Free Tristano Dies by Antonio Tabucchi Page A

before he broke the silence. I have to go to Greece, he said, there’s a woman waiting for me, I’m in love with her. Marilyn stroked his chest and whispered, if she’s waited this long, she can wait a little longer, and she hugged him tightly, first, come with me, I have to go to Spain, come with me, I was lying before: I’m in love with you. In the frame of the window, a light went by in the distance, probably a fishing boat. Maybe I am, too, Tristano said, my body is, anyway, but for now, let me sleep, I’m tired.
    … Do me a favor, call Frau for me, I need my injection, if she says she already gave me one, then you do it … you should do something besides just taking down my dictation, do something concrete to earn this story, so you’ll be telling it, so you’ll become the author … but do me a favor now, call Frau for me, I need my injection, I’m afraid I’ll start complaining, and heroes can’t complain, they just turn to the gods, or drop dead without a word, just strike them in the heel, me, I don’t have any gods, and my heel’s up to my balls, I’m slowly being devoured, you’ve seen it … Hurry up, call Frau for me, and then I’ll tell you something in the style of old Ernest, that old bastard Ernest, who saw so much in life before pointing a double-barrel shotgun at his heart, I’m sure you’ll like my story, it makes sense, writer, because you like literature, call Frau for me …
    You’re like Pinocchio with a belly ache, Tristano said and imitated her: hii-ick. Marilyn hiccupped twice, you’re awful, she said, it’s true, I had my own paradoxical affair: my heart was so full of this frustrated love for you, there was very little room for a man in my life, and that paradoxical situation was, paradoxically, the only one that worked for me, Clark. Don’t call me that, Tristano answered, I already told you, I’m not Clark anymore, I’m Tristano now, and I don’t understand the comparison you’re making, Guagliona, but the fact is, Cary fucked you again and again and I can’t, and maybe that’s what love is to you, Guagliona, you’ve traded the clapper for the bell, and now what is ityou want from me – a child? – it’s getting late, you’re longing to desire something, but time in life isn’t in step with the time of desire, a hundred years can go by in a single day, so look for someone else, the time for Tristano has up and gone.
    … I think I promised you an episode in the style of old Ernest, I’m not sure if you like his writing, but I should tell you about Pancuervo first. You’ll want to know what that is. It’s a remote place in Spain where the rain stays mainly in the plain. And no one goes there. But Tristano’s life crossed paths with Pancuervo …
    … who knows when it’ll go by, the girl said, here in Spain they drop the crossing bar as if the train’s arriving in five minutes, though it might not get there till tomorrow, that’s how this country works. There should be a train for Pancuervo, the man said, but maybe there aren’t more trains for Pancuervo, kaput, and maybe Pancuervo doesn’t exist, it’s a place you invented … The sun was ruthless, but inside the small café, the air was still tolerable. The curtain of beer bottle corks rippled in the warm breeze and produced a sound like Asian music. They ordered something to drink, the owner was a small, pot-bellied man with a mustache like a sad eyebrow. Strange, he said, that man has a barber’s mustache but owns a café, his mustache is all wrong. Why? the girl asked, he needs a specific kind of mustache? Hesipped his beer, sure, he said, take a look at people’s features here, it’s a lesson in anthropology; in my diary, I’ve drawn a series of mustaches in various categories; there’s a whole world of mustaches in this country, take the Civil Guard: they’ve got this kind. He drew a mark on his napkin. Lawyers have this kind instead. Another mark. Judges have this kind, almost