Little Misunderstandings of No Importance Read online

  Unable to hold myself back, I murmured, “India, A Travel Survival Kit.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “I was thinking of a book.” And I added, boldly, “You’ve never been to Madras.”

  He looked at me ingenuously. “You can know a place without ever having been there.” He took off his jacket and shoes, put his overnight bag under the pillow, pulled the curtain of his berth, and said goodnight.

  I should have liked to say that he, too, had taken the train because he cherished a slender hope and preferred to cradle and savour it rather than consume it in the short space of a plane flight. I was sure of it. But, of course, I said nothing. I turned off the overhead light, leaving the blue night-lamp lit, pulled my curtain and said only goodnight.

  * * *

  We were awakened by someone’s turning on the ceiling light and speaking in a loud voice. Just outside our window there was a wooden structure, lit by a dim lamp and bearing an incomprehensible sign. The train conductor was accompanied by a dark-skinned policeman with a suspicious air. “We’re in Tamil Nadu,” said the conductor, smiling; “this is a mere formality.” The policeman held out his hand: “Your papers, please.”

  He looked distractedly at my passport and quickly shut it, but lingered longer over my companion’s. While he was examining it I noticed that it came from Israel. “Mr.… Shi… mail?” he asked, pronouncing the name with difficulty.

  “Schlemihl,” the Israeli corrected him. “Peter Schlemihl.”

  The policeman gave us back our passports, nodded coolly and put out the light. The train was running again through the Indian night and the blue night-lamp created a dreamlike atmosphere. For a long time we were silent, then I said: “You can’t have a name like that. There’s only one Peter Schlemihl, the shadowless man, he’s a creation of Chamisso, as you know very well. You could pass it off on an Indian policeman, of course …”

  He did not reply for a minute. Then he asked, “Do you like Thomas Mann?”

  “Not all of him,” I answered.

  “What, then?”

  “The stories. Some of the short novels. Tonio Kröger, Death in Venice.”

  “I wonder if you know the preface to Chamisso’s Peter Schlemihl,” he said. “An admirable piece of writing.”

  Again there was silence between us. I thought he might have fallen asleep. But no, he couldn’t have. He was waiting for me to speak, and I did.

  “What are you doing in Madras?”

  He did not answer at once, but coughed slightly. “I’m going to see a statue,” he murmured.

  “A long trip just to see a statue.”

  He did not reply, but blew his nose several times in succession. “I want to tell you a little story,” he said at last. “I want to tell you a little story.” He was speaking softly, and his voice was dulled by the curtain. “Many years ago, in Germany, I ran across a man, a doctor, whose job it was to give me a physical examination. He sat behind a desk and I stood, naked, before him. Behind me there was a line of other naked men waiting to be examined. When we were taken to that place we were told that we were useful to the cause of German science. Beside the doctor there were two armed guards, and a nurse who was filling out cards. The doctor asked us very precise questions about the functioning of our male organs; the nurse made some measurements which she then wrote down. The line was moving fast because the doctor was in a hurry. When my turn was over, instead of moving on to the next room where we were to go, I lingered for a few seconds to look at a statuette on the doctor’s desk which had caught my attention. It represented an oriental deity, one I had never seen, a dancing figure with the arms and legs harmoniously diverging within a circle. In the circle there were not many empty spaces, only a few openings waiting to be closed by the imagination of the viewer. The doctor became aware of my fascination and smiled. He had a tight-lipped, mocking mouth. ‘This statue,’ he said, ‘represents the vital circle into which all waste matter must enter in order to attain that superior form of life which is beauty. I hope that in the biological cycle envisaged by the philosophy which conceived of this statue you may attain, in another life, a place higher than the one you occupy in this one.’”

  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 lo
cal 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. “I’d like to leave a message for Mr. Schlemihl,” 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 doesn’t 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 Schlemihl, 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 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 ice cream 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.

  And now all the rest. First of all the hotel, that hotel called … what was it called; he’d passed in front of it so many times and still the name wouldn’t come. Old age, that was why. The devil with old age, stupid old man, it’s those idiots who’ve lapsed into second childhood with their silly games! Better try Tourist Information. “Hello, Miss, I’d like the names of three or four hotels near to Central Park, the best, mind you, and their telephone numbers.” “Just a second.” A few hundred seconds! Rosario Jr. was signalling from the counter that the pistachio ice-cream was melting. “Yes, you can tell me, I’m writing them down. Plaza, Pierre, Mayfair, Ritz Carlton, Park Lane, … that’s enough, thank you.” I may as well make the calls, the ice-cream has completely melted. Rosario Jr. can only throw it away. No rooms at the Plaza, of course, this city is full of millionaires, same thing at the Pierre. Nice if there were something at the Mayfair, where there’s a first-class restaurant, Le Cirque: he’d been there before so he knew he could count on a good midnight supper after the Opera. “See if you can’t find a room for me, it’s only for one night.” “Sorry, sir, everything’s taken, nothing I can do.” Devil take you then. The Park Lane, at last, there had to be a room in those forty-six storeys. “Yes, I’ll hold it for you, Mr. Franklin. Good evening and thank you.” He was worn out. But now it was done; time enough to call for the parcel tomorrow, better not keep all that money at the hotel, and he could rent a dinner jacket tomorrow, too. Of course Bolivar was waiting for him, well, let him wait, and so he left the café and took a taxi to the Battery because he wanted to touch the Statue of Liberty, according to his usual rite, and then to sit on a bench, look at the bay and the seagulls and think of Dolores. He tossed a cork into the water, filthy water, filthy pavements, even the Statue was filthy, the whole city was filthy. Two women wearing transparent plastic raincoats handed him their camera with a silent plea, then posed, with the forced smiles proper to a photograph. He framed them in the viewer, trying to include a skyscraper or two in the background, as they had indicated. Strange, he thought, that little shutter which opened and shut like an eye, click, and transfixed a passing moment, beyond recall, for eternity. Click. “Thank you.” “Don’t mention it. Good evening.” Click. A second. Ten years gone by like a second. Dolores gone, irretrievable, and yet she had been there only a second before, smiling against a background of skyscrapers, at this very spot. Click: ten years. Suddenly the ten years weighed on his shoulders, and the fifty years of his life, as heavy as the tons of that stone and metal colossus. Better
go straight to Bolívar’s and get it over with and rent the dinner jacket on the way; it was crazy to keep all that money around overnight, another violation of the rules, but they were crazy to hand him over such a sum for delivery. What did it mean? Were they testing his efficacy or counting the years of his old age? A gala first performance at the Metropolitan, a dinner jacket and thousands of dollars in cash. Quite a joke.

  It was a joke, Bolívar, I was only joking. After having been all too imprudent he chose to make an awkward excuse. Bolívar’s big, curly-haired head, the glass-enclosed office of the noisy workshop, the parcel tied up in brown wrapping-paper; “Of course, old man, there has to be some joking every now and then; by the way, how’s business?” “I can’t complain, car accidents are on the increase, ha-ha.” Bolívar. That gypsylike face with eyes like those of a devoted dog, the Firestone overalls, ten years of a friendship with no real friendship to it; no questions asked, no information given, nothing like who are you, what do you do, where are you going, how do you live, nothing. Just a handshake, how’s business, have a cigarette, here’s something for you. “But who gives it to you, Bolivar, where do you get it, who brings it, I’d like to know.” Bolívar only stared at him with eyes wide-open, “What sort of question is that, what’s got into you?” “Nothing, really, all of a sudden I was curious, I’m growing old.” “Come now, you’re a young man, Franklin.” “No, I’m growing old, I know it, and they know it, too. Soon I’ll be no more use to them, they’ll throw me out, you know how it goes, Bolívar, in fact, you may be the one to get rid of me, one day you’ll get the orders.” “What the devil are you saying, Franklin?” “Nothing, I was joking, Bolivar. I’m in a mood for joking today. I snapped a photograph of two women tourists and with that single click of the camera ten years went by, something that can happen, you know.” “I’ll go with you to the door, Franklin, but by the way, is it true that they’re sending you to the theatre? What theatre is it?” “What sort of a question is that, what’s got into you? Questions like that are out, I’ll see you another time.” “I was joking, too, Franklin. Hasta la vista.”