Read Online Time Ages in a Hurry by Antonio Tabucchi - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Antonio Tabucchi
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pushed a piece of cardboard under his nose: I come from Bosnia, it read. Get lost, he told her, and smiled. The little girl smiled back and went away.
Maybe it was better to take a cab, he felt tired now. Who knew why he felt so tired, he’d spent the morning doing nothing, lounging around reading the paper. Newspapers make you tired, he said to himself, the news makes you tired, the world makes you tired. The world makes you tired because it’s tired. He headed toward the metal trash can and threw away an empty pack of cigarettes, then that day’s newspaper, he didn’t feel like keeping it in his pocket. He was a good citizen, he was, he didn’t like to dirty the city. But the city was already dirty. Everything was dirty. He said to himself: no, I’ll go on foot, I can control thesituation better. The situation, what situation? Well, the situation he was used to controlling at other times. Back then, yes, it was rewarding: your Target would walk ahead of you, unaware, calm, going about his business. You too, apparently, were going about your business, but not at all unaware, quite the opposite: from the photos they made you study, you knew each and every feature of your Target, you’d recognize him even in a theater audience, while he knew nothing about you, you were an anonymous face to him, like millions of other anonymous faces in the world, he went his way and going his own way he guided you, since you had to follow him. He was the compass for your route, you merely had to follow.
He chose a Target. When he left home he always needed to find a Target, otherwise he felt lost, would lose his bearings. Because the Target clearly knew where to go, while he didn’t, where could he go at this point, now that the job he’d always had was finished and Renate was dead? Ah, the wall, such nostalgia! It was there, solid, concrete, it marked a border, marked life, gave a person a sense of belonging. Thanks to a wall you belong to something, you stay on one side or the other, the wall is like a cardinal point, here it’s east, there it’s west, you know where you are. When Renate was still alive, even though the wall was no longer there, at least he knew where to go, because he had to do all the housework, he didn’t trust the woman paid by the hour, she was a little Indian woman who looked shifty and spoke awful German and constantly repeated yes sir, even when he sent her to hell. Go to hell, you ugly stupid little thing. Yes sir.
First of all he’d go to the supermarket. Every day, because he didn’t like to buy too much, only little daily supplies, according to Renate’s wishes. What would you like this morning, Renate, for instance, would you like those Belgian liqueur chocolates, or would you prefer some hazelnut pralines? Or else, look, I’ll go to the produce section, you can’t imagine everything in that supermarket, you know, there’s no comparison with the grocery stores of our day, you can find everything, really everything, for instance, would you like some nice juicy peaches on this gray December day? I’ll bring you some, they come from Chile, or from Argentina, those places way over there, or would you prefer pears, cherries, apricots? I’ll bring you some. Would you like a very sweet, yellow melon, the kind that goes well with port or with Italian prosciutto? I’ll bring you some of that too, today I’d like to make you happy, Renate, I want you to smile.
Renate would smile at him wearily. Going along the path in the garden, he’d turn to look back at her as she waved from the window on the terrace. The terrace wall hid the wheels of her wheelchair. She seemed to be sitting in an armchair, seemed like a normal person, still pretty, her face smooth, her hair blond, never mind her age. Renate, my Renate, I’ve loved you so much, you know?, you can’t imagine how much, more than my own life, and I still love you, truly, even if there is one thing I need to tell you, but what’s the point
Maybe it was better to take a cab, he felt tired now. Who knew why he felt so tired, he’d spent the morning doing nothing, lounging around reading the paper. Newspapers make you tired, he said to himself, the news makes you tired, the world makes you tired. The world makes you tired because it’s tired. He headed toward the metal trash can and threw away an empty pack of cigarettes, then that day’s newspaper, he didn’t feel like keeping it in his pocket. He was a good citizen, he was, he didn’t like to dirty the city. But the city was already dirty. Everything was dirty. He said to himself: no, I’ll go on foot, I can control thesituation better. The situation, what situation? Well, the situation he was used to controlling at other times. Back then, yes, it was rewarding: your Target would walk ahead of you, unaware, calm, going about his business. You too, apparently, were going about your business, but not at all unaware, quite the opposite: from the photos they made you study, you knew each and every feature of your Target, you’d recognize him even in a theater audience, while he knew nothing about you, you were an anonymous face to him, like millions of other anonymous faces in the world, he went his way and going his own way he guided you, since you had to follow him. He was the compass for your route, you merely had to follow.
He chose a Target. When he left home he always needed to find a Target, otherwise he felt lost, would lose his bearings. Because the Target clearly knew where to go, while he didn’t, where could he go at this point, now that the job he’d always had was finished and Renate was dead? Ah, the wall, such nostalgia! It was there, solid, concrete, it marked a border, marked life, gave a person a sense of belonging. Thanks to a wall you belong to something, you stay on one side or the other, the wall is like a cardinal point, here it’s east, there it’s west, you know where you are. When Renate was still alive, even though the wall was no longer there, at least he knew where to go, because he had to do all the housework, he didn’t trust the woman paid by the hour, she was a little Indian woman who looked shifty and spoke awful German and constantly repeated yes sir, even when he sent her to hell. Go to hell, you ugly stupid little thing. Yes sir.
First of all he’d go to the supermarket. Every day, because he didn’t like to buy too much, only little daily supplies, according to Renate’s wishes. What would you like this morning, Renate, for instance, would you like those Belgian liqueur chocolates, or would you prefer some hazelnut pralines? Or else, look, I’ll go to the produce section, you can’t imagine everything in that supermarket, you know, there’s no comparison with the grocery stores of our day, you can find everything, really everything, for instance, would you like some nice juicy peaches on this gray December day? I’ll bring you some, they come from Chile, or from Argentina, those places way over there, or would you prefer pears, cherries, apricots? I’ll bring you some. Would you like a very sweet, yellow melon, the kind that goes well with port or with Italian prosciutto? I’ll bring you some of that too, today I’d like to make you happy, Renate, I want you to smile.
Renate would smile at him wearily. Going along the path in the garden, he’d turn to look back at her as she waved from the window on the terrace. The terrace wall hid the wheels of her wheelchair. She seemed to be sitting in an armchair, seemed like a normal person, still pretty, her face smooth, her hair blond, never mind her age. Renate, my Renate, I’ve loved you so much, you know?, you can’t imagine how much, more than my own life, and I still love you, truly, even if there is one thing I need to tell you, but what’s the point
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