you, in the exact same hour, and we arranged the funeral. Isabel had them buried in the same shrine, in a village cemetery out in the countryside surrounding Amarante. When we went to the funeral, it was a
beautiful, warm, sunny October day. Isabel was dressed in dark blue and I wore a beige dress that made me look older than her. You see? Isabel said when we got back from the cemetery, they went away, and you know what, Mónica, it’s over now, no more summers with frogs, no more eating out in Barcelos, childhood’s over, they’re gone now, I’m an orphan, and I think you’re something of an orphan yourself. And I did feel like I was something of an orphan myself. Because Isabel’s parents were real parents, what mine never were. My father was always off on trips in his Mercedes-Benz, away on business, like we’d say at home, and my mother had her own friends and engagements. And so I was left feeling like something of an orphan myself. The walks to the river, the old house in Amarante, the dream summers: all over. We met again at the university, but it wasn’t the same. I was majoring in classics, a choice which, in the ideological division that existed then at the University of Lisbon, was considered conservative. And it’s true: the classics students didn’t do anything, they never called any meetings, they never even went to the cafeteria, where most real discussions took place. Isabel majored in modern languages, and that major, yes, that one had some life to it. One professor taught a course on Camus and existentialism, another, a course on surrealism in Portugal, and there were even poets from that illustrious movement who came and read their work, I can’t remember who anymore, but they were well-known, and it was a real triumph, the assembly hall was packed, I remember Isabel, who’d become a leader and introduced the poets to the students, there were even kids sitting on the floor, not that those poets spoke out directly against fascism, this just wasn’t possible, but their poems were nonconformist, in some ways, revolutionary, revolutionary in quotes, though, because back then, everything was in quotes. Isabel stepped onto the stage in her pink scarf, and this too was a sign: back then, you couldn’t use red, you had to use a color tied to red, and that was a sign. It felt strange seeing Isabel again, up on the stage in that assembly hall; she spoke with ease, maybe a slight nervous inflexion to her voice, she read her biographical notes on the poets, and she said: two free-verse poets who honor us, because today free-verse is banished. And a thunderous applause broke out, one of the poets rose to his feet and read a surrealist poem mocking bourgeois values, and the audience went crazy, then the other poet went up and read an homage to Garcia Lorca, murdered by the fascists – you might laugh today, but back then, something like this was a great political event, you probably know this better than me, Portugal was a country forgotten by Europe and forgetful of Europe, we were closed off on a dead-end street, in a sort of moldering monastery whose sexton was António de Oliveira Salazar. And everything unfolded as in a monastery: conventions, habits, rituals, when kids got together in someone’s home, subdued, melancholy gatherings. Sometimes Isabel would organize fado castiço sessions in her home, I mean the aristocratic fado, as you know, and this too was one of Isabel’s contradictions, meetings with revolutionaries at the university and aristocratic fados at home, but I liked those sessions, I went to some, I remember Thereza de Noronha showed up one time – for us she was a legend – she came from an old aristocratic family and sang old fados in a proud voice, Isabel would light the candles on the table in the living room, there was port for everyone, and we listened solemnly to the singer, the aristocratic fadista, a shawl covering her shoulders, all of us there, in veneration, around the candles and the port. We were celebrating a rite and we all knew it, and meanwhile the world kept rushing along, the world outside, but in those gatherings of hers, we didn’t seem to notice. Isabel wore mauve-colored sweaters crocheted by her nanny, who’d remained with her, an elderly lady who was once her wet nurse, she took the place of Isabel’s parents, she came from Beira Baixa and still had a strong provincial accent in spite of all her years in Lisbon, she’s the one who knows everything about Isabel, she was close to Isabel during her most difficult years, such devotion, but I think I might be rambling, am I rambling? Well, it doesn’t matter, anyway, you can go ask her nanny, I’m not the one who knows the most about Isabel, at this point, I only know what I’ve heard. About that love affair. But I repeat: I practically lost track of Isabel. I have a feeling that affair was the ruin of her, that’s where it all began, I mean, where her end began. But I’m only telling you what I heard. It seems she met a foreign boy at school, I couldn’t say what nationality, Andalusian, I think. The one thing I am sure of: he had a scholarship. Sometimes I’d see them together, because they were always together, now that I think about it, he was definitely Spanish, I don’t remember anymore, so many years have passed. The three of us had dinner once at Toni dos Bifes, a small restaurant near Campo Pequeno which cost next to nothing, the cooking was simple, but the portions were large, and Isabel and her boyfriend were regulars. I remember that evening well. Isabel was very excited because there was an important writer at a nearby table with the entire editorial staff of the journal Almanaque. They’d often meet up at Toni dos Bifes. Back then, this journal was legendary for making fun of everything and everyone: the country and its institutions, the bourgeoisie, Portugal’s traditions and maritime discoveries, which it bragged about so much; this was something of an underground journal, popular with young people and nonconformists, and Isabel was young and wanted to be a nonconformist. Then the writer saw the foreign boy and said hello, no, actually, he got up and came over to our table. He held out his hand in greeting. He was short and stocky and resembled a peasant; to look at him, you’d never say he was a sophisticated writer, but that’s how writers are – deceptive. We were eating steak and eggs, the cheapest thing on the menu, and the writer asked us if we wanted to join him at his table. So we carried our plates over, and the Almanaque editorial staff offered us a tray of duck rice, telling us that young people needed their nourishment. Then the writer and the foreign boy started talking about Vittorini and Italian Neorealism, Isabel chimed in now and then, she’d read Men and Not Men and admired the Italian Resistance, yes, I remember clearly, Isabel’s boyfriend was definitely Spanish, he had all the features of an Andalusian, the jet-black hair, the sharp nose of the gypsy or Sephardic Jew. He called Portuguese girls “annoying pests,” and the writer jumped on the opportunity to change the topic to Sá-Carneiro, who called the bourgeois parasites, no, better, lepidopterans. And so the evening ended with a conversation about lepidopteranism, and each staff editor thought up a different category of lepidopterans. Listening to soccer on the radio was lepidopteran, going to the beach on Sundays was lepidopteran, eating baccalà was lepidopteran, going to confession was lepidopteran, dressing in black was lepidopteran, getting up early was lepidopteran, eating in expensive restaurants was lepidopteran, keeping a diary was lepidopteran. And so on. It was the evening of lepidopteranism. When we left, Isabel asked me, of the two of us, who was more lepidopteran. I said I was. And it was true. I was more bourgeois, the one tied to customs and tradition. Isabel had gone her own way by then, had practically become a stranger, I didn’t recognize her anymore, she’d practically become a stranger, even to me, maybe we no longer had anything to say to one another. And in fact she wasn’t the one who told me about that affair of hers, like I told you, that was the rumor going around at school. As far as I’m concerned, it’s all a lie; there have always been those who gossip, but in those terrible years the gossip was especially cruel. Apparently, the Spanish student was friends with a Polish writer, whom he introduced to Isabel. A friendship sprang up. A friendship between the three of them, but in my opinion, that’s all it ever was, a friendship, picnics on the beaches of Ericeira, Sunday ferry rides on the Tagus, trying to avoid being lepidopterans, and things along that line. In my opinion, the reason Isabel did it was exactly that, to avoid being a lepidopteran, to show everyone the free, uninhibited woman she desired to be, and maybe wasn’t – but who knows. So anyway I heard it said around school that apparently there were complications. I say apparently because I can’t be sure, but a student whispered it to me, a girl who barely knew her, a communist girl Isabel spent time wi
th, probably to keep from feeling lepidopteran, a little fanatic and a moralist besides, like the communists were back then, and she told me: apparently, Isabel’s pregnant, but no one knows if the father’s the Spaniard or the Pole. And then she made it clear that Isabel had joined the Communist Party, and this was why she wasn’t around anymore, she was living a semi-underground existence, because she was writing for Avante under the pseudonym Magda, I think, or something like that. But what could Isabel write for the communist paper? I asked, what could she possibly write with the childhood she had, with her background, with the life she’s led? She writes appeals to the democratic youth, that idiot girl answered, she’s become our biggest ideologue, her articles are like cracks of the whip, invocations, rallies, she’s great, your friend, but now she’s in trouble. And I didn’t see Isabel from then on. Once in a while, I heard about her from that idiot communist girl who wound up leaving for Angola to fight on the side of the liberation front, and was never seen again, good for her, I can’t even remember her name, Fátima, maybe, and she told me: you know, Isabel decided to have an abortion, everyone abandoned her, except her nanny and us, her comrades, but her nanny didn’t know anything about this ugly business. And I said: honey, you’re kind of an idiot, I know Isabel better than you do, these stories you’re telling me seem to come right out of this underground life you lead, look, that’s not Isabel’s nature, being underground, everything she’s ever done has been in the light of day, so you can go screw yourself, you and your party. I never saw Isabel again. But I did see that idiot communist girl again, sometime later, and she told me: Isabel’s depressed, it looks like her troubles made her fall into a depression, I’m not able to contact her, they say she went to live in a small town up north, do you know how to track her down? I tried calling her in Amarante, but her nanny answered, Isabel wasn’t there, she didn’t know where to find her, and then she said: Mónica, dear Mónica, if you do manage to learn something about Isabel, won’t you please tell me, I’m terribly worried, I wanted to contact the police but some friends of hers called, people I didn’t know, and they told me not to contact the police, even if she doesn’t show up, it might be a matter of life or death, I’m in such a state, I want to hear my Isabel’s voice, I don’t know where she is or what she’s doing, and it’s killing me. And making that phone call killed me a little, too. What had happened to Isabel? Where did she wind up? Why had she disappeared? And then: was the idiot communist girl’s story true? And if it was true, Isabel would need someone to help her, and keep her company, and comfort her. And I was the only one who could do this, I was her old friend, her true friend who’d known her since she was a girl, how could she have forgotten everything, our friendship, our summers in Amarante, the frogs? And so I began to try and track her down. I got in touch with a friend of the idiot communist girl, who meanwhile had left for Africa. This guy was young but going bald, a student who’d taken too long to finish and never went to classes anymore but still diligently frequented the cafeteria. He participated in a lot of underground activities; it was so obvious, I was amazed the secret police hadn’t identified him yet. But the secret police, who seemed to be very informed, were also pretty stupid, they couldn’t manage to oversee the university, so the balding kid eluded them. I stopped him one day in the cafeteria. I got behind him in line and said at his back: I’m a friend of Isabel’s, I want to know what’s happened to her. We were at the self-service counter, choosing our food, and he didn’t react, you could see he was accustomed to this sort of secrecy, he turned to the serving woman behind the counter and said: the baccalà doesn’t look fresh, I’ll take the hake with herbs, and then he went on as if he were still ordering: Isabel has some mental problems, she’s hiding out, I can’t give you her contact information, sorry. Go screw yourself, I said, and grabbed my plate. And that was the last I heard anyone speak of Isabel. And then a week later I saw the notice in the Diário de Notícias, the only morning paper, as you know, so there’s not exactly a lot of choices. It read: the friends of Isabel Queriz do Monte announce that it is God’s will to call into his Divine presence his beloved daughter Isabel, for whom the Seventh Day Mass will be celebrated at eleven o’clock, tomorrow morning, the eighteenth of April, in the church of Encarnação, in Cascais. The following day, I went to Cascais. It was a glorious day. I walked around the entire bay and stopped at a coffee shop. I’d arrived early and had to wait a short while, the bay was filled with sailboats ready for the regatta, I walked all along the bay, smoked a cigarette, thought about Isabel, prepared myself spiritually, and I went to the Encarnação, a small church with the most beautiful panoramic view of Cascais. In front of the church, a fishmonger was selling shellfish off a small cart. I bought some and started eating them raw while I sat and waited on a stone bench. At a quarter to eleven, I realized no one else was coming. I waited a little longer and ate my shellfish, and then I went into the church. The Encarnação is less a church than a sailors’ chapel. There are old ex-votos and the pulpit is dominated by a Madonna some sailor painted long ago, during his travels. I settled onto a kneeling stool and waited. At eleven o’clock, the parish priest arrived along with two altar boys, and before celebrating the Mass, the priest spoke only to me: this is the Seventh Day Mass for our dear sister Isabel whom Our Lord has called. After the Mass, I found him in the vestry. Father, I said, I’m an old friend of Isabel’s, I’d like to know how she died. He looked at me, his eyes wide with astonishment, and said: I don’t know, myself – I was only assigned the task of celebrating the Seventh Day Mass, but I don’t know how she died. And you don’t know where she’s buried? I asked, or who these friends of hers are? I don’t know, he said, I truly don’t. But you did know Isabel, didn’t you? I asked. Of course, he answered, I met her as a child, and these last few years, she came to me for confession. And what did she have to say? I asked. I can’t possibly tell you, my dear, he answered, because of the secrecy of the confession. But do you know how she died and where her body lies? I asked. He removed his stole and looked at me, his expression desolate. I don’t know, he answered, I don’t know anything, they told me she was dead, and I believed them, some of her university friends called me and gave me an offering for the Seventh Day Mass, but I didn’t see Isabel after she died, and I don’t know where she’s buried, I don’t know why you’re asking me, since her friends know – aren’t you her friend? I am, I told him, but lately she had more contact with these friends who led such obscure lives – you know how it is in this country, Father – I haven’t managed to learn a thing. I went out to the Cascais bay. It was past noon, a sparkling April. I stopped at a restaurant and ordered grilled fish. The waiter brought me my fish and asked if I wanted to take a tour up to the Mouth of Hell. I told him I didn’t like tours. That’s all I found out about Isabel. There were rumors going around that she’d committed suicide, but those rumors weren’t credible, they were spread by people at the university who knew as much as me. The balding boy disappeared, and like I said, the idiot communist girl left for Angola. The only person who might be able to tell you something more, if she’s still alive, is her nanny, Beatriz Teixeira, she goes by Bi, she should still be at her old address, in Travessa da Palmeira, I don’t know the exact number, but anyone on the street could point it out. I repeat: if she’s still alive. There’s nothing more I can tell you.
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