Read Online Indian Nocturne by Antonio Tabucchi - Free Book Online Page A

What would you have thought?’
    ‘The same,’ I said.
    ‘Right. But the sea can’t get to Philadelphia. And mirages happen in the desert when the sun is burning down and you’re desperately thirsty. And that day it was freezing cold
with the city full of dirty snow. So I crept up, very slowly, drawn on by that sea and feeling like I’d like to dive right in, even if it was cold, because the blue was so inviting and the
waves were gleaming, lit by the sun.’ He paused a moment and took a drag on his cigarette. He smiled with an absent, distant expression, reliving that day. ‘It was a picture.
They’d painted the sea, those bastards. They do it sometimes in Philadelphia, it’s an idea the architects had, they paint on the concrete, landscapes, valleys, woods and the rest, so
that you don’t feel so much like you’re living in a shithole of a city. I was about a foot away from that sea on the wall, with my bag on my shoulder; at the end of the street the wind
made a little eddy and beneath the golden sand there was litter and dry leaves whirling around, and a plastic bag. Dirty beach, in Philadelphia. I looked at it a moment and thought, if the sea
won’t go to Tommy, Tommy will go to the sea. How about that?’
    ‘I was familiar with another version,’ I said, ‘but the concept is the same.’
    He laughed. ‘You’ve got it,’ he said. ‘And so you know what I did? Try and guess.’
    ‘I’ve no idea.’
    ‘Try and guess.’
    ‘I give up,’ I said, ‘it’s too difficult.’
    ‘I took the lid off a trashcan and dumped in my mailbag. You wait there, letters. Then I made a dash back to the head office and asked to speak to the boss. I need three months’
salary in advance, I said, my father has a serious illness, he’s in hospital, look at these doctor’s certificates. He said: first sign this statement. I signed it and took the
money.’
    ‘But was your father really ill?’
    ‘Sure he was, he had cancer. But he was going to die just the same, even if I did go on carrying the mail to the ladies and gents of Philadelphia.’
    ‘That’s logical,’ I said.
    ‘I brought just one thing away with me,’ he said. ‘Try and guess what.’
    ‘Really, it’s too difficult, it’s no good, I give up.’
    ‘The telephone directory,’ he said with satisfaction.
    ‘The telephone directory?’
    ‘Right, the Philadelphia telephone directory. That was my only luggage, it’s all that’s left me of America.’
    ‘Why?’ I asked. I was getting interested.
    ‘I write postcards. It’s me who writes the ladies and gents of Philadelphia now. Postcards with a nice sea and the deserted Calangute beach, and on the back I write: Best wishes from
mailman Tommy. I’ve got up to letter C. Obviously I skip the areas I’m not interested in and send them without a stamp, the person who gets it pays.’
    ‘How long have you been here?’ I asked him.
    ‘Four years,’ he said.
    ‘The Philadelphia phone directory must be long.’
    ‘Yep,’ he said, ‘it’s enormous. But then, I’m not in any hurry, I’ve got my whole life.’
    The group on the beach had lit a large fire, someone began to sing. Four people left the group and came towards us, they had flowers in their hair and smiled at us. A young woman was holding a
girl of about ten by the hand.
    ‘The party’s about to begin,’ said Tommy. ‘It’ll be a big party, it’s the equinox.’
    ‘Equinox nothing,’ I said, ‘the equinox is the twenty-third of September, it’s December now.’
    ‘Well, something like that anyway,’ answered Tommy. The girl kissed him on the forehead and then went off again to the others.
    ‘They’re not that young any more though, are they?’ I said. ‘They look like middle-aged parents.’
    ‘They’re the ones who came here first,’ Tommy said, ‘the Pilgrims.’ Then he looked at me and said: ‘Why, what are you like?’
    ‘Like them,’ I said.
    ‘You see,’ he said. He rolled himself another