At this point my companion halted. In spite of the sound made by the train I could hear his deep, regular breathing.
“Please go on,” I said.
“There’s not much more to say. The statuette was a dancing Shiva, but that I didn’t know. As you see, I haven’t yet entered the recycling circle, and my own interpretation of the figure is a different one. I’ve thought of it every day of my life since then; indeed, it’s the only thing I’ve thought of in all these years.”
“How many years has it been?” “Forty.”
“Can you think of one thing only for forty years?” “Yes, I think so, if you’ve been subjected to indignity.” “And what is your interpretation of the figure?” “I don’t think it represents a vital circle. It’s simply the dance of life.”
“And how is that different?”
“Oh, it’s very different,” he murmured. “Life is a circle. One day the circle must close, and we don’t know what day that will be.” He blew his nose again and said, “Excuse me, please; I’m tired and should like to catch a bit of sleep.”
When I woke up we were drawing near to Madras. My travelling companion was already shaved and fully dressed in his impeccable dark-blue suit. He had pushed up his berth and now, looking thoroughly rested and with a smile on his face, he pointed to the breakfast tray on the table next to the window.
“I waited for you to wake up so that we could drink our tea together,” he said. “You were so fast asleep that I didn’t want to disturb you.”
I went into the washroom and made my morning toilet, gathered my belongings together and closed my suitcase, then sat down to breakfast. We were running through an area of clustered villages, with the first signs of the approaching city.
“As you see, we’re right on time,” he said. “It’s exactly a quarter to seven.” Then, folding his napkin, he added: “I wish you’d go to see that statue. It’s in the museum. And I’d like to hear what you think of it.” He got up, reached for his bag, held out his other hand and bade me goodbye. “I’m grateful to my guidebook for the choice of the best means of transportation. It’s true that on Indian trains you may make the most unexpected acquaintances. Your company has given me pleasure and solace.”
“It’s been a mutual pleasure,” I answered. “I’m the one who’s grateful to the guidebook.”
We were entering the station, alongside a crowded platform. The train’s brakes went on and we glided to a stop. I stepped aside and he got off first, waving his hand. As he started to walk away I called out to him.
“I don’t know where to send my reaction to the statue. I haven’t your address.”
He wheeled about, with the perplexed expression I had seen on his face before. After a moment’s reflection, he said: “Leave me a message at the American Express. I’ll pick it up.”
Then we went our separate ways among the crowd.
I stayed only three days in Madras, intense, almost feverish days. Madras is an enormous agglomeration of low buildings and immense uncultivated spaces, jammed with bicycles, animals, and random buses; getting from one end of the city to another required a very long time. After I had fulfilled my obligations I had only one free day and I chose to go, not to the museum but to the cliff reliefs of Kancheepuram, some miles from the city. Here, too, my guidebook was a precious companion.
On the morning of the fourth day I was at the depot for buses to Kerala and Goa. There was an hour before departure time, it was scorchingly hot and the shade of the roofed platforms afforded the only relief from the heat. In order to while away the time I bought the English-language newspaper, a four-page sheet that looked like a parish bulletin, containing local news, summaries of popular films, notices, and advertisements of every kind. Prominently displayed on the front page there was the story of a murder committed the day before. The victim was an Argentinian citizen who had been living in Madras since 1958. He was described as a discreet, retiring gentleman in his seventies, without close friends, who had a house in the residential section of Adyar. His wife had died three years before, from natural causes. They had no children.
He had been killed with a pistol shot to the heart. The murder defied explanation, since no theft was involved: everything in the house was in order and there was no sign that anything had been broken into. The article described the house as simple and sober, possessing a few well-chosen art objects and with a small garden around it. It seemed that the victim was a connoisseur of Dravidian art; he had taken part in the cataloguing of the Dravidian section of the local museum. His photograph showed a bald old man with blue eyes and thin lips. The report of the episode was bland and factual. The only interesting detail was the photograph of a statuette, alongside that of the victim. A logical juxtaposition, since he was an expert on Dravidian art, and the Dance of Shiva is the best known work in the Madras museum, and a sort of symbol as well. But this logical juxtaposition caused me to connect one thing with another. There were twenty minutes left before the departure of my bus; I looked for a telephone and dialled the number of the American Express, where a young woman answered politely. ’Td like to leave a message for Mr. Schle-mihl,” I told her. The girl asked me to wait a minute and then said, “At the moment we’ve no such name on record, but you can leave your message all the same, if you like, and it will be delivered to him when he comes by.”
“Hello, hello!” she repeated when she did not hear any reply.
“Just a minute, operator,” I said; “let me think.”
What was I to say. My message had a ridiculous side. Perhaps I had understood something. But exactly what? That, for someone, the circle had closed?
“It doesnlt matter,” I said; “I’ve changed my mind.” And I hung up.
I don’t deny that my imagination may have been working overtime. But if I guessed correctly what shadow Peter Schle-mihl, like Chamisso’s hero, had lost, and if he ever happens, by the same strange chance that brought about our meeting on the train, to read this story, I’d like to convey my greetings. And my sorrow.
SLEIGHT OF HAND
Because, at bottom, habit is a rite; we think we’re doing something for our pleasure but actually we’re i carrying out a duty that we’ve imposed upon ourselves. Or else, it’s a charm, he reflected, perhaps habit is a kind of exorcism, and then we feel it as a pleasure. Was it really a pleasure to take the ferry from the Battery, that Saturday, among the crowd of dazed tourists, to make the crossing, which inevitably gave him a squeamish feeling in his stomach, to walk around the enormous granite pedestal and look at seagulls and skyscrapers? No, no pleasure, he admitted to himself, or, rather, no longer a pleasure. It was a rite, obviously in remembrance of an excursion made for the first time years ago when Dolores was still there. We had looked up at the enormous bulk of Liberty, holding out her torch like a promise. To whom, and for when? Then it had a different meaning, it was a pilgrimage and at the same time a talisman, a send-off for the first transaction. Perhaps now it was for Dolores, he was doing it for her, in her memory; it was a continual, repetitive action, like that of a man who refuses to change his habits for fear of obliterating a memory. For the same reason he liked to take the subway to Brooklyn Heights, to wander around streets lined with decaying nineteenth-century houses. He could still hear her voice and the typically South American double s sound when she spoke of her devotion to “La Caussa.” Like “Rossario”, for “Rosario” the icecream parlour in Little Italy, which was also part of the rite, a tribute to times gone by. Dolores liked Italians, more than he did in spite of his Sicilian mother. The old proprietor had died two years ago, now the place was run by his Americanized son, there was no one he knew, only anonymous faces; a pistachio ice-cream and a glass of club soda, please. He and Dolores used to sit in a booth in one corner; the partition had a panel of black leather bearing a framed view of Mount Etna. Tired. Yes, he was tired. La Causa, an evening at the Opera. What a bright idea! Every now and then they had these ideas. He’d have liked, just once, to meet them. Where were they, anyhow? New York, London, Geneva, where? They managed the money and transmitted orders, in a clean, efficient, silent manner, from far away. A post-office box, an assumed name, come in once a month, sometimes months with nothing to do, absolutely nothing, silence, sometimes a ticket like this one, from one day to the next. “The Met, Sunday, 2 November, fourth row orchestra, Rigoletto, Scene 7, deliver at Sparafucil mi nomino, take the usual rake-off, viva la causa.” That was all, together with the ticket for the first seat on the fourth row, whence the entire row could be surveyed with only a slight inclination of the head. Idiots. “For the rest, try to take care of it yourself.” The rest was quite a lot. He went to the toilets, stopping on the way at the pay phone to call Bolivar. There was an infernal noise in the workshop, but that didn’t matter; the conversation was brief: “Do you have it?” “Yes, I have it.” “I’ll be right there.” “I’ll expect you.” He didn’t hang up right away, which was breaking the rules, he knew, but he was furious; those idiots are sending me to the Opera, they’re playing at James Bond. When he hung up it was abruptly, as if the telephone were to blame.