Read Online Requiem by Antonio Tabucchi - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Antonio Tabucchi
Ads: Link
until the next attack, it’s cyclical, you see, I’ll
tell you something, I think herpes is a bit like remorse, it lies dormant within us and then,
one fine day, it wakes up and attacks us, then goes to sleep again, only because we’ve
managed to suppress it, but it’s always there inside us, there’s no cure for
remorse.
The Copyist began putting away his brushes and his palette. He covered the canvas with a
cloth and asked me to help him move the easel over against the wall at the back. Right, he
said, I think that’s enough for today, mustn’t overdo it, my client wants the
painting by the end of August, I think I’ll make it, what do you reckon? I’d say
you had loads of time, I replied, you’re pretty far advanced, it’s almost
finished. Will you be much longer?, asked the Copyist. No, I said, I don’t think so, I
think I’ve seen enough of this painting, and besides today I’ve learned things
about it I never would have suspected, it has a meaning for me now that it didn’t
before. I’m off to Rua do Alecrim, said the Copyist. Great, I said, I’m going to
Cais do Sodré to catch a train to Cascais, we can walk part of the way together.
VI
“ SOMETHING YOU
PUT on your finger and the noise the telephone makes?” said the Ticket
Collector on the train, any idea what that could be? He sat down opposite me and showed me the
crossword puzzle in the newspaper. How many letters?, I asked. Four, he said.
“Ring”, I said, it must be “ring”. Of course! exclaimed the Ticket
Collector, I don’t know how I didn’t get that. Crossword clues are difficult to
guess when they use puns or plays on words, I said, they’re always the hardest.
The carriage was empty, in fact the whole train appeared to be empty, I must have been the
only passenger.
You’re lucky to have time to do the crossword, I remarked, there’s no one on the
train today. Not now, he said, but on the way back it’ll be hell. We were passing
through Oeiras and he pointed to the beach packed with people. You couldn’t see the
sand, just bodies, like a huge flesh-coloured stain covering the beach. It’ll be hell,
he said again, there’ll be all kinds of people, boys and girls, cripples, blind people,
children and pregnant women, grandfathers and grandmothers, it’ll be hell on wheels.
Well, I said, that’s Sundays for you, everyone goes to the beach. It wasn’t like
that in my day, said the Ticket Collector, we used to spend our holidays in cool places,
we’d go to the country, go back to our villages and visit our parents, that’s what
we called going on holiday, not any more though, everyone wants to get a tan, they can’t
get enough of the heat, they spend all day on the beach frying like sardines, and the
sun’s not good for you, it causes skin cancer, there’ve been articles about it in
the paper, but no one cares. The Ticket Collector sighed and looked out of the window. We were
at Alto da Barra and you could see the Torre de Bugio standing in the middle of the sea. They
drink Coca-Cola too, he added, they spend all day drinking that muck, I don’t know if
you’ve ever been on Oeiras beach on a Monday morning, but it’s covered in
caricas
, like a carpet.
Caricas
?, I said, I don’t know that word.
Bottle tops, said the Ticket Collector,
caricas
, is what country people call them.
Oh, I said. And then I asked: Do you mind if I smoke?, there’s no one else on the train.
Feel free he said, smoke all you want, I’ll have one too. We both reached for our packs
of cigarettes at the same time, I offered him one of mine and he offered me one of his. What
do you smoke?, the Ticket Collector asked. Multi-filter, I replied, you can’t buy them
in Portugal, they’re very mild, it’s almost like inhaling air, it says on the
packet “activated charcoal filtration system”, which means it hasn’t got
much nicotine or tar, but it’s
tell you something, I think herpes is a bit like remorse, it lies dormant within us and then,
one fine day, it wakes up and attacks us, then goes to sleep again, only because we’ve
managed to suppress it, but it’s always there inside us, there’s no cure for
remorse.
The Copyist began putting away his brushes and his palette. He covered the canvas with a
cloth and asked me to help him move the easel over against the wall at the back. Right, he
said, I think that’s enough for today, mustn’t overdo it, my client wants the
painting by the end of August, I think I’ll make it, what do you reckon? I’d say
you had loads of time, I replied, you’re pretty far advanced, it’s almost
finished. Will you be much longer?, asked the Copyist. No, I said, I don’t think so, I
think I’ve seen enough of this painting, and besides today I’ve learned things
about it I never would have suspected, it has a meaning for me now that it didn’t
before. I’m off to Rua do Alecrim, said the Copyist. Great, I said, I’m going to
Cais do Sodré to catch a train to Cascais, we can walk part of the way together.
VI
“ SOMETHING YOU
PUT on your finger and the noise the telephone makes?” said the Ticket
Collector on the train, any idea what that could be? He sat down opposite me and showed me the
crossword puzzle in the newspaper. How many letters?, I asked. Four, he said.
“Ring”, I said, it must be “ring”. Of course! exclaimed the Ticket
Collector, I don’t know how I didn’t get that. Crossword clues are difficult to
guess when they use puns or plays on words, I said, they’re always the hardest.
The carriage was empty, in fact the whole train appeared to be empty, I must have been the
only passenger.
You’re lucky to have time to do the crossword, I remarked, there’s no one on the
train today. Not now, he said, but on the way back it’ll be hell. We were passing
through Oeiras and he pointed to the beach packed with people. You couldn’t see the
sand, just bodies, like a huge flesh-coloured stain covering the beach. It’ll be hell,
he said again, there’ll be all kinds of people, boys and girls, cripples, blind people,
children and pregnant women, grandfathers and grandmothers, it’ll be hell on wheels.
Well, I said, that’s Sundays for you, everyone goes to the beach. It wasn’t like
that in my day, said the Ticket Collector, we used to spend our holidays in cool places,
we’d go to the country, go back to our villages and visit our parents, that’s what
we called going on holiday, not any more though, everyone wants to get a tan, they can’t
get enough of the heat, they spend all day on the beach frying like sardines, and the
sun’s not good for you, it causes skin cancer, there’ve been articles about it in
the paper, but no one cares. The Ticket Collector sighed and looked out of the window. We were
at Alto da Barra and you could see the Torre de Bugio standing in the middle of the sea. They
drink Coca-Cola too, he added, they spend all day drinking that muck, I don’t know if
you’ve ever been on Oeiras beach on a Monday morning, but it’s covered in
caricas
, like a carpet.
Caricas
?, I said, I don’t know that word.
Bottle tops, said the Ticket Collector,
caricas
, is what country people call them.
Oh, I said. And then I asked: Do you mind if I smoke?, there’s no one else on the train.
Feel free he said, smoke all you want, I’ll have one too. We both reached for our packs
of cigarettes at the same time, I offered him one of mine and he offered me one of his. What
do you smoke?, the Ticket Collector asked. Multi-filter, I replied, you can’t buy them
in Portugal, they’re very mild, it’s almost like inhaling air, it says on the
packet “activated charcoal filtration system”, which means it hasn’t got
much nicotine or tar, but it’s
Similar Books
