… Of course that’s not how it went — you probably knew that already. But you should write it down like it was real, because it was certainly real for Tristano, and what’s important is what he imagined his entire life, till it turned to memory. Yes, he really did kill the Nazi soldier, and Daphne really did take him into that old house and play Schubert for him and stare at him with those big, dark eyes. But they never came close to touching each other, she only spoke to him about her violated country and at dawn she had him sneak out in her father’s overcoat, and he never went to Piraeus at all, he only reentered Italy after September eighth, two of Daphne’s friends took him as far as Corinth, where he joined the Greek partisans in the Peloponnese Mountains. And when he slipped outside the door that morning, he whispered to her, I’m coming back, Daphne — I swear it — please, wait for me.
I don’t know what it could mean, why I’m so sad, I find a fairytale from times unseen won’t vanish from my mind … That was yesterday’s poem, in German, sometimes Frau behaves as though we’ve returned to childhood, there seems to be a little arteriosclerosis going around. Now, young sir, here’s Sunday’s poem, she tells me. It’s a ritual from the past, she likes following orders, she does. It was my grandfather’s order when he sent for her, so I’d learn the language. Our ritual went like this: I sat in the armchair in the living room for fifteen minutes before the lesson began, because children must wait, a quarter to five, my grandfather didn’t compromise on schedules, on everything else, yes, but because of a schedule, he’d say, some people missed the boat for Calatafimi; on the little end table there was the pot of hot chocolate and two cups, one for me and one for Frau, I wore knickers, knock knock, and then Guten Abend Herrchen, Entschuldigung, it’s poetry time, she was a little girl, my age, yes, Fräulein, she was shy back then, Frau was, and I was even shyer, she was embarrassed to read and I to listen, she avoided looking at me, I avoided looking at her, Frau, she loved me, even if she can be spiteful, and in my way, I love her, too; as you well know, she’s the only one with me now, if you think about it, we’ve spent our whole lives avoiding looking at each other, maybe because we wanted so badly to look at each other back when we were children and we never got up the nerve … Ich weiss nicht was soll es bedeuten, Dass ich so traurig bin, Ein Märchen aus alten Zeiten … You know that one? German children learn it in elementary school, it’s about a siren, a blond creature sitting on a rock along the Rhine, and with her golden hair and singing, she seduces sailors, and they shipwreck, Lorelei, she’s called … Frau always started up like this again, every time I returned, as if nothing had changed, an empty ritual, but it still had to be honored because of a contract from years ago, a life’s work to fulfill, even if her language changed over the years, different poems, different accents, but always the same shell of a ritual, Frau knows it’s her right and she takes advantage of it, she picks the poems, she’s always picked them, and that’s as it should be, she knows, she knows so many things, Frau does, she knows the hours, the days of my life, like a book of hours that the monks used so long ago … life passes in a breath, you know, but sometimes a Sunday afternoon can go by so slowly, and Frau has always known how to pick just the right poem for the right time — when I was home, of course, because I often wasn’t — I was almost never home, in fact — but you know what she told me? She told me something troubling, almost moving, it’s strange, because feelings are for those with humors left in the bottle, and a mineral like me no longer holds moisture, but when she told me in her terse way, in that rasping Italian of hers that she’s always pretended not to know very well even after more than seventy years of living here, I had to turn my head toward the shutters to keep her from seeing that this stone wasn’t completely dry, and the slats of the shutters started trembling, and not because it was so hot outside but because she told me, surly as usual, that even when I was far away, or in danger, or when she thought I was in danger, that every Sunday at a quarter to five, she went into the living room, she imagined pouring hot chocolate into two cups, and she’d say to herself in German, now, young sir, it’s poetry time. And she’d read the poem she thought was right for me that day, like a viaticum or a book of hours … So many hours, writer, so very many. How many Sundays must there be in seventy, no, nearly eighty years? — count them. I’d guess thousands … Get me a glass of water, but rinse it out first, Frau’s always adding a little hops, and I get even more dazed, take the water from the bathroom sink, it’s that door by the wardrobe, sorry to make you my nurse — no, not that door, that’s to the dressing room — the one to the right — you have to push a little, the door knob sticks, it’s the faucet with the red handle, the blue one’s hot water, the plumber screwed up putting them in and I never got them reversed, are you by any chance looking at the photograph in my dressing room?… I bet you are, since you’re not answering, please, don’t let it make you feel uncomfortable, I don’t want that, photos like that can make a person uncomfortable, they’re embarrassing, even after so many years, that body’s real, though, even if it’s imitating a painting, trying to imitate a Courbet, there’s a yellow stain almost up to the navel, a devouring hand, like my gangrene, photos keep up with us, we grow wrinkled, they turn yellow, deteriorate, they have skin like ours, you know, skin preserves that internal sea we’re made of, because we’re made of water, it protects the body from external heat while at the same time holding our heat inside, getting rid of any excess, depending on the season … and when the sea has evaporated, the shell remains, shriveled, useless … That shot was taken with a Leica I got off a German officer; in his jacket, by his pistol, he carried a photo of his family and also his precious Leica, he loved his own family even if he slaughtered the families of others, it’s human to love your own family, that photo has to be from forty-eight, or maybe a little before that, when Tristano found
Guagliona again, that’s what I feel like calling her today, just girl, they wound up at a sort of pensione, by accident, everything in life happens by accident, at times I think even free will is just an accident … how strange, can you believe that I remember exactly what we ate — cacciucco — fish stew — and I can’t remember if we made love, but he suggested to her that she pose like the origin of the world, that’s the truth, the proof’s in that sorry photo, it was a late summer afternoon, the light was low, beautiful; Rosamunda, Tristano said, let’s do the origin of the world … but for them there was no origin of the world, they didn’t originate a damn thing, a sterile love, I’d say, with no transmission of the flesh … well, it’s better that way, besides … This water’s warm, I told you the faucets are reversed, cold water’s on the right, and next time, put in the straw that’s there on the nightstand, otherwise I drench the sheet, see, I can’t really swallow, I can’t lap up water like a dog … I was telling you about Frau, last Sunday she read me a poem, seemed like a nice one … Last night I had a good dream, I entered the origin of the world … but whose?… bring me a little more water, but get the straw … dreams are pretty wretched miracles … I’ve never believed in real miracles … the real ones are illusions … especially dreams. Sunday was the day before yesterday, right? — I’ve lost track of time — there’s Frau, knocking quietly like she used to seventy-five years ago, now, it’s poetry time, young sir. She sits down, opens a book … Sunday … Frau understands Sundays, she’s one of those people in life who understands Sundays, she tries to clear her voice, which isn’t possible, by now she sounds like a bellows, she puffs when she speaks, emphysema, the doctor was clear about that, but she pretended not to understand, Frau’s incredible, if you tell her something she doesn’t like, then she makes sure she’s a German just off the boat, she sneaks cigars, smokes them, hiding out in the vineyard, Agostino’s nephew told me, he does the tilling, which is useless in that diseased vineyard; professor, sir, he says, madam Frau will sit under the poplar at the back of the vineyard, and she’ll smoke three Toscano cigars, one after the other, every day she’s there, from three to five, I thought you should know — it’s a bit shocking. And what’s she doing while she smokes? I asked. Nothing, Agostino’s nephew says, staring off into the distance, looking lost; I walked right past her and she didn’t even notice, or she pretended not to. She must be thinking back to when she was a girl in Germany, I told him; don’t you ever think back to when you were a child? — sure you do, but it’s easier because you’re at home and you were a child here, so don’t concern yourself with her, let her smoke all the cigars she wants, even people who don’t have anyone have to think about someone … I heard a buzzing, something on my face, must be that big fly. Maybe if you cracked the shutters, it could find its way out, but just a crack now — too much light — that light seems to make my leg hurt even more … Frau read me a poem by a poet I don’t know, must be a poetess instead of a poet, right? — if the poet’s female she’s a poetess, right? — oh, it doesn’t matter — young sir, she tells me, Sunday’s poem, and she begins … this quiet dust. I know that one by heart, I said, it’s American, and has always filled me with regret. No, she says, this one’s Italian, it just has the same title, but it’s already five to five, we’re ten minutes late … Renate, I said, how on earth is it possible, you’re really something, so much time’s gone by since we were children, all the time in the world, and everything time brings with it, hunger, war and famine, our own disasters, and especially the dead, everyone’s dead, Renate, we’re the only ones left, and you come in here and tell me we’re ten minutes late — but late for what? — just be patient. For your morphine, she says firmly, and even though I can barely see right now, I sense her stubborn expression, her white hair a halo, with her loose bun … For your morphine: the doctor said you should get it every eight hours, the next one’s in five minutes, so there’s hardly any time, and I want to read your five o’clock poem before you can’t understand a word of it. So go ahead, Renate — read. And she: where’s my child, where’s my roe deer? He’ll come just three more times, then never come again. Renate, I said, please, no nursery rhymes. That’s just how it starts, she says, now be quiet and listen … the dead are cold to the touch, but the living are something else again, when I touched my love I was happy, yesterday I had a vision, my love was in the garden, he was half-man, half-child … I can’t remember the rest, Frau was reading and while she read, she gave me my morphine, I didn’t notice, and so I wound up in a dream world, and I entered the origin of the world, sometimes a person’s lucky and gets to dream what he wants to dream, but that’s rare, a rare privilege, maybe I’ll tell you my dream, if it stays with me, but later: now, I’m tired. What time is it?