Antonio Tabucchi - Tristano Dies: A Life

Rosamunda Rosamunda on such a lovely evening I truly am believing its fairy dust Im breathing a thousand voices thousand choices thousand hearts are all rejoicing such happiness is ours such joy beneath the stars Rosamunda if you look at me Rosamunda Ill your sweetheart be You like that one? thats from my time, when Rosamunda looked at Tristano and the more she looked at him the more he liked her Rosamunda if you look at me Rosamunda Ill your sweetheart be Oh Rosamunda all of my love is for you oh Rosa-munda the more I look at you the more I like you Rosa-mu-u-u-und Hearts are all rejoicing such happiness is ours not that it was so happy back then, it was cold in the mountains, frozen, really, outside, inside, Ill tell you about it, get comfortable, youve got a bit ahead of you, but not too long, dont worry, rough guess, maybe a month or so, youll see, Ill be gone before the end of August, how was the drive? its not easy finding your way around here with all the twists and turns, I told Frau to be really careful giving out directions, I expected you earlier, but Im sure she did her best to confuse you, not that her Italian isnt good its better than mine been here her whole life but when she doesnt want to do something she starts turning German, just for spite. Youll take Daphnes rooms, tell her I said so.

You know, all told, lifes more what you dont remember than what you do Frau popped her head in, not a ripple now, she told me, where you once swam with a woman, and she shut the door again. I dont know if that was Sundays poem or some decree Frau gets moralistic when theres work to be done. But what work? whats there left to do in this house, and todays not exactly Sunday, right? Youve got to have the memory of an elephant, but thats not what we men have, who knows, one day maybe theyll come up with an electronic memory, a card the size of your fingernail that theyll slip into your brain to record your entire life Speaking of elephants, of all the creatures of this world and all their funeral rites, Ive always admired elephants the most, they have this strange way of dying you know about it? When an elephant feels his time has come he leaves the herd, but not alone, he chooses a companion, and they leave together. They start out across the savannah, often at a trot, depending on how urgent the dying elephant is feeling and they wander and wander, sometimes kilometers and kilometers, until the dying elephant chooses his place to die, and he goes round and round again, tracing a circle, because he knows its time to die, he is carrying death inside him but needs to find it in space, as though he has an appointment, as though he wants to look outside himself, look death in the eye, and tell her, good morning madam death, here I am of course its an imaginary circle, but it helps to geograph death, if you will and hes the only one who can enter this circle, for death is a private act, extremely private, so no one else can enter except the one whos dying and at this point he tells his companion he can leave, goodbye, thanks so much, and the other returns to the herd I started reading Pascal when I was a young man, I used to like him, especially his Jansenist beliefs, it was all so black and white, so clear; see, back then, in the mountains, life was black and white, your choices had to be precise, here or there, black or white, but then life teaches you the different shades of gray But Ive always liked Pascals definition, a sphere whose center is everywhere and whose circumference is nowhere, it reminds me of the elephants And in a way, this has something to do with why I called you here like I said, youll need to be patient because its not quite my time yet, but you knew at once to trot along beside me, to accompany the one whos dying Im the only one who knows my circle, I know when the moment will arrive; its true that the hour chooses us, but its also true that you have to agree on being chosen, its something the hour decides but in the end its something you decide as well, as if youd made your choice and were only giving in For now, lets trot along together, and while it might seem were moving forward, were really going backward, because Im an elephant whos called you to go backward, but Im going back to reach my circle thats ahead. So for now, just listen and write. When the time comes for us to say goodbye, Ill let you know.

I have something to confess after I called you I had second thoughts. Im not sure why, maybe I dont believe in writing, writing falsifies everything, you writers are falsifiers. Or maybe its that a person must carry his life to the grave. I mean a persons real life, the one he lives inside. What should be left to others is just the life outside, whats already plain to see, obvious. But I feel like writing my life telling it writing it down by proxy youre the one doing the writing, though its me. Strange, dont you think?

Id like to try and start from the beginning, if a beginning even exists, because where does the story of a life begin, I mean, how do you decide? You can start with a fact, thats true, and so I have to pick a fact, a fact concerning this life of mine youve come to write. So Ill pick a fact. But does a fact begin with a fact? Sorry, Im confused, Im not sure how to explain I mean, someone does something, and this thing determines the course of his life, but this thing hes done, it probably doesnt happen by a miracle, its probably inside him already, and who knows how it started Maybe a childhood memory, the glimpse of a face, a dream from long ago that you thought youd forgotten, and here it is one day, this thing that occurs, but its origins who can say Tristano talked about Schubert that day in Plaka, it was winter, and in that eerie square people were lined up, bowl in hand, waiting for their koin soup you know what that is? the swill those in charge back then gave to Greek citizens so they wouldnt starve: nasty, lukewarm water, a few shreds of potato and cabbage floating on top variations, said Antheos, though Tristano called him Marios because he reminded him of his friend in the outskirts of Turin, the spitting image of his dear friend Marios who hid in a barn with his lover, an extraordinary woman, until thirty-nine, when he said I prefer not to, and he started his own resistance early on, meaning, before the real Resistance began, but you didnt know that for your novel Sometimes I cant help but smile at what you thought you knew, but other than that, I liked your book, really, its the very best testimony to that heroic time, the only heroic time weve ever known, for that matter Im using testimony loosely, because you couldnt have been there, but it feels like you were, like you were witness to a time, a choice, a moral stance but you also got the facts down, September eighth, the Republic of Sal that cropped up again with such arrogance, like an arbiter of Italian fate, a denial of the meaning of civil war, a strong position to take these days, a bit rash, maybe, you know better than me that back then people were shooting at their enemies and friends alike, but thats not whats important, what I enjoyed about your novel is how well-informed it is on the nature of heroism, loyalty, disloyalty, of pleasure and emotions Youre a very patient man, otherwise, considering how rude I was when you arrived, youd have left already, said the hell with it, and this commitment you made, this book youre writing in my place, youd chuck it all and tell me what Ive got coming to me But instead, here you sit, not moving a muscle; youre really something, writer; I dont know if youre chicken or braver than me, and thats why you put up with me I think theres a big fly buzzing around you hear it? theres a buzzing in this room, really loud, is it the music of the heavens? no, the universe isnt buzzing, its the sound of writers, the unpleasant scratching of pens on paper, but you, youre not scratching the page, you tame the page, like a lion tamer at the circus this heavenly music Im talking about is truly great, the music that the angels played, the angels imagined by the painters in my Tuscany, and theres no fixed score, because there are always variations variations, that gaunt Greek soldier told Tristano across a small caf table in Plaka, while the apocalypse loomed Variations, he said: for now, Im just introducing variations, you see, by now, all the musics been played already, and the only thing left for us poor bastards is introducing variations, take Schuberts Impromptu Op. 142 for the piano, you know that one? theres a sadness to it, a sadness that lays siege to the soul, that gives some idea of this occupation of yours, this siege on my homeland; theres an obsession to this music, maybe something Schubert was obsessed with, thats also present in the accompanying music to that piece titled Rosamunde. And then Tristano gave a tired wave toward the Parthenon, as though the gods themselves had been trampled beneath the invaders boots and at that point a boy approached from across the square, wheeling an old bicycle beside him, skinny, just a child, bundled in an enormous military coat that dragged along the ground, his aluminum mess-kit hanging from his neck by a piece of twine, he saw the German soldiers standing watch by the line of people, and he began to whistle a tune, a partisan song with a slow, grave refrain that his whistling made sound almost cheerful, almost a march a German approached, pointed his submachine gun at the boy who wouldnt stop, who kept walking, defiantly whistling, as if this were some sort of game, his face, teasing everyone watching, everyone knew what was going to happen, but no one moved, no one budged, like they were all under a spell, the metallic sound of the magazine clip like a rock falling to the pavement, and the soldier fired, and the small boy crumpled to the ground, the bicycle on top of him and then an old woman stepped out of line, her voice pierced the frozen silence of Plaka, and she screamed a curse at them, Tristano understood, it was an ancient curse of eternal damnation, the Germans along the portico heard but didnt understand her words, they understood her tone, the soldier raised his submachine gun and fired again, the woman slumped to the pavement, a figure in black, arms thrown out in agony, and Tristano, as by divine gift no, more like divine regulation, because he had his regulation musket aimed his gun at the Germans chest, and killed him on the spot and like magic Plaka came to life, and men appeared out of nowhere, because some unforeseen stagehand like Tristano had decided it was time for the avenging furies in this Greek tragedy to enter the scene; he didnt anticipate a revolt would break out due to something hed done by instinct, not even thinking what might happen, but it was as though the gears had started turning on their own; through death, life had resumed at an uncontrollable pace, because thats how life is, and historys what follows, you ever think of it that way, writer?