Read Online Indian Nocturne by Antonio Tabucchi - Free Book Online
Authors: Antonio Tabucchi
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in a monotonous, low, indecipherable voice. Who is the receptionist of the Hotel Zuari talking to?
There is also a vast dining room on the first floor of the Hotel Zuari, so as not to contradict the sign on the door; but that evening it was dark and there were no tables and I ate on the
patio, a little courtyard with bougainvillaea and heavily scented flowers and low little tables with small wooden benches, all dimly lit. I ate scampi as big as lobsters and a mango dessert, I
drank tea and a kind of wine that tasted of cinnamon; all for a price equivalent to three thousand lira, which cheered me up. Along one side of the patio ran the veranda onto which the rooms looked
out; a white rabbit was hopping over the stones of the courtyard. An Indian family was eating at a table at the far end. At the table next to mine was a blonde woman of indefinable age and faded
beauty. She ate with three fingers, the way the Indians do, making perfect little balls of rice and dipping them in the sauce. She looked English to me, and so, as it turned out, she was. She had a
mad glint in her eyes, but only every now and then. Later she told me a story that I don’t really think I should put down here. It may well have been an anxiety dream. But then the Hotel
Zuari is not a place for happy dreams.
X
‘I worked as a mailman in Philadelphia, at eighteen already walking the streets with my bag over my shoulder, without fail, every morning, in summer when the tar turns to
molasses and in winter when you slip on the icy snow. For ten years, carrying letters. You don’t know how many letters I’ve carried, thousands and thousands. They were all upper class,
rich, the people on the envelopes. Letters from all over the world: Miami, Paris, London, Caracas. Good morning, sir. Good morning, madam. I’m your mailman.’
He raised an arm and pointed to the group of young people on the beach. The sun was going down and the water sparkled. Near us some fishermen were preparing a boat. They were half naked, wearing
loincloths. ‘Here we’re all equal,’ he said, ‘there’s no upper class, no ladies and gentlemen.’ He looked at me and a sly expression crossed his face. ‘Are
you a gentleman?’
‘What do you think?’
He looked at me doubtfully. ‘I’ll answer that later.’ Then he pointed to the huts made of palm leaves on our left that leant against the dunes. ‘We live there, it’s
our village, it’s called Sun Village.’ He pulled out a little wooden box with papers and a mixture and rolled himself a cigarette. ‘Smoke?’
‘Not as a rule,’ I said, ‘but I’ll have one now if you’re offering.’
He rolled another for me and said: ‘It’s good this mixture, it makes you feel happy. Are you happy?’
‘Listen,’ I said, ‘I was enjoying your story, go on with it.’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘one day I was walking down a street in Philadelphia, it was very cold, I was delivering the mail, it was morning, the city was covered in snow, Philadelphia
is so ugly. I was walking down these huge roads, then I turned into a smaller street, long and dark, with just a blade of sunlight that had managed to break through the smog lighting the end of the
street. I knew that street, I delivered there every day, it was a street that ended in the wall of a car repair place. Well, you know what I saw that day? Try and guess.’
‘I’ve no idea,’ I said.
‘Try and guess.’
‘I give up, it’s too difficult.’
‘The sea,’ he said. ‘I saw the sea. At the end of the street there was a beautiful blue sea with the waves crested with foam and a sandy beach and palm trees. How about that,
eh?’
‘Strange,’ I said.
‘I’d only seen the sea at the cinema before, or on postcards from Miami or Havana. And this was exactly like those, an ocean, but with nobody there, the beach deserted. I thought,
they’ve brought the sea to Philadelphia. And then I thought, I’m seeing a mirage, like you read about in books.
There is also a vast dining room on the first floor of the Hotel Zuari, so as not to contradict the sign on the door; but that evening it was dark and there were no tables and I ate on the
patio, a little courtyard with bougainvillaea and heavily scented flowers and low little tables with small wooden benches, all dimly lit. I ate scampi as big as lobsters and a mango dessert, I
drank tea and a kind of wine that tasted of cinnamon; all for a price equivalent to three thousand lira, which cheered me up. Along one side of the patio ran the veranda onto which the rooms looked
out; a white rabbit was hopping over the stones of the courtyard. An Indian family was eating at a table at the far end. At the table next to mine was a blonde woman of indefinable age and faded
beauty. She ate with three fingers, the way the Indians do, making perfect little balls of rice and dipping them in the sauce. She looked English to me, and so, as it turned out, she was. She had a
mad glint in her eyes, but only every now and then. Later she told me a story that I don’t really think I should put down here. It may well have been an anxiety dream. But then the Hotel
Zuari is not a place for happy dreams.
X
‘I worked as a mailman in Philadelphia, at eighteen already walking the streets with my bag over my shoulder, without fail, every morning, in summer when the tar turns to
molasses and in winter when you slip on the icy snow. For ten years, carrying letters. You don’t know how many letters I’ve carried, thousands and thousands. They were all upper class,
rich, the people on the envelopes. Letters from all over the world: Miami, Paris, London, Caracas. Good morning, sir. Good morning, madam. I’m your mailman.’
He raised an arm and pointed to the group of young people on the beach. The sun was going down and the water sparkled. Near us some fishermen were preparing a boat. They were half naked, wearing
loincloths. ‘Here we’re all equal,’ he said, ‘there’s no upper class, no ladies and gentlemen.’ He looked at me and a sly expression crossed his face. ‘Are
you a gentleman?’
‘What do you think?’
He looked at me doubtfully. ‘I’ll answer that later.’ Then he pointed to the huts made of palm leaves on our left that leant against the dunes. ‘We live there, it’s
our village, it’s called Sun Village.’ He pulled out a little wooden box with papers and a mixture and rolled himself a cigarette. ‘Smoke?’
‘Not as a rule,’ I said, ‘but I’ll have one now if you’re offering.’
He rolled another for me and said: ‘It’s good this mixture, it makes you feel happy. Are you happy?’
‘Listen,’ I said, ‘I was enjoying your story, go on with it.’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘one day I was walking down a street in Philadelphia, it was very cold, I was delivering the mail, it was morning, the city was covered in snow, Philadelphia
is so ugly. I was walking down these huge roads, then I turned into a smaller street, long and dark, with just a blade of sunlight that had managed to break through the smog lighting the end of the
street. I knew that street, I delivered there every day, it was a street that ended in the wall of a car repair place. Well, you know what I saw that day? Try and guess.’
‘I’ve no idea,’ I said.
‘Try and guess.’
‘I give up, it’s too difficult.’
‘The sea,’ he said. ‘I saw the sea. At the end of the street there was a beautiful blue sea with the waves crested with foam and a sandy beach and palm trees. How about that,
eh?’
‘Strange,’ I said.
‘I’d only seen the sea at the cinema before, or on postcards from Miami or Havana. And this was exactly like those, an ocean, but with nobody there, the beach deserted. I thought,
they’ve brought the sea to Philadelphia. And then I thought, I’m seeing a mirage, like you read about in books.
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