Tristano, Guagliona said, what are you doing, tell me; she was staring off to the sea that reflected in her eyes. Tristano spread wide his arms to embrace the horizon. I should defend freedom, he told her, the freedom I’ve gone looking for, and that I hold dear, but the truth is I’m not sure what freedom is anymore, now I’ve been dragged into something that doesn’t concern me — I don’t know — when we were in the mountains it was all so clear, or it seemed that way at least, and now nothing’s clear, and I’d like to understand … Sorry, a little aside: you should tell Frau I don’t want any morphine right now, but I need some ergotamine, I have a splitting headache, or maybe I’m just afraid I’ll get one, it’s probably on the dresser, see if you can find it, a bottle of pills … If I had to say where the conversation I was discussing took place, and especially, when it took place, that would be a real problem, writer. But that’s your fault, too — you never help me out at all — you don’t utter a word, never ask me anything, true, you’re following the orders I gave you when I called: not a peep out of you, I said, come, write, and not a peep out of you … but now you’re being too obedient, if I drop the thread, then come up behind me, the years are piling up, places, too; sometimes, all I need from you is a quick observation, a question to help steer me straight … help me out … I think you’re doing it on purpose, out of spite, you’re spiteful, too, in your own way; you said to yourself: this old bag of bones is so arrogant, thinks it’s a privilege for me to write his life, and treats me like a goddamned idiot, all right, let’s see if he’ll give up finally and ask for help, ask me to lend a hand, shed some light on things, help him unravel some of his memories … that’s what you thought, right? and now you’re waiting for me to start groveling … please … please, you know the basic outlines of my life, what I mean by this is where I was in forty-nine or fifty-four or sixty-seven or sixty-nine, when the first bomb struck, the first massacre, and so, seeing that you have these essential coordinates down, which I can’t keep track of because I’m confused, you could lend a hand. Is that what you want to hear? Well, I’m not going to say it … I don’t want a thing from you, I don’t need your help, I can take care of myself, Tristano said he had to go to Greece, it was when it was, what do I care? — and why should you? — what’s important is that Rosamunda wanted him to go to Spain with her; she said, come with me. He thought Guagliona was kidding around, so he started kidding around; why not? he answered, we’ll take a fancy car, a nice white Balilla, we’ll drive over the Pyrenees, the drive will be refreshing, beautiful, lots of winding roads, and I’ll stop at a lookout point where you can admire the most beautiful mountains, you’ll even be able to see Marmolada, where your American uncle used to take you on romantic strolls and had you lean on the alpenstock he kept in his trousers, and when I’m in the mood, I’ll tell you about a gifted French writer who was also a real louse. But my uncle’s you, Rosamunda says, silly Clark, you haven’t figured it out yet, you’re here, you’re telling me all this because I came to listen, you have a high fever, poor Clark, your leg’s being eaten away by gangrene, you’re on morphine and you didn’t realize my uncle’s you … sorry if under these circumstance, I thought I was your uncle … what time is it?… was I saying something?… be patient, maybe I fell asleep and I was talking in my sleep, Guagliona sometimes lays traps for me, you know? — she asks questions that catch me by surprise, she thinks my sense of my own identity has disappeared, as if I didn’t know that I was the Tristano they once called Commander Clark, who became a hero … it’s just that for a moment I lost consciousness and thought I was her uncle, and I was about to ask her how her American uncle is doing, I mean the handsome Cary, because I’m the one who calls him her American uncle, and you know what, I still remember how she’d answer, he’s great, she’d say, he has a new wife, and he’s dedicated a lyric poem to her that he sent out to relatives as a Christmas card along with a polaroid snapshot … oh, writer, I can just see them laughing like idiots in that white Balilla because Tristano said the line on the card could only be oh wife my wife, and then Guagliona continued: prepare the pot for the naughty little boy I’ve caught … but you mustn’t think this ended in laughter, no, no, of course it’s not that easy, Guagliona wanted to know more, insisted on knowing who that louse of a writer was that he’d mentioned in the Pyrenees. Tristano kept being vague about it, said he was one who’d journeyed to the belly of the night, and Guagliona, alarmed: he isn’t in favor of totalitarian regimes, is he? Guagliona fixated on these things; when she parachuted in she told us the first thing you see when you arrive in New York is the Statue of Liberty … spare me the lesson, Rosamunda, it’s true — we’re drawn to one another, like two magnets, but that’s all it is — you’re the type who says one thing and does another, I’m very aware of this because in this bed where I’m rotting away, I know your past that’ll be your future that I’m telling this writer, so let it be, and don’t get too nitpicky, and as to the writer I said was a real louse, just be patient and listen, it’s just a question of various points of view and needing to see the whole field, like this vast panorama we have before us … Be patient, my friend, I really can’t remember anything more now, really, it’s like everything’s gone white, even so, I still want to talk, talking distracts me from my headache … I have a headache … I’ve gotten these things for such a long time … since the Abderites said Tristano was out of his mind … well, sure, he was so out of his mind his head exploded, just his head, but really, it was the boy who exploded … no one’s ever understood headaches, the symptoms, sure, of course, and the problem of headaches, how to deal with them, how to get rid of them, but why vasodilation even exists, that’s a mystery; it seems to be something neurovegetative, or psychosomatic, what they say these days; when I was younger, I wound up pounding my head against the wall … Listen, I’m going to make up the rest of the story, just to keep myself talking — see — at least I’m being honest, I’m admitting that I’m going to make things up, let’s have Tristano lay his picnic out on the stone table right in the middle of the overlook, beneath two fir trees, with the horizon stretched out before them … Keep in mind, we’re in the Pyrenees … the French are a clever bunch: when there’s a panorama to admire they clear a space for you to park, they build a picnic shelter and bathrooms for