Mar del Plata was a fascinating, strange city, deserted when it was colder, crowded over the vacation months, with mammoth white hotels, twentieth-century style, that radiated sadness in the off-season, when it was a city of exotic seamen and old people who’d decided to spend their last years there and who tried to keep each other company by taking turns inviting each other for tea on hotel terraces or at café concerts, where shabby little orchestras caterwauled popular songs and tangos. I was at the Salesian conservatory for two years. I studied organ with Father Batteo, an old, half-blind man with deathly pale hands: Bach, Monteverdi, and Pierluigi da Palestrina. The classes on general culture were with Father Simone for science and Father Anselmo for classics, which I had a real knack for. I didn’t mind Latin but preferred History, the lives of saints and famous men, especially Leonardo da Vinci and Ludovico Antonio Muratori, who’d gotten his education by eavesdropping under a school window, until the teacher discovered him one day and said, “come into the classroom, dear boy!”
Evenings, I returned to Pensione Albano, where my job awaited, because the monthly allowance Uncle Alfredo sent wasn’t enough. I’d slip on a jacket that Señora Pepa had washed twice a week and station myself in the Comedor, a room painted pale blue, with around thirty tables and views of Italy on the walls. Our clients were retirees, traveling salesmen, Italian emigrants living in Buenos Aires who could allow themselves the luxury of a couple of weeks in Mar del Plata. Mr. Albano ran the kitchen, he knew how to make pansoti con salsa di noci and trenette al pesto, he was Ligurian, from Comogli, a Perón supporter, said he’d freed a country from lice. Plus, Evita was a knockout.
When I found steady work at the Bichinho, I wrote Uncle Alfredo to stop sending my allowance. Not that I was earning a crazy amount of money, but it was enough anyway, and it didn’t seem fair for Uncle Alfredo to fix tractors to send me a few pesos every month. O Bichinho was a supper club run by a plump, cheerful Brazilian, Senhor João Paiva, where you could have dinner at midnight and listen to music typical of Brazil. It was a place that claimed to be respectable, different from other clubs, though someone going there to find some company would find it easily enough, through the waiters’ discrete complicity, because that business wasn’t out in the open, everything looked respectable, forty candlelit tables; at the back, near the coatroom, two young women sat at tables, empty plates in front of them, sipping a cocktail, as if waiting for their order: and if a gentleman walked in, the waiter would guide him over and discretely ask: “Do you prefer dining alone or would you like a lady’s company?” I understood these tricks, because I worked back there, while Ramón attended to the tables near the stage platform. These propositions had to be made with tact, with grace, you had to understand the customer so you didn’t strike a nerve, and for some reason, I understood the customer straight off, I just had a flair for it, and by month’s end, I made more tips than salary. Not to mention, Anita and Pilar were both generous girls. The highlight of the show was Carmen del Rio. Sure, her voice wasn’t what it used to be, but she was still a draw. With the passing years, the huskiness to her voice, what made her anguished tangos so appealing, had faded, her voice had brightened, and she tried in vain to get that huskiness back by smoking two cigars before each performance. But it wasn’t her voice that was so spectacular, that drove the audience wild, it was many things: her repertoire, the way she moved, her makeup, her outfits. Behind the stage curtain she had a little dressing room crammed with junk and a majestic wardrobe that held all the outfits she used in the Forties, when she was the great Carmen del Rio: long chiffon gowns, wonderful white sandals with extremely high heels of cork, feather boas, tanghista shawls, a blond wig, a red wig, and two that were raven black and parted down the middle with a large chignon and a white comb, Andalusia-style. The secret to Carmen del Rio was her makeup, and she knew it, spent hours on it, down to the smallest detail: her foundation, her long, false eyelashes, her glittering lipstick that she wore back in the day, her extremely long, bright-red, fatale nails. She often asked for my help, said I had a light touch and exquisite taste, I was the one person in the place she trusted, she’d open the doors to her wardrobe and want my advice. I’d go over the night’s repertoire, she knew what to wear for the tangos, but I decided for her more sentimental set, I usually went pale: filmy, pastel dresses, oh, I don’t know, apricot, which was lovely on her, or pale indigo, incomparable for “Ramona.” Then I did her nails and lashes, she’d shut her eyes and settle into her makeup chair, lie back on the head rest and whisper, as if in dream, “I once had a gentle lover like you, he spoiled me like a child, Daniel, from Quebec, I wonder whatever became of him.” Up close, without makeup, she showed her years, but under the spotlight, after I worked on her, Carmen was still a queen. I packed on the foundation and greasepaint, of course, and for powder, I insisted on a very pink Guerlain, not those overly white Argentine brands that brought out her wrinkles: the effect was stunning, and she was extremely grateful, told me I’d erased time. And for her perfume, I converted her to violet, a good amount, a very good amount of violet, and at first she protested, because violet’s so ordinary, a perfume for schoolgirls, she didn’t realize it was exactly this contrast that drew the audience: an old, worn-out beauty singing the tango, done-up like a pink doll. This is what created pathos, what brought on tears.
Then I’d return to my work at the back of the room, circulating among the tables, stepping lightly, “más carabineros a la plancha, señor?” “le gusta el vino rosado, señorita?” I knew that while she sang, Carmen was searching for me, and I’d hold out the boss’s gold cigar lighter for customers as they brought their cigarette to their lips and let that lighter burn at heart level, our agreed-upon signal that her singing was divine, that she went right to the heart, and I’d hear her voice quiver even more, grow warmer. She needed encouragement, splendid old Carmen, “O Bichinho” would be nothing without her.
The night Carmen stopped singing was filled with panic. Of course it wasn’t her choice to stop: we were in her dressing room, I was doing her makeup, she was lying back in her chair in front of the mirror, smoking a cigar, eyes closed, when the powder was suddenly sticky on her forehead, and I realized she was sweating and touched her: she was clammy, “I don’t feel well,” she whispered and said nothing else, raising her hand to her chest, I checked her pulse, couldn’t find it anymore, and went for the manager, Carmen was shaking like she had a fever, but she didn’t have a fever, she was icy. We called a taxi to bring her to the hospital, I helped her to the back entrance, so the audience wouldn’t see her, “Bye, Carmen,” I said, “it’s nothing, I’ll come see you tomorrow,” and she tried to smile. It was eleven o’clock, the customers were eating dinner, and onstage, the spotlight shone a circle of empty light, the pianist was playing softly to fill the void, and there came a scattered, impatient clapping, demanding Carmen. Behind the curtain, Mr. Paiva was extremely nervous, sucking on his cigarette, he called for the manager and told him to serve complimentary sparkling wine, to keep the audience quiet. But right then a low chant went up, “Car-men! Car-men!” and then I don’t know what came over me, it wasn’t thought out, some force seemed to drive me into the dressing room, I turned on the makeup lights around the mirror, chose a very tight, sequined dress with a slit up the side, campy, then white stilettos, black, elbow-length evening gloves, the red wig with flowing curls. I put on heavy eyeshadow, silver, but chose a light bâton for my lips, a muted apricot. When I stepped onstage, the spotlight hit me full-force, people stopped eating, eyes on me, forks raised, that audience I knew but had never faced, a half-circle, like I was under siege. I started with “Caminito verde,” the pianist was quick, knew my vocal timbre right away, quietly accompanied me, entirely in low notes, and then I nodded to the technician, who hit the blue spotlight, I gripped the microphone and whispered into it, I let the pianist play two interludes to prolong the song, because the audience couldn’t take its eyes off me; and while he played, I moved slowly
onstage and that blue cone of light followed, now and then I’d wave my arms like I was swimming in that light, and I’d stroke my shoulders, legs parted, head swaying so my curls caressed my shoulders, like Rita Hayworth in Gilda. And then people were wildly clapping, I knew it had gone well, that I’d caught them off guard: to keep up the energy, before the applause died down, I launched into another song, this time “Lola Lolita la Piquetera,” and then a Buenos Aires tango from the Thirties, “Pregunto,” that sent them into raptures. The kind of applause Carmen only got on her best nights. And then I had an inspiration, something crazy, I went over to the pianist, had him give me his jacket, I put it on over my dress, and as if joking, though very sorrowfully, I started singing Beniamino Gigli’s ballad, “Oh begli occhi di fata,” as if to an imaginary woman I was pining over; and while I sang, that woman I was evoking slowly came forward, drawn by my song, and I peeled off the jacket, and I was whispering the last line into the microphone, della mia gioventù cogliete il fiore, my lover was abandoning me, but my lover was the audience, I stared at everyone, enthralled, I was me again, and I kicked the jacket away that I’d dropped onto the stage. But before the spell was broken, rubbing the microphone on my lips, I slipped into “Acércate más.” And something indescribable happened, men jumped to their feet, clapping, an old gentleman in a white jacket threw me a carnation, an English officer sitting at a front table walked up and tried to kiss me. I escaped to the dressing room, I felt a mad excitement, joy, a jolt to my entire body, I locked myself in, panting, stared at myself in the mirror: I was beautiful, young, happy, and then, on impulse, I put on the blond wig, slipped the blue feather boa around my neck so it dragged along behind me, and I skipped off like an elf to the stage.
First I did “Que será será” Doris-Day style, then “Volare” to a chá-chá rhythm, wiggling, inviting the audience to clap along to the beat, and I sang “vo-la-re!,” a chorus answered “oh-oh” and I “can-ta-re!,” and they “oh-oh-oh-oh!” It felt like the end of the world. I left behind the excitement and noise, went back to the dressing room, and sat there, in Carmen’s armchair, crying with happiness, listening to the audience chanting, “nombre! nombre!” Mr. Paiva entered, speechless, beaming, eyes shining, “You have to go out there and give them your name,” he said, “we can’t calm them down.” And I exited once more, the technician put on a pink spotlight and I was awash in warm light, I took the microphone, two songs surged in my throat, and I sang “Luna rossa” and “All’alba se ne parte il marinaro.” And when the long applause was finally dying down, I whispered into the microphone a name that just came to my lips. “Josephine,” I said. “Josephine.”
Lina, many years have passed since that night, and I’ve lived my life as I felt I had to. While I’ve traveled the world, I’ve always thought about writing you and never had the courage. I’m not sure if you ever found out what happened when we were kids, maybe our relatives weren’t able to tell you, some things can’t be said, whatever the case, that you already know or will come to know, remember that Papa wasn’t a bad man, forgive him as I have. And I, from here, from this hospital in this distant city, let me ask you a favor. If what I’m about to face of my own volition should turn out badly, please claim my body. I’ve left precise instructions with a notary and the Italian Embassy so my body can be brought back home, if so, you’ll receive sufficient funds to cover the funeral, and an extra sum as a reward, because in my life, I’ve earned plenty of money. Lina, the world is foolish, nature is foul, and I don’t believe in the resurrection of the flesh. I do believe in memories, though, and I ask you to let me satisfy mine. Around two kilometers from the signal house where we spent our childhood, halfway between town and the farm where Mr. Quintilio used to work, there’s a path by the fields that once had a sign, TURBINES, because it led to the pumping station for the reclaimed land, and after the locks, a few hundred meters from a group of red houses, you’ll come to a small cemetery. That’s where Mama lies. I want to be buried beside her and for you to have an enlarged photo put on my tombstone of me when I was six years old. It’s a picture that’s been with our aunt and uncle, you must’ve seen it a number of times, it’s of the two of us, you’re extremely small, a baby lying on a blanket, and I’m sitting beside you holding your hand, they dressed me in a pinafore and my curls are tied with a bow. I don’t want any dates. Please, nothing on the stone except a name – but not Ettore – the name I sign below, with the affection of our common blood that binds me to you, your
Josephine
Translated by Janice M. Thresher
The Cheshire Cat
In the first place, it wasn’t true. Let’s just say palpitations instead, even though palpitations are merely a symptom. But not fear, no, he told himself, how stupid, it’s simply excitement, that’s all. He opened the window and looked out. The train was slowing down. The overhanging roof of the station platform quivered in the torrid air. A scorching heat, but if it’s not hot in July, when will it be? He read the sign for Civitavecchia, lowered the window shade, heard voices, then the stationmaster’s whistle and doors slamming shut. He thought that if he pretended to be asleep, no one would enter the compartment. He closed his eyes and said: I don’t want to think about it. And then: I have to think about it, this thing doesn’t make sense. But why, do things ever make sense? Maybe they do, but an undisclosed sense, that you understand later on, much later, or that you don’t understand, but things have to make sense: a sense of their own, of course, that at times has nothing to do with us, even if it seems to. For example, the phone call. “Hello Cat, it’s Alice, I’m back, I can’t explain now, I have only a couple of minutes to leave you a message.” (A few seconds of silence.) “…I have to see you, I absolutely must see you, it’s what I want most now, I’ve thought about it constantly these past years.” (A few seconds of silence.) “How are you, Cat, do you still laugh that way? Sorry, that’s a stupid question, but it’s so hard to talk and know that your voice is being recorded, I must see you, it’s very important, please.” (A few seconds of silence.) “The day after tomorrow, July 15th, at 15:00, Grosseto station, I’ll be waiting for you on the platform, there’s a train that leaves Rome around 13:00.” Click.
You come home and you find a message like that on the answering machine. After all that time. All swallowed up by the years: that period, that city, friends, everything. And the name “Cat” as well, that too swallowed up by the years, that floats up in your memory along with the smile that was worn by that cat, because it was the smile of the Cheshire cat. Alice in Wonderland. It was a wonderland time. But was it? She was Alice, and he was the Cheshire cat: all in jest, like an amusing story. But in the meantime the cat had disappeared, just like in the book. Who knows, maybe the smile has remained, but only the smile, without the face it belonged to. Because time passes and devours things; perhaps only the idea remains. He stood up and looked at himself in the small mirror hanging above the center seat. He smiled. The mirror reflected back the image of a forty-year-old man, with a thin face, blond mustache, and a strained, embarrassed smile, like all smiles in front of a mirror: no longer arch, no longer roguish, no longer the knowing smile of one who ridicules life. Cheshire cat, my foot!
The woman entered the compartment with a timid air. Is that seat free? Of course it was, they were all vacant. She was an elderly lady with a hint of blue in her white hair. She pulled out her knitting and began clicking away. She wore a pair of crescent spectacles on a chain, and looked as if she’d stepped out of a TV commercial. Are you going to Turin too? she asked at once. Train questions. He said no, that he was getting off sooner, but he did not say which station. Grosseto. What sense did it make? And why Grosseto, what was Alice doing in Grosseto, why had she summoned him there? He felt his heart beating rapidly and thought again about fear. But fear of what? It’s excitement, he told himself. Fear of what, go on, fear of what? Of time, Cheshire cat, time that has made everything evaporate, including your superb little smile like
that of the Alice in Wonderland cat. And now here she was again, his Alice of wonders, July 15th, at 15:00 hours, the numbers typical of her, since she loved numerical games and mentally collected incongruous dates. Such as: Forgive me, Cat, it’s no longer possible. I will write to you and explain everything. 10 of 10 of 10 (two days before the discovery of America). Alice. It was her farewell message, she had left it tucked in the bathroom mirror. The letter had arrived almost a year later: it explained everything down to the last detail, but in reality it didn’t explain a thing. It only described how things go, their superficial mechanisms. That was why he had thrown it away. The note, however, he still kept in his wallet. He took it out and looked at it. It had yellowed along the folds and had split open in the middle.
2
He would have liked to open the window, but maybe the woman would be bothered by it. Besides, a little metal sign requested it remain closed for the sake of the air conditioning. He got up and stepped into the corridor. He was just in time to see the sunlit cluster of Tarquinia’s houses before the train slowly entered a curve. Whenever he passed Tarquinia, Cardarelli came to mind. And then the fact that Cardarelli was the son of a railwayman. And after that the poem “Liguria.” Certain memories of school days die hard. He noticed that he was perspiring. He went back into the compartment and got his small travel bag. In the lavatory, he sprayed some deodorant under his arms and changed his shirt. Maybe he could even shave, for no reason, just to pass the time. There really wasn’t much need to, but maybe it would freshen him up. He had brought his toiletry kit and electric razor; he hadn’t dared admit it to himself, but it was in case he were to spend the night away. He shaved solely against the grain, taking great care, and patted his face with aftershave. Then he brushed his teeth and combed his hair. While he was combing his hair, he tried smiling, and it seemed to go a little better, it wasn’t the slightly idiotic smile that he’d produced before. He said to himself: you have to come up with some hypotheses. But he didn’t feel up to doing it in his mind, the theories crossed over one another, the words got tangled and confused; it was impossible.
Message from the Shadows Page 5