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Authors: Antonio Tabucchi
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blue ink, and a little packet of writing paper in splendid light yellow-colored rice paper with matching envelopes. I found that my room acquired a more intellectual aspect. I made some small changes in the arrangement of the objects. I moved the lamp made from the jade vase from the chest of drawers to the table nearthe window, I arranged next to it the objects I had bought, and I got a real desk. To finish it off, I arranged in broad view the
Poésie complète
by Vittoria Aganoor Pompilj and
La vie des abeilles
by Maeterlinck, which I had bought at a stall.
At the beginning of November Madame entrusted to me two tasks which perfectly justified my acquisition of stationery. A catalogue had arrived from a gallery in Zurich in which two prints by Utamaro were mentioned without any specifications. I had to ask for information, dimensions, prices, possibly photographs. And then I had to go to a shop in Sanremo so that it would send us by its usual method the bulbs for transplanting indicated by such-and-such abbreviations in its catalogue.
To the gallery in Zurich I wrote a stiff, polite letter, in elegant handwriting, on my rice paper. I begged them to be very detailed in their answer, to indicate the price in Swiss francs, to send
at least
two colored photographs measuring 16 by 24. Finally I let drop the possibility of an immediate purchase depending upon the quality of the works, and I carefully signed myself Lisabetta Rossi-Fini, secretary to Madame Huppert. I thought that for my signature I could quite rightly begin to use Mama’s last name and Papa’s, joined by a hyphen. After all, I was the daughter of them both; I did not use names that did not belong to me.
At the shop in Sanremo, in addition to the bulbs, I ordered a dozen blue carnations which I’d seen in the catalogue and which had fascinated me. The carnation is a simple, popular flower which signifies frankness and sympathy. But that greenhouse variety of intense blue that faded into violet on its curly edges was truly unusual. They seemed exotic, mysterious flowers, something like orchids without possessing their cold vulgarity.
In those days Madame was valiantly occupied in the realization of a Gashu, a traditional
moribana
, for which is necessary, more than the gifts of sensitivity and creativity, exactknowledge of the ancient Japanese painting which inspired the
moribana
. The
moribana
is a type of Ikebana created in a large, flat vase, usually rectangular or round. My collaboration on the
moribana
, to tell the truth, was limited to the search for the primary materials, given that I had to take a rather boring walk in the hills around the lake to search for walnut trees and juniper shoots. It had rained recently and the ground was not exactly ideal for sylvan strolls. Perhaps because of the pollen and the decaying leaves, I developed an annoying irritation of the ankles which caused me to scratch for a week.
The gallery in Zurich answered by return mail. It sent the photographs of the Utamaros, regretting that the colors were not very true and that the shape was not what I had requested, but they were all that it had in its file. They showed two small water colors: one rather obvious female figure and one insect on a water lily pad, all in tones of green and brown, over which Madame enthused. The information from the gallery, in addition to the dimensions and prices, was as follows: “Utamaro, 1754-1806. Num. 148/a:
Femme de Yedo
, 1802 environ, gouache sur papier de Chine, etat de conservation parfait. Num. 148/b:
Libellule sur nenuphar
, 1790 environ, gouache sur papier de Chine, quelque legere tache d’humidite sur le dos.”
It was pure chance that evening that, before going to bed, I glanced at the chapter in
Peinture japonaise
dedicated to the work and school of Utamaro. The first discrepancy with the Swiss catalogue to arouse my attention was the date of death, 1797, which I confirmed in Madame’s
Larousse
. I found it most peculiar that
Poésie complète
by Vittoria Aganoor Pompilj and
La vie des abeilles
by Maeterlinck, which I had bought at a stall.
At the beginning of November Madame entrusted to me two tasks which perfectly justified my acquisition of stationery. A catalogue had arrived from a gallery in Zurich in which two prints by Utamaro were mentioned without any specifications. I had to ask for information, dimensions, prices, possibly photographs. And then I had to go to a shop in Sanremo so that it would send us by its usual method the bulbs for transplanting indicated by such-and-such abbreviations in its catalogue.
To the gallery in Zurich I wrote a stiff, polite letter, in elegant handwriting, on my rice paper. I begged them to be very detailed in their answer, to indicate the price in Swiss francs, to send
at least
two colored photographs measuring 16 by 24. Finally I let drop the possibility of an immediate purchase depending upon the quality of the works, and I carefully signed myself Lisabetta Rossi-Fini, secretary to Madame Huppert. I thought that for my signature I could quite rightly begin to use Mama’s last name and Papa’s, joined by a hyphen. After all, I was the daughter of them both; I did not use names that did not belong to me.
At the shop in Sanremo, in addition to the bulbs, I ordered a dozen blue carnations which I’d seen in the catalogue and which had fascinated me. The carnation is a simple, popular flower which signifies frankness and sympathy. But that greenhouse variety of intense blue that faded into violet on its curly edges was truly unusual. They seemed exotic, mysterious flowers, something like orchids without possessing their cold vulgarity.
In those days Madame was valiantly occupied in the realization of a Gashu, a traditional
moribana
, for which is necessary, more than the gifts of sensitivity and creativity, exactknowledge of the ancient Japanese painting which inspired the
moribana
. The
moribana
is a type of Ikebana created in a large, flat vase, usually rectangular or round. My collaboration on the
moribana
, to tell the truth, was limited to the search for the primary materials, given that I had to take a rather boring walk in the hills around the lake to search for walnut trees and juniper shoots. It had rained recently and the ground was not exactly ideal for sylvan strolls. Perhaps because of the pollen and the decaying leaves, I developed an annoying irritation of the ankles which caused me to scratch for a week.
The gallery in Zurich answered by return mail. It sent the photographs of the Utamaros, regretting that the colors were not very true and that the shape was not what I had requested, but they were all that it had in its file. They showed two small water colors: one rather obvious female figure and one insect on a water lily pad, all in tones of green and brown, over which Madame enthused. The information from the gallery, in addition to the dimensions and prices, was as follows: “Utamaro, 1754-1806. Num. 148/a:
Femme de Yedo
, 1802 environ, gouache sur papier de Chine, etat de conservation parfait. Num. 148/b:
Libellule sur nenuphar
, 1790 environ, gouache sur papier de Chine, quelque legere tache d’humidite sur le dos.”
It was pure chance that evening that, before going to bed, I glanced at the chapter in
Peinture japonaise
dedicated to the work and school of Utamaro. The first discrepancy with the Swiss catalogue to arouse my attention was the date of death, 1797, which I confirmed in Madame’s
Larousse
. I found it most peculiar that
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