Free Requiem by Antonio Tabucchi

still rubbish, smoking causes cancer too, it’s
     worse than the sun. Everything causes cancer, replied the Ticket Collector, even being
     unhappy, I had a friend who died of cancer because he wasn’t happy. He took the
     cigarette I was holding out to him and gave me one of his. I smoke Português Suave, he
     said, I used to smoke Definitivos, but you hardly ever see them now, people’s tastes
     have changed completely, even in cigarettes.
    I would like to have closed my eyes for a few minutes, but he went on chatting. We were
     passing São Pedro and he pointed something out to me. Can you imagine building anything
     more horrible than that?, he said indicating the houses you could see through the opposite
     window, have you ever seen anything uglier? They’re certainly ugly, I said, but who
     allowed such monstrosities to be built? I don’t know, said the Ticket Collector, I
     don’t know, the local councils in Portugal are a law to themselves, they take on
     architects who are like kids playing with Lego, they’re all a bunch of incompetents
     really, who want more than anything else to be modern. I get the impression you don’t
     much like anything modern, I said. I hate it, he said, it’s hideous all of it, good
     taste is basically fucked, if you’ll pardon the expression, you just have to look at the
     miniskirt, horrible don’t you think?, a young girl can get away with it, but on fat
     women, with those great knees of theirs, it looks really revolting, it takes away a
     woman’s charm, takes away their mystery. He looked down at his crossword puzzle again
     and said: Here we are, here’s a bit of modernity for you: “Modern architect
     — singer with a stutter”? It’s got five letters. Aalto, I said, he was a
     Finnish architect, Alvar Aalto. Aalto, he said, I doubt he was any good. On the contrary, I
     said, he more or less rebuilt Helsinki in the fifties and designed some other really lovely
     houses in other parts of Europe too, I like his work. Have you been to Helsinki?, the Ticket
     Collector asked. I have, I said, it’s an odd city, all in brick and with these buildings
     designed by Aalto and it’s surrounded by forests. What about the people?, he asked, what
     are they like? They read a lot and they drink a lot, I said, they’re good people, I like
     people who know how to drink. So you like the Portuguese then, he said, not entirely
     illogically.
    The train was just entering Cascais. Nice, eh?, said the Ticket Collector indicating the
     Estoril Sol. Modern, I replied, so modern it’s already out of date. And then I asked: Do
     you think a taxi as far as the road to Guincho will cost more than five hundred
escudos
? I shouldn’t think so, he said, taxis are still cheap in Portugal, as
     a foreigner you should know that, look, I’ll tell you something, the only time I left
     Portugal was to go to Switzerland to visit my son who lives in Geneva, he lives outside the
     city so I caught a taxi and the taxi fare used up all the money I’d brought with me from
     Portugal, by the way, are
you
Swiss? Swiss?!, I exclaimed, do you mind? no,
     I’m Italian. But you’re practically Portuguese, he said, I suppose you’ve
     lived here for a long time. No, I said, but I must have some Portuguese ancestor I don’t
     know about, I think Portugal’s imprinted on my genetic baggage. Genetic baggage?,
     repeated the Ticket Collector, I’ve seen that expression in the
Diário de
     Notícias
, it’s that thing with the signs, the plus sign and the minus
     sign, isn’t that it? More or less, I said, but to be honest, I don’t really know
     what genetic baggage is either, I think it means something like nature or character, it would
     be simpler to call it that. I like the word nature, said the Ticket Collector, my wife always
     says I’m good-natured, what do you think? I think you’re extremely good-natured, I
     said, and I’ve really enjoyed talking to you, without this chat my journey would