Free Time Ages in a Hurry by Antonio Tabucchi Page A

cellar, now he remembered, often the knucklehead would meet a little failed actress there, a bitch older than Helene who then told all in a book that came out in France, called … he could no longer recall what it was called, even though he’d followed the whole thing himself, during his Parisian years, ah, yes, it was called
Ce qui convient
and ostensibly it talked about the theater, yet it was also a kind of philosophy of life: gossip. But what year was that? He couldn’t remember. The knucklehead had set up a sofa and a side lamp in that cellar, right under Helene’s nose, Helene, who in her life had swallowed more bitter pills than mouthfuls of air.
    The restaurant was fairly dark, with a cabaret atmosphere, like Maria Farrar and other expressionist stuff the knucklehead had been devoted to in his youth. The tables were of rough wood, the other furniturecharming, the walls full of photos. He examined the photos. He knew most of them, had seen so many of them while looking through dossiers in his office. His assistants had even taken a few of these pictures. Whoremonger, he said to himself, you were a real whoremonger, a moralist without morals. He studied the menu: the lady never knew how to win over lovers, but at least she’d succeeded with food, all her life she’d demanded Austrian cuisine, and the restaurant respected her tastes. Appetizers, best not. First course, soup. He began pondering. There was a potato soup he liked better than the German version. Actually he’d never much liked German food, too greasy, the Austrians were more refined, but maybe he should avoid the potato soup, it was hot out. The roe deer? Why not the roe deer? You couldn’t beat the Austrians at cooking roe deer. Too heavy, the physician would disagree. He decided on a simple wiener schnitzel. The fact is, wiener schnitzel done the Austrian way was sublime, and then those potatoes they made here, well yes, he’d take the wiener schnitzel. He drank white Austrian wine, even if he didn’t like fruity wines, and mentally made a toast to the memory of Helene. To your thick skin, he said, my dear prima donna. To finish, a decaf, to avoid nighttime arrhythmia.
    When he went out into the courtyard he was tempted to visit the house, a house museum now, how amusing. But, who knows, maybe the place had been renovated, painted, all traces of life scrubbed away, adapted for intelligent tourists. He recalled the house one night in ’54 when that jerk was there in the wings with the Berliner Ensemble, staring at Mother Courage’s cart. He’d inspected each room, drawerby drawer, sheet by sheet, letter by letter. He knew it like no one else: he’d violated it. I’m sorry, he said softly, I’m sorry, really, but those were my orders. He went out onto the street and walked a few meters. The little neighboring cemetery, protected by a gate, was accessed by a driveway. It was deserted. There were many trees, everyone resting in the shade. A little cemetery, but
racé
, he thought, with certain names: philosophers, physicians, literary figures:
happy few.
What do they do, the important people in a cemetery? They sleep, they sleep just like the ones who don’t count for shit. And everyone in the same position: horizontal. Eternity is horizontal. He turned around and there was Anna Seghers’s tombstone. When he was young he’d really loved her poems. One came to mind: years ago, a Jewish actor recited it every evening in a little theater in Le Marais, a frightening, heartrending poem that the man didn’t have the courage to say by heart.
    When he arrived before the tomb he said: hi, I’ve come to see you. Suddenly he had no desire at all to talk with him about the house and how he’d set himself up well for his old age. He hesitated and then said only: you don’t know me, my name is Karl, it’s my baptismal name, look, it’s my real name. Just then, a butterfly arrived. It was a common little butterfly with white wings, a small cabbage