Message from the Shadows Read online

  He broke off. Opened his eyes for a moment and then shut them again. Began talking in a voice so low that the son leaned forward to hear him. Last week the dream came back, he whispered, exactly the same, the same iron gate, really white, apparently dreams don’t rust, and neither do the emotions that go with them, exactly like what I used to feel, the same torment, the desire to take off running and cross over, to run in order to see what lies hidden beyond, but something holds me back, and it’s not my father’s voice, my film is silent like photos are silent, it’s not the voice of my father, if only I could hear his voice, it’s the fear of hearing it, but enough now.

  He opened his eyes and in a firm voice asked: when are you leaving? On Wednesday, Dad, he answered, but I’ll come back to see you in a month. Don’t throw your money away, said the old man, I bet the airfare from Rome is really pricey. Dad, he said, getting ready to go, don’t be the cheap old Jewish man, please. I am a cheap old Jewish man, said the old man, what else could I be if not a cheap old Jewish man? Before you go, open the window, please, if the nurse smells the stink of smoke, she gets angry.

  * * *

  —

  Fortunately he had only a carry-on bag, enough for a weekend, otherwise he’d have lost who knows how much time waiting at the luggage carousel, he knew that. When he emerged from the arrivals lounge into the main airport hall, he was hit by a glaring light much fiercer than the one in Rome, and above all he felt the heat, which was almost shocking to him, as though he’d forgotten that the end of April in Tel Aviv is practically summertime, and he sniffed some familiar scents that piqued his appetite. There must have been a cart nearby of some street vendor frying falafel, he looked around because he had the idea of buying a bagful to bring to his father, he knew well that he’d be told the falafel didn’t stand comparison with the Romanian covrigi his mother had cooked all her life, but at the Ben Gurion Airport one couldn’t expect to find covrigi, he could find them at a Romanian bistro near the Carmel Market, but who knows how much time he’d lose because of the traffic. He spotted the falafel vendor, bought a small bagful, and got in line for the taxi. A cab turned up, driven by a young Palestinian, a beardless guy with a tentative mustache on his upper lip, who at first sight didn’t even seem to be of age. He spoke to him in Arabic, so as not to force him to speak Hebrew. A driver’s license, d’you have one? he asked. The young guy looked at him, wide-eyed. Do you think I’d like to get myself arrested, sir? he answered, these people arrest everybody, you go to jail for even less. The answer disturbed him: these people arrest everybody, these people who? His country, he thought, “these people” were his country. He gave his destination imprecisely. Around Ben Yehuda, he said, then I’ll tell you exactly where. An elegant place, observed the young guy with a shrewd smile. Very elegant, he answered, it’s a home for old people. The car had just slipped into the traffic when he had an idea. Do you know a good Palestinian bakery? The falafel he had, the covrigi he didn’t feel like looking for, why not bring his father a Palestinian specialty? All during his childhood he’d heard his father say that Romanian Jews were the other Palestinians of Israel. I know a great one, the young man answered enthusiastically, my brother works there, they even make a baklava like you can’t find anywhere these days. Baklava isn’t Palestinian, it’s Iraqi, he replied, sorry, it’s Iraqi, no offense intended. No way it’s Iraqi, said the young guy, that’s a good one.

  The nurse at the lodge told him his father was probably on the common terrace, at that hour tea was served to the guests. He found him sitting at a small table with three friends. Next to the cup there was a pack of cards, perhaps they’d played a game. He was almost surprised to see the old man get up and head toward him, arms spread wide, cheerful.

  They sat at a small table to the side, he put the two little bags on the table, had no time to say a word since his father was already asking if he wanted tea or coffee, he’d never seen his father so courteous. How are you feeling? he asked. Very well, answered the old man, I’ve never felt so good. He had a shrewd look in his eyes, he was practically winking, almost seeking complicity in something. Are you sleeping well? he asked, and the old man answered, better than a child. The terrace extended around the building on the top floor, but from the table where they were seated the sea wasn’t visible, the city was resplendent under the afternoon sun. They were silent. His father asked him for a cigarette. He himself didn’t smoke, but he’d bought a pack at the airport, like he always did when he came to visit. The old man leaned back in his chair, inhaled a mouthful of smoke with pleasure, and then made a sweeping gesture with his arm, like someone showing a visitor something he owns, pointing to the city spread out at their feet. I’m glad you came back to my country, he said, it was time you did. He made the same sweeping gesture. In all these years Bucharest hasn’t changed a bit, he said smiling, don’t you agree?

  Translated by Martha Cooley and Antonio Romani

  Little Misunderstandings of No Importance

  The clerk called the court to order and there was a brief silence as the nearly white-haired Federico, in his judge’s robe, led the little procession through the side door into the courtroom. At that very moment the tune of Dusty Road surged up in my mind. I watched them take their seats as if I were witnessing a ritual, remote and incomprehensible, but projected into the future. The image of those solemn men, sitting on a bench with a crucifix hanging over it, faded into the image of a past that, like an old film, was my present. Almost mechanically my hand scribbled Dusty Road, while my thoughts traveled backwards. Leo, confined like a dangerous animal in the prisoner’s cage, lost his sickly, unhappy look. I saw him leaning on his grandmother’s Empire-style console with that old bored and knowing expression which made for his special charm. Tonino, he was saying, put Dusty Road on again, will you? And I put the record back on. Yes, Leo deserved to dance with Maddalena, known as the Tragic Muse because as Antigone in the school play she had broken into uncontrollable sobs. This was the appropriate record, yes it was, for dancing so passionately in the drawing room of Leo’s grandmother. And so the trial began, that evening when Leo and Federico had taken turns dancing with the auburn-haired Tragic Muse, gazing into her eyes and swearing that they weren’t rivals, that they didn’t give a damn for her. They were dancing for the sake of dancing, that was all. But they were mad about her, of course, and so was I as I changed the records, looking as if I didn’t care.

  From one dance to another a year went by, a year marked by a certain phrase, one that we ran into the ground because it fit any and every occasion. Missing an appointment, spending money you didn’t have in the bank, forgetting a solemn promise, finding a highly recommended book a total bore, all these mistakes and ambiguities were described as “little misunderstandings of no importance.” The original example was something that happened to Federico and roused us to memorable gales of laughter. Federico, like the rest of us, had planned his future and signed up for Classics; he was already a whiz at Greek and had played the part of Creon in Antigone. We, instead, had opted for Modern Literature. It’s closer to us, said Leo, and you can’t compare James Joyce with those boring ancients, can you? We were at the Caffè Goliardico, the students’ meeting place, each of us with our registration book, looking over the schedule of courses, stretched out on the billiard table. Memo had joined us; he was a fellow from Lecce with political commitments and anxious that politics be handled the way it should be, so we called him Little Pol and the nickname stuck throughout the year. At a certain point Federico appeared on the scene, looking very upset and waving his registration book in the air. He was so breathless and beside himself that he was barely able to explain. They had signed him up, by mistake, for Law and he simply couldn’t get over it. To give him moral support we went with him to the administrative office, where we tangled with an amiable but indifferent old codger who had dealt with thousands of students over the years. He looked carefully at Federico’s book and then at his worried face
. Just a little misunderstanding that can’t be corrected, he said. No use worrying about it. Federico stared at him in dismay, his cheeks reddening. A little misunderstanding that can’t be corrected? he stammered. The old man did not lose his composure. Sorry, he said, that’s not what I meant. I meant a little misunderstanding of no importance. I’ll get it fixed for you before Christmas. Meanwhile, if you like, you can take the Law courses. That way you won’t be wasting your time. We went away choking with laughter: a little misunderstanding of no importance! And Federico’s angry look made us laugh all the more.

  Strange, the way things happen. One morning a few weeks later, Federico turned up at the café looking quite pleased with himself. He had just come out of a class on the philosophy of law, where he had gone merely to pass the time, and well, boys, believe it or not, he’d grasped certain problems he’d never grasped before. The Greek tragedians, by comparison, had nothing to say. He already knew the classics, anyhow, so he’d decided to stay with Law.

  Federico the judge said something in a questioning tone, his voice sounded faraway and metallic as if it were coming through a telephone. Time staggered and took a vertical fall, and the face of Maddalena, ringed by tiny bubbles, floated in a puddle of years. Perhaps it’s not such a good idea to go and see a girl you’ve been in love with on the day they’re amputating her breasts. If only in self-defense. But I had no desire to defend myself, I’d long since surrendered. And so I hung about in the hall outside the operating room, where patients are made to wait their turn. She was wheeled in, wearing on her face the innocently happy look of pre-anesthesia, which I’ve heard stirs up a sort of unconscious excitement. Her eyes were glazed and I squeezed her hand. There was an element of fear, I could see, but dulled by drugs. Should I say something? What I wanted to say was: Maddalena, I was always in love with you, I don’t know why I’ve never managed to tell you before. But you can’t say such a thing to a girl entering the operating room for an operation like that. Instead I broke out at full speed with some lines from Antigone, which I’d spoken in the performance years before:

  * * *

  —

  Many wonders there be, but naught more wondrous than man. Over the surging sea, with a whitening south wind wan, through the foam of the firth man makes his perilous way.

  * * *

  —

  God knows how they came to mind so exactly, and whether she remembered them, whether she was in a condition to understand, but she squeezed my hand before they wheeled her away. I went down to the hospital coffee shop, where the only alcohol was Ramazzotti bitters and it took a dozen glasses to get me drunk. When I began to feel a bit queasy I went and sat on a bench in front of the hospital, telling myself that it would be quite mad to seek out the surgeon, a madness born of drink. Because I wanted to find the surgeon and ask him not to throw those breasts into the incinerator but to give them to me. I wanted to keep them, and even if they were rotten inside I didn’t care; there’s something rotten in all of us and I cared for those breasts – how could I put it? – they had a special meaning for me; I hoped he understood. But a flicker of reason stopped me; I managed to get a taxi and go home, where I slept through the afternoon. It was dark when the telephone woke me – I didn’t notice the time. Federico was on the line saying: Tonino, it’s me. Can you hear, Tonino? It’s me. Where are you? I asked in a gummy voice. I’m down south, in Catanzaro. Catanzaro? What are you doing there? I’m trying for the post of prosecutor. I’ve heard that Maddalena’s ill, in the hospital. Exactly. Do you remember those breasts of hers? Well, snip, snip, they’re gone. He said: what are you telling me, Tonino. Are you drunk? Of course I’m drunk, drunk as a drunk, and life makes me sick, and you make me sick, too, taking your exams there in Catanzaro. Why didn’t you marry her, tell me that. She was in love with you, not with Leo, and you knew it; you didn’t marry her because you were afraid. And why the devil did you marry that know-it-all wife of yours, tell me that! You’re a bastard, Federico! There was a click as he hung up. I muttered a few more expletives into the telephone, then went back to bed and dreamed of a field of poppies.

  And so the years continued to flutter back and forth, as they passed, while Leo and Federico continued to dance with Maddalena in the Empire-style drawing room. In the space of a second, just as in an old film, while they sat in the courtroom, the one wearing his judge’s robe, the other in the prisoner’s cage, the merry-go-round turned, leaves flew off the calendar and stuck to one another, and they danced with Maddalena, gazing into her eyes, while I changed the records. Up came a summer we all spent together in the mountain camp of the National Olympics Committee, the walks in the woods and the contagious passion for tennis. The only serious player was Leo, with his unbeatable backhand, his good looks, tight T-shirt, glossy hair, and the towel wound casually around his neck when the game was over. In the evening we stretched out on the grass and talked of one thing and another, wondering on whose chest Maddalena would lay her head. And then a winter that took us all by surprise. First of all on account of Leo. Who could have imagined him, so well turned out and so ostentatiously futile, with an arm around the statue in the hallway leading to the university president’s office, haranguing the students. He wore a very becoming olive-green parka, military style. I’d bought a blue one, which I thought went better with my eyes, but Maddalena didn’t notice, or at least didn’t say so. She was intent on Federico’s parka, which was too big, with dangling sleeves and was bunched up round his ramrod body in a ridiculous fashion which, for some reason, women found endearing.

  Now Leo started to talk in his low-pitched, monotonous voice, as if he were telling a story, in the ironical manner that I knew so well. In the courtroom you could have heard a pin drop; the newspaper reporters hunched over their notes as if he were telling the Great Secret, and Federico, too, followed him intently. Good God, I thought, why must you pretend to follow so closely? What he’s saying isn’t so strange; you were there that winter, too. I almost imagined Federico standing up and saying: Gentlemen of the jury, with your permission, I’d like to tell this part myself, because I knew it at first hand. The bookshop was called Nuovo Mondo; it was on the Piazza Dante where now, if I’m not mistaken, there’s an elegant shop that sells perfumes and Gucci bags. It had a large room, with a closet, a smaller room and a toilet on the right side. We never kept explosives in the small room, only the strawberries Memo brought up from Apulia after he had been there on vacation. Every evening, in season, we got together to eat strawberries and olives. The chief topic of conversation was the Cuban Revolution – there was a poster of Che Guevara over the cash register – but we talked about revolutions of the past as well. As a matter of fact, I was the one to talk about them. My friends had no historical or philosophical background, whereas I was studying for an exam on political ideas (which I passed with top marks). And so I gave them lessons – seminars, we called them – on Babeuf, Bakunin, and Carlo Cattaneo. Actually revolutions didn’t really interest me. I did it because I was in love with a red-haired girl called Maddalena. I was sure she was in love with Leo, or, rather, I knew she was in love with me but I was afraid she was in love with Leo. In short, it was a little misunderstanding of no importance, a phrase popular with us at the time. And Leo was always making fun of me; he had a gift for that. He was witty and ironical and plied me with tricky catch questions which conveyed the idea that I was a reformist but he was a true radical, a revolutionary. He wasn’t all that radical, really; he put it on in order to impress Maddalena, but whether it was by chance or from conviction, he took on a prominent role and became the most important member of our group. Yet, for him, too, this was a little misunderstanding which he considered of no importance. And then you know how it is, the roles that we assume become real. In life things easily get locked in, and attitude freezes into choice.