Cooley Martha - Time ages in a hurry

Copyright Antonio Tabucchi 2014

English translation copyright Martha Cooley and Antonio Romani, 2014

First Archipelago Books Edition, 2014

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or retransmitted in any form without prior written permission of the publisher.

First published as Il Tempo Invecchia in Fretta by Feltrinelli, 2009.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Tabucchi, Antonio, 19432012.

[Tempo invecchia in fretta. English]

Time ages in a hurry / by Antonio Tabucchi ; translated from the Italian by Martha Cooley and Antonio Romani.

First Archipelago Books edition.

pages cm

e- ISBN 978-0-914671-06-0

I. Cooley, Martha, translator. II. Romani, Antonio, translator. III. Title.

PQ 4880. A 24 T 4613 2015

853.914dc23 2014034616

Archipelago Books

232 Third Street, Suite A 111

Brooklyn, NY 11215

www.archipelagobooks.org

Distributed by Random House

www.randomhouse.com

Cover art: Toshio Enomoto

This publication was made possible by the generous support of Lannan Foundation, The National Endowment for the Arts, and the New York State Council on the Arts, a state agency.

v3.1

After the shadow, time ages in a hurry.

C RITIAS

I asked him about the old days, when we were still so young, naive, hotheaded, silly, green. A little bits still there, except the young part, he answered.

The old professor had stopped talking, his expression almost contrite, hed swiped away a tear that had welled up on his eyelashes, tapped himself on the forehead as if to say how stupid of me, would you pardon me, tugged at his incredibly orange bow tie, and said in his French marked by a strong German accent: please pardon me, please pardon me, Id forgotten, the title of the poem is The Old Professor, by the great Polish poet Wisawa Szymborska, and at that moment he pointed to himself as if suggesting that he coincided somehow with the character in that poem, then he drank another Calvados, which was more responsible for his emotion than the poem was, and let out a half sigh, everybody rising up to console him: Wolfgang, dont do this, keep reading, the old professor blew his nose with a large, checked handkerchief: I asked him about that picture, he continued in a stentorian voice, the one framed on his desk. Theyve been and gone. Brother, cousin, sister-in-law, wife, daughter on the wifes knees, cat in the daughters arms, cherry tree in blossom, above the tree, a bird, unidentified, in flight, he answered.

She hadnt heard the rest, or perhaps she hadnt wanted to hear it, that sweet old professor from the canton of St. Gallen, the St. Gallen cousins are a bit rough, something she heard her great-aunt say one night in the kitchen, strange creatures, theyre good people, but they live in that isolated place surrounded by mountains and lakes, whereas she herself found the old professor of St. Gallen delightful, shed even photocopied the poem hed wanted to read for the toast, so courteous, and made the copies available for guests on the dining-room table, among the desserts and cheeses, because according to him that was the best tribute to the memory of the grandfather, my late and unforgettable brother Josef in whose place the Lord should have called me. But here he was, alive and kicking, the spider veins on his nose all the more pronounced from the alcohol, meanwhile the grandmother was listening blissfully (or perhaps she was asleep) to her brother-in-laws poetic eulogy for her dead husband, because the anniversary of his death, ten years past now, was the reason for this solemn family reunion, one must celebrate the dead, yet despite everything life goes on, and the life that goes on deserves to be celebrated as much as or even more than the dead are, and to hell with all those who are envious, because family is family, especially an important family like ours that at the start of the nineteenth century already had mail stops from Geneva to the canton of St. Gallen, and from Lake Constance to Germany, and from Germany to Poland, there are still prints and photographs, all in the family album, from all those old mail stops the web of trade was born that makes the Ziegler family famous today in Switzerland and through all of Europe, the founders died long ago, the eldest heirs will be dead soon, but the family goes on, because life goes on, and thats why were here, the great-uncle from St. Gallen triumphantly concluded, to celebrate the life that goes on, with our children and our grandchildren.

And there they were, the heirs of so much tradition. The theatrical gesture of the great-uncle from St. Gallen who declaimed the poem in an emotional voice seemed directed right at them: at the little blond, curly-haired boy who already wore a tie and at the little girl with the face full of freckles, both unaware that that gesturing hand was aimed right at them, and unaware of the memory of the unknown grandfather Josef, intent as they were on arguing over a piece of chocolate cake, and the little boy, whod won out over his sister, already carried the victory smudge under his nose, like a mustache in a Guignol theater, and the latest daughter-in-law, the white Greta, so thoughtful, with a lace napkin, also from St. Gallen like their great-uncle, wiped the chocolate from the boys face and smiled. A nice smile on a healthy face of milk and blood, as shed heard it said once in that country, though maybe not in Geneva, maybe in Lugano: milk and blood. What a strange mixture, the first time shed heard that expression it had a strange effect on her, almost nauseating, perhaps because shed imagined a jug of milk into which drops of blood were falling. And her thought had turned all on its own to a childhood that wasnt hers, to a village lost in time, at the foot of the mountains in a country that here, in this city where they were now celebrating a grandfather Josef who wasnt hers and whom shed never known, they called Maghreb, as if it belonged to an abstract geography. When she was young she didnt know that the place where her ancestors lived was called Maghreb, even they didnt know its name, they simply lived there, not even the grandmother knew, the grandmother, whose image surfaced from memory as though from a buried well, how strange, because this wasnt a memory of a person, it was the memory of a grandmother shed been told about, whom shed never known, how could she recall so well a face shed never seen? And then her mother came to mind, she was strong, her mother, but also so fragile, and so beautiful, with that proud profile and those big eyes, and she remembered her talking, and the ancient accent, so ancient, because it came from the heart of the desert where neither the Arab raiders who dealt in peoples bodies nor the Catholic priests who dealt in souls had ever dared penetrate, better to leave the Berbers in peace, they arent marketable. And at the same time she also wondered where that profound sense of herself came from, which for a moment she could feel surfacing in response to the perfect and resolute gesture Greta made as she wiped the chocolate blotch off her sons cheek. From nowhere, that sense came from nowhere, like her memory that wasnt a true memory but the memory of a story, and it wasnt yet a sense, it was an emotion, and in the end not even an emotion, just images her fantasy had created when she was a little girl listening to others memories, but shed forgotten that remote and imaginary place, and this astonished her. Why were those places of sand her mother had talked about when she was a little girl left buried in the sand of her memory? The Grands Boulevards, this was the geography belonging to her memory, the great avenues of Paris, where her father had an elegant law office with floral wallpaper and leather armchairs, her father, a well-known lawyer in a large Parisian office. On the next floor was the apartment where shed grown up, an apartment with very high windows and plaster moldings, a building Haussmann wanted, at home theyd always said so: its a Haussmann building, and Haussmann was Haussmann, and that was that, yet what did Haussmann have to do with what she was?