Read Online Time Ages in a Hurry by Antonio Tabucchi - Free Book Online Page B

now? I have to take care of you, wash you, nurse you as if you were a child, poor Renate, destiny’s been cruel, you were still pretty, and really you aren’t so old, we wouldn’t be so old, we could still enjoy life, who knows, traveling,instead you’re reduced to such a state, all this is such a pity, Renate. He’d turn on the path and walk beneath the trees along the wide boulevard. Life is out of phase, he’d think, everything’s off schedule. And he’d head to the supermarket, spend a nice morning there, it was a good way to pass the time, but now, since Renate was no longer there, it was difficult to pass the time.
    He looked around. Another tram had stopped across the street. A middle-aged woman with a shopping bag, a guy and a girl holding hands, an elderly man dressed in blue. They seemed ridiculous Targets to him. Patience, patience, don’t act like a little boy, have you perhaps forgotten your craft? It takes patience, don’t you remember anymore? So much patience, days of patience, months of patience, paying attention, being discreet, hours and hours of sitting in a café, in a car, behind a newspaper, always reading the same newspaper, for entire days.
    Why not wait for a good Target reading the newspaper, like this, to know how things were going in the world? He bought
Die Zeit
at the nearby kiosk, it had always been his weekly, in the days of real Targets. Then he sat on the terrace of the würstel kiosk, under the lindens. It wasn’t lunchtime yet, but he could have a nice würstel with potatoes. Normal or with curry? asked the little man with a white apron. He decided on the curry, something entirely new, and asked for more ketchup, really postmodern, which was a word on everyone’s lips. He left practically the whole thing on the paper plate, just disgusting, who knew why it was so popular.
    He looked around. Everyone seemed so ugly. Fat. Even the thinones seemed fat, fat on the inside, as if he could see them on the inside. They were oily, that was it, oily, as if covered in suntan oil. They were practically gleaming. He opened the newspaper: let’s see how the world’s going, this vast world that’s waltzing along so happily. Well, not so much. The Strategic Defense Initiative, claimed the American. Who’re they defending themselves from? he snickered. Who are they defending themselves from? – from us? – when we’re all dead? There was a picture of the American on a podium, alongside a flag. He must’ve had a brain no bigger than a thimble, as the little French ditty went. He recalled the song he liked so much, that Brassens sure was quite a guy, he hated the bourgeoisie. Long time ago. Best mission of his life, Paris.
Un jolie fleur dans une peau de vache, une jolie vache désguisée en fleur.
His French was still perfect, no accent, no inflection, neutral like the voice over the loudspeaker in an airport, that’s how he’d learned it in the special school, you really had to study back then, no kidding, five chosen out of a hundred and those five had to be perfect, as he was.
    There was a line in front of the booth of the Staatsoper, must be an important concert that evening. And what if he went? Why not, I could … A man was coming down the staircase of the library, an elegant man, a thin briefcase under his arm. There he was, the perfect Target. He pretended to be buried in his newspaper. The man passed right by him. What a goose. He let the man walk on another hundred meters or so and then he stood up. Crossed the street. Always better to stick to the opposite sidewalk, that was the old rule of thumb, one mustn’t ignore the old rules. The man went in the direction of the Scheunenviertel.What a sweet Target, he was taking his same route, couldn’t get any better than that. The man seemed to be heading to the Pergamon. And in fact he went inside. How clever, as if he himself hadn’t understood. He chuckled to himself: sorry, dear goose, if you’re here on a mission or are