For Isabel

by Antonio Tabucchi

  She’d spoken in one long breath. She grew quiet and looked at me. Only then did I realize that she must be ancient. She was a decrepit storehouse of memories.

  Dear Madam Teixeira, I said, your story is filled with affection, and I know you felt great affection for Isabel, but this isn’t enough for me, I’d like to learn other things. She looked at me suspiciously. I don’t know what else I could tell you, she answered, I was only her nanny. Well, I said, it couldn’t have escaped her nanny that Isabel had problems with the police – serious problems – and that it was the secret police. She looked at me even more suspiciously. Who told you that? she asked. Mónica told me, I answered. Of course, she said, Miss Mónica, and then: but why didn’t you ask Miss Mónica? Because Mónica knows less than you, dear Bi, I said, if you’ll permit me to call you this, and she insists you were taking care of Isabel when the secret police were looking for her. Miss Mónica told you this? Bi asked. Mónica told me this, I confirmed, why deny it?, please don’t deny it, dear Bi, otherwise you’ll just have to take it back. I take back nothing, Bi said, as if she’d been greatly accused, I certainly don’t take back that time when Isabel needed me. So tell me about that time, I said. She poured herself a glass of water from the pitcher on the table. One night, she whispered, Isabel started knocking on my door, it must have been midnight, and she said, Bi, the police are looking for me, it was raining, she was soaked. The old woman paused. And so? I said. Please don’t interrupt me, she said. I let her talk.

  It was raining, her hair was wet, she was soaked. Bel, I said, my Bel, what do you mean, the police? But she wouldn’t say anything more. And me, following her, asking: but what do you mean, the police?, why the police?, what’s happened? And her, quiet. And me, getting her a bowl of hot soup, insisting: what’ve you been up to that the police are looking for you?, what sort of affair is this – is it something political? Silly Bi, she answered, of course it’s something political, now, no more questions, and if someone’s looking for me, I’m not here, you don’t know where I am, maybe someone will come and tell you he’s a contact, he’s a friend, I’ll be gone all day, now and then I’ll come here and sleep. But one afternoon, some men arrived. The secret police. They looked all over, arrogant men, asking me all kinds of questions. You know where she is, tell us, they demanded. I told them I knew her when I was employed in her home, and I didn’t know anything about her anymore. So who sleeps here? they said, looking around the small room where Isabel slept. My friend, I lied, Maria da Conceição, she was a pastry chef who used to work for rich people in their homes, but now she’s retired. And then that night, when Isabel returned, I told her everything. She collected her small bag, which she’d hidden and, luckily, the police hadn’t found, inside were leaflets and books, if my contact comes looking for me, she said, tell him I’ve gone to stay with a friend, a girl I trust, and she kissed me and left, and I haven’t seen her since.

  She breathed deeply and poured herself another glass of water. I haven’t seen her since, she repeated. That might be the case, I answered, but you must have seen her death notice in the paper, I can’t imagine no one told you. Old Bi glanced at me sideways over her glasses. What death notice? she asked. For the Seventh Day Mass at the Cascais Chapel, I answered. Did Miss Mónica tell you this as well? she asked. Mónica went to the chapel that day, I said, but no one was there. Someone’s idea of a joke, she answered, you always find morons putting that sort of thing in the paper. So, I said, Isabel didn’t commit suicide. The very idea, she said, you think my little Bel’s someone who’d kill herself – with her strength of character? And so? I asked. And so? she said. And so where did she end up? She stretched her arms wide. Where destiny took her, she said. But do you know how to find her? I asked, do you know where she is? The very idea, she sighed. And then she added: excuse me, sir, but even if I did know, do you really think I’d tell you when I’ve never laid eyes on you before? – and why are you so interested, anyway? It’s a private matter, I answered, and would take too long to explain.

  We seemed to be at a stalemate. If Bi didn’t know, it was useless for me to keep on insisting. If she did know, it was equally useless for me to keep on insisting, she’d never give out any news of her Bel to some stranger who’d shown up at her door years later. And then I said: Mónica only knows so much, in that period, she barely saw Isabel anymore, but you, dear Bi, you must know who Isabel spent time with while she was in hiding at your home. Her contact, she said at once, she saw her contact. And who was her contact? I asked, what did he look like? No idea, she said. All right, I said, you have no idea, but still, there must be someone you did know that Isabel saw back then. She seemed lost in thought. There was a female musician, she said, back then, Isabel spent time with a female musician who lived on Travessa do Carmo, but I don’t know where she lives now, she plays modern music, and has a foreign name, I’ve heard she plays at a club on Praça da Alegria, you know, that music Negros invented, I don’t know what it’s called, and I don’t remember that girl’s name anymore, either, a foreign name. And now, goodnight to you, excuse me, these days I go to bed early.

  Third Circle. Tecs. Lisbon. Absorption.

  Lisbon Sundays, like some Lisbon Sundays can be, when a thick, Atlantic fog rolls in and chokes the city. Mornings, what do you do?, you go to Mass at São Domingos, my friend told me, and afternoons, you get caught in a little rain and wind up twiddling your thumbs.

  That’s what happened to me. But I didn’t go to Mass, I got caught in a little rain and wound up twiddling my thumbs. Finally, evening came.

  I left by way of Alexandre Herculano and walked along Avenida da Liberdade. I stopped in front of the window of an airline company, where there was an enormous poster on display, an invitation to visit the desert. At that hour, Lisbon, too, was practically a desert. I hadn’t eaten, and I wasn’t hungry, all I needed to do was get up my nerve. I stopped in front of the Hotel Tivoli and thought of going into the bar, maybe it would do me some good, I used to know an old bartender there named Joaquim.

  He was behind the bar, in his bowtie, but he didn’t seem to recognize me. Good evening, Joaquim, I said, don’t you recognize an old friend? He studied me, his face neutral. A friend is always a friend, he answered philosophically. He was serving an elegant American couple. I settled onto a stool, then changed my mind and sat down at a small table in the corner. Joaquim came right over. What may I bring you? he asked with great politeness. He clearly didn’t recognize me. Listen, Joaquim, I told him, you might not know me now, but you used to, never mind, my friend, that’s how life goes, for a bartender, though, you don’t have much of a memory, usually bartenders have an excellent memory, the memory of an elephant.

  Joaquim had inconceivable resources. A bartender must never recognize his customers, he said, since he never knows if they’ll appreciate it or not, and he set a small bowl of peanuts down on my table, do you want the usual? I looked at him, curious, and he remained unflappable. Just to check his memory, I answered: okay, the usual. And I stretched my legs beneath the table. Joaquim came back and asked me to excuse him. Pardon my bad service, he said, face impassive, but that American couple is dreadful, they only drink American whiskey, as if that’s all that exists in the whole wide world, I finished the bottle and had to find another in the storeroom.

  Carefully, he set a not quite full martini glass on the table, and topped it off from a small crystal pitcher. Vodka and lemon, he murmured, because, if I’m not mistaken, orange juice gives you acid stomach, plus, a drop of angostura bitters. He carefully stirred the glass with a small spoon and added: did I remember correctly? Joaquim, you’re absolutely splendid, I said, how is it you remember so well? – so much time has passed. The memory of an elephant, he replied, a requirement for any bartender. And then he continued: and your friend Ruy, what became of him?, he liked the same drink. His spirit must be in Timor, I answered, that’s what he deserves since he spent his best years there, but his body lies here in the city, in the British Ceme
tery. I’m sorry, Joaquim said, he wrote beautiful poetry, I’m truly sorry. He asked if he could sit down. Of course, Joaquim, I said, by all means, sit, and we’ll have a chat. It looks like those two are getting plastered, he whispered, pointing to the American couple, and then he asked: so your friend, Ruy, was he Portuguese or Timorese? He wrote in Portuguese, I said, but his narrow eyes and his love for lullabies, he got from Timor. I remember he came in here once and cried, Joaquim said, he was crying because Portugal lost Timor. Before he died, I said, he sent me one of his poems that I translated into Polish, want me to read it to you? Unfortunately, I don’t understand Polish, Joaquim replied, it’s a language I never learned. I meant I’d read it in our language, I said, it’s here in my pocket. I pulled out my wallet and removed a piece of paper, folded over twice. You know what, Joaquim, I said, it’s called “Poetic Condition,” and I think it’s about all of us, but me in particular, because where I come from, I find myself in a similar condition. I cleared my throat and read: I am so tired of you, they praise you, oh, poetry!, we go everywhere together, wake up together in the same bed, we’ve composed songs, created children; now chased by dogs and dew drops, we return to the promised land, sacred mountains, mysterious dawn, calm sunrise in granite, wake up, spirit, and celebrate the sun fast that embraces us and melts away.

  I looked at Joaquim, and he looked at me. It’s quite beautiful, he said, it gave me the shivers, you know, it made me think back to one of those summer days from my childhood, where all you saw were cork oaks, and the sun was relentless. The sun fast that embraces us and melts away – not bad, huh, Joaquim? I said. Not bad, he agreed, I’d like to understand poetry, but I chose this line of work, I serve spirits. In my view, poetry’s not much different from spirits, I said, trying to be of some comfort. You think so? he said, you want a little more vodka? No, I said, maybe a little absinthe, like they used to drink in the nineteenth century, there was a bar I once knew, in Bairro Alto, where you could get absinthe, who knows if it’s still around, though. You can still find absinthe, Joaquim said, I know this little factory in Minho that makes it, only a few bottles, but there are bars around here that have it, I don’t think it’s banned in Portugal, you know, we’re not at all like the rest of Europe. What do you mean, Joaquim? I asked. That we hold onto our independence, he said with pride. Sure, I answered, when it comes to absinthe, anyway. And what fine plans do you have for this evening? Joaquim went on. I’m going to a club nearby, I said, in Praça da Alegria, I’m going to listen to some jazz. Who knows, Joaquim said, maybe you’ll find some absinthe, I’ve heard they serve it around there. How much do I owe you, my friend? I asked. He held up his hands. I insist, he said, if you’d allow me, after so many years. I also insist, I replied. Listen, he said, consider it a gift, from the Tivoli, if you wish, the Tivoli’s still a high-class hotel, but above all, consider it a gift from my elephant memory. And he shook my hand.

  The Hot Dog was a tiny place, with one long bar and a few tables. Luckily, it wasn’t very crowded. I wasn’t in the mood that night for a crowd. But perhaps on that foggy Sunday evening, Lisboners weren’t much interested in listening to jazz. A poster on the door read: Tecs on saxophone. And then, below: A Tribute to Sonny Rollins.

  I sat down at a corner table. The waiter hurried over and asked if I wanted to eat right away or wait until after the performance. It depends how long it goes, I answered. It’s just two pieces, he said, tonight the saxophonist will only be playing two pieces, she’s tired, yesterday was Saturday and she played until three in the morning. I decided to eat after the performance, and the waiter asked me if I wanted an aperitif. I’d like an absinthe, I said. He didn’t bat an eye as he replied: on the rocks or straight? Why? I asked, is absinthe also served on the rocks? It is here, he said, in our bar, it’s served on the rocks. Straight, I said, just to be contrary, I want a serious absinthe, like they used to drink in the old days.

  The piano and the double bass were already tuning up. The waiter disappeared and the lights dimmed. The saxophonist came in through a small side door and leaned against the bar. She had grey hair, but you could tell she was still young. I liked her right away: she had a determined expression, a face slightly marked by time, and blue eyes. Her saxophone was hanging by a leather strap around her neck. She settled her elbows behind her on the bar, looked around, and said: tonight, I’m playing a tribute to Sonny Rollins, just two tunes, the first is called, “Everything Happens to Me.”

  She began to play, softly, and then with more power. I knew it was a traditional song, a ballad transformed into jazz. It was romantic and intimist, with some short improvisations that Tecs handled well. I paid close attention; though the music didn’t speak to me, I paid close attention. When she finished, there was brief clapping from the connoisseurs, and I clapped, too. The lights went up and the waiter arrived with my absinthe. A break, he said, a ten-minute break, the musician’s tired tonight. I thanked him, then stopped him from leaving with my hand. Listen, I said, would you mind letting the saxophonist know that after the second piece, I’d like to chat with her, and that I’d be delighted if she’d consider having dinner with me, please tell her I’m an old friend of Isabel’s.

  The waiter left and the lights dimmed again. Tecs showed up and went back to her spot by the bar. Before she started, she said: “Three Little Words.” And then she began to play. It seemed like a movement in four parts, I was no expert, but this was what they called hard-bob, hard, like they played in the Sixties, and she was adding some swing, with something just a touch romantic. The audience clapped and I clapped, too. The lights went up. I laid my napkin on my lap and waited. A short while later, Tecs arrived. She’d changed into a blue top. You wanted to see me? she said. I’m an old friend of Isabel’s, I told her, would you care to join me for dinner? She sat down at my table. What are you drinking? she asked. She had a strong English accent. I’m drinking absinthe, I answered, but straight, I had some vodka earlier, it’s probably a deadly combination. And what will you be eating? she asked. Fried eggs and pancetta, I said. How’s that sound? Like a deadly combination, she answered, but you go right ahead, I’ll have a shrimp salad.

  The waiter came over, a pleasant smile on his face. We ordered our eggs and salad. Saxophone music started playing softly over the intercom. Is that you, too? I asked. She said it was. It’s my tribute to Sonny Rollins, she said. A disk I cut last month. Were you already playing when you met Isabel? I asked. You’re making me go back in time, Tecs sighed. I was strictly a beginner then, I was attending the university, and once in a while I’d play at the student canteen. A strange story, I said, a British girl studying in Lisbon and playing saxophone at the university. American, she corrected me, I’m American, and my story’s no stranger than anyone else’s: my father was an engineer in Norfolk, and his firm offered him work in the Lisbon shipyards, my mother wanted to get to know Europe, my father accepted the job, and we came to Portugal, I enrolled in the College of Sciences, I’m a biologist, actually, though I’ve never worked in this field, and I was already studying the saxophone then, though I was timid, Isabel’s the one who discovered that I played and insisted I perform at the university canteen; for those Portuguese kids, listening to jazz was revolutionary, the music of a great democratic country, here in Portugal the regime supported Fado, and one singer in particular who had a beautiful voice, I won’t deny it, the regime turned her into propaganda, and she turned the regime into propaganda herself, it was awful. I think I know the singer, I said. Of course you do, she said, we all do, there’s no point in naming names. And Isabel? I asked. Isabel was in a student organization, Tecs said, students against the regime, she suggested I join too, and I did, but I was shielded by my American passport, it wasn’t as dangerous for me as it was for her, the truth is, that organization didn’t do anything, people just read banned political books, not much else, but Isabel hung out with other people she didn’t introduce me to, then she disappeared for a while, then later I learned she’d been arres
ted and was in Caxias Prison, we heard news of her from a prison guard who risked coming to the university and giving us a note, he was a prison guard in the opposition, who aided political prisoners. Tecs grew quiet and then went on: so much time has passed. And then she said: and meanwhile, I went off to America for a bit, and when I returned, they told me Isabel had died, that she committed suicide in prison, and they showed me her death notice in the paper, and that’s everything I know.

  We both were quiet. The record had ended, too. The only sound was the soft murmuring of the last customers at their tables. You know, Tecs, I said, there’s no death certificate for Isabel, I looked for it in the municipal archives. What do you mean? she asked. Just this, I answered, that officially, she never died. But they told me she killed herself in prison, Tecs said, that she swallowed glass. I understand, I answered, but all sorts of things can be said. But I saw her death notice in the paper, she insisted, I saw it with my own two eyes. And you always believe what you see in the papers? I asked, and besides, anyone could put in a death notice. That’s true, she admitted, but what are you planning to do? I’d like to find that prison guard you mentioned, I said, maybe he knows something, do you remember his name? Tecs put her face in her hands. Oh God, she said, I used to know it, but that was a long time ago. Go on and try, I encouraged her, we have all night. Tecs looked at me and shook her head. Sorry, she told me, I’ve blocked it out, all I remember is that he was from Cape Verde. That’s not much, I said, try a little harder. I don’t remember anything else, she answered, I’m sorry. Listen, Tecs, I said, that man’s important to me, so you have to try, and, might I add that absinthe doesn’t just make a person feel elated, it also brings on a remarkable clear-headedness – what would you say to a glass? She smiled. I’ve never tried it, she said, I don’t know how it might affect me. And then she went on: but who cares, the night’s pretty much over, I’ll have one. I called to the waiter, and something else occurred to me. Sonny Rollins was already playing by the Sixties, wasn’t he? – this is music from the Sixties, right? She nodded. I was already playing him at the university, she said, he was one of my maestros. All right, I said, let’s replay that record.