He didn’t seem particularly convinced, but my objective wasn’t to try and convince him. I knew perfectly well I wasn’t revealing the secret of the philosopher’s stone; but just that he felt someone might be interested in his problems had to help. It was all I could do. He asked if he could call me at home. Sorry, I didn’t have a phone. And here? Sure, here, whenever he liked, no, unfortunately, not tomorrow, but he could leave me a message of course, no, he had to, a friend would be here in my place who would pass it on to me, I’d be happy to hear about the micro-perspective of his day.
He said goodbye politely, sounding somewhat sorry. It was a hot night, but I hadn’t noticed – sometimes talking takes a crazy level of concentration. From the window I watched Gulliver crossing the street, coming to relieve me, Gulliver, visible from the top of a skyscraper – we don’t call him Gulliver for nothing – I gathered up my things. Only then did I notice it was already ten to nine, damn it, I’d promised Paco I’d be home by nine sharp, but even if I hurried now, I wouldn’t make it by nine thirty. Not to mention public transportation – a disaster most days, much less August fifteenth. Maybe it would be better to walk. I darted past Gulliver, didn’t even give him the chance to say hello, he called after me, joking, I answered from the stairs that I had a date, so please be on time in the future; I left him the fan though he didn’t deserve it. At the front door, just by luck, I saw the 32 rounding the corner, it wouldn’t get me home but would save me a good distance, so I jumped on; it was completely empty, which was unsettling, considering what it was like most evenings. The driver was going so slowly, I felt like saying something, but let it pass – he seemed so resigned, his eyes so dull. Well, I thought, if Paco’s annoyed, too bad – it’s not like I can fly; I got off at the stop by the department stores, and I did hurry, but it was already nine twenty-five, so no point in running only to be late anyway but sweaty and gasping like a crazy person. I slipped in the key, trying to be quiet. The house was dark and silent, unsettling, for some reason, I thought of something unpleasant, and anxiety washed over me. I said: Paco, Paco, it’s me, I’m back. Briefly, I felt consumed by despair. I laid my books and purse on the stool in the entranceway and then approached the living room door. Paco, Paco, I felt like saying. At times, silence is an awful thing. I know what I would’ve like to tell him, if he were there: please, Paco, I’d say, it’s not my fault, I had an endless call, and transportation’s on a reduced schedule, it’s August fifteenth. I went to close the door to the back balcony, because the mosquitos in the garden swarm inside when a light goes on. I recalled there were still tins of caviar and paté in the refrigerator that could be opened, and a bottle of Moselle wine. I laid a yellow linen placemat on the table, and a red candle. My kitchen furniture is of light wood, and the candlelight gives the room a soothing feel. While I was making my preparations, I called again, faintly: Paco. I took a spoon and just tapped a glass, ting, then tapped harder, ting!, the sound lingered all through the apartment. And then I had an inspiration. Opposite my plate I set a placemat, a plate, silverware, and a glass. I filled both glasses, then went into the bathroom to freshen up. And if he really did return, what then? Sometimes reality surpasses the imagination. He’d hit the buzzer twice, two short bursts, the way he always did, and I’d open the door a crack, like an accomplice: I set the table for two, I’d say, I was expecting you, I don’t know why, but I was expecting you. Who knows what sort of face he’d make.
Translated by Janice M. Thresher
Postscript
A Whale’s View of Man
Always so feverish, and with those long limbs waving about. Not rounded at all, so they don’t have the majesty of complete, rounded shapes sufficient unto themselves, but little moving heads where all their strange life seems to be concentrated. They arrive sliding across the sea, but not swimming, as if they were birds almost, and they bring death with frailty and graceful ferocity. They’re silent for long periods, but then shout at each other with unexpected fury, a tangle of sounds that hardly vary and don’t have the perfection of our basic cries: the call, the love cry, the death lament. And how pitiful their lovemaking must be: and bristly, brusque almost, immediate, without a soft covering of fat, made easy by their threadlike shape, which excludes the heroic difficulties of union and the magnificent and tender efforts to achieve it.
They don’t like water, they’re afraid of it, and it’s hard to understand why they bother with it. Like us they travel in herds, but they don’t bring their females, one imagines they must be elsewhere, but always invisible. Sometimes they sing, but only for themselves, and their song isn’t a call to others, but a sort of longing lament. They soon get tired and when evening falls they lie down on the little islands that take them about and perhaps fall asleep or watch the moon. They slide silently by and you realize they are sad.
Translated by Tim Parks
THE ENGLISH TRANSLATIONS of Dino Campana’s verses are taken from Canti Orfici /Orphic Songs (Bordighera Press, 2003), Translation, Introduction and Notes by Luigi Bonaffini. The specific lines quoted are from “Prison Dream” (p. 167), “To a Whore with Steel-Gray Eyes” (p. 277), “La petite promenade du poète” (p. 97), “Carnival Night” (p. 95), “Arabesco Olimpia” (p. 245), “Genoese Woman” (p. 277), and “A Trolley Ride to America and Back” (p. 195). Dr. Carlo Pariani was the psychiatrist who treated the poet at the hospital in Castel Pulci, Florence, where he was admitted in 1918 and where he remained until his death in 1932.
“LETTER FROM CASABLANCA,” “Little Gatsby,” “Voices,” and “The Reversal Game” are translated by Janice M. Thresher and appeared in Letter from Casablanca (New Directions, 1986); “Little Misunderstandings of No Importance,” “Islands,” “The Trains That Go to Madras,” and “Cinema” are translated by Frances Frenaye and appeared in Little Misunderstandings of No Importance (New Directions, 1987); “Wanderlust” and “The Cheshire Cat” are translated by Anne Milano Appel and appear in Il gioco del rovescio (Feltrinelli, 1991); “The Flying Creatures of Fra Angelico,” “Message from the Shadows,” “The phrase that follows this is false: the phrase that precedes this is true,” and “The Translation” from The Flying Creatures of Fra Angelico (Archipelago Books, 2012) and “Small Blue Whales Strolling about the Azores,” “The Woman of Porto Pim,” and “Postscript” from The Woman of Porto Pim (Archipelago, 2013) are translated by Tim Parks; “Drip, Drop, Drippity-Drop,” “Clouds,” “Yo me enamoré aire,” “Bucharest Hasn’t Changed a Bit,” and “Against Time” are translated by Martha Cooley and Antonio Romani, and appeared in Time Ages in a Hurry (Archipelago, 2015); “Night, Sea, or Distance” first appeared in L’angelo nero (Feltrinelli, 1991) is translated by Elizabeth Harris.
archipelago books
is a not-for-profit literary press devoted to
promoting cross-cultural exchange through innovative
classic and contemporary international literature
www.archipelagobooks.org
Message from the Shadows Page 23