Free Tristano Dies by Antonio Tabucchi Page B

like lawyers, but not quite. University professors have this kind if they support the regime and this kind if they don’t. Landowners have this kind, and this is the mustache of the great Spanish landowner who backs the Generalissimo. Whose own mustache is like so, practically like the others, but only the Generalissimo wears this kind, so you recognize it right off … if you really think about the story of our century, it’s a story of mustaches, the German’s little clipped mustache, the Russian’s big peasant mustache … Il Duce was hairless altogether, like we Italians are, we’re only hairy in our souls, like me, but you have no idea, my girl, you think you’re hairier than I am, and you’re a hill without a blade of grass. I’d like you to grow a mustache, the girl said, at your age, it would suit you. The man smiled. So I’d look more like Clark Gable, he said, sorry, but I’m not a movie star, and I’m not your partisan comrade anymore, and stop calling me Clark – got it? He signaled the café owner who was nodding off behind the bar.
Dos más
, he said, pointing to a bottle of beer. Anyway, I had a hunch I’d see you again, the girl said, that I’d see you one summer night, like I predicted in my letter. What letter? he asked, I never got any letter. The girl had a vague, lost air about her, as though she were watching the flies buzzing around.My letter didn’t include that June night, when you brought me to the pensione, she said, we didn’t really come together at the pensione. But I did fuck you all night, the man said, so plenty of coming together. You’re so crass, she said. And lucky for us, you’re very refined, the man said, and your point? That tonight, we’ve really come together, the girl said, but men will never understand, you men don’t understand these things. We don’t get metaphysics, the man said. And he started laughing quietly, trying not to. Clark, please, she said. Don’t call me Clark, he said, I’m not Clark anymore, I told you already, I’m Tristano, that’s what I want, my name’s Tristano now. Tristano’s so fake, the girl answered, so artificial, I don’t like it, it’s someone else’s name, maybe your brother, you always told me you had a brother and you never told me his name, maybe it’s your brother. The man smiled and started squiggling on his wet beer glass with his finger. Now you get it, he said, I’m my brother. She tried to take his hand, but he pulled away: he wanted to draw on his glass. Tristano, she said, yesterday you told me there are all different ways and levels of falling in love, and we’d feel less guilty if each of us took half the blame. He swore. Stop being so crass, she said, it doesn’t suit you; you know, Cary never tried to hold on to me, he loved me, or rather, he wanted what was best for me, or what I thought was best for me, he grew so terribly sad, but you see everyone as plotting against you, and you take your revenge in your own way, and always up the ante. The man dug in his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. He read to her: because Cary never tried to hold on to me or see me again, heloved me, or rather, he wanted what was best for me, or what I thought was best for me … he grew so terribly sad, and I was the cause of that pain, understand? He looked at her. Excuse me, my dear, he said, but you’re repeating yourself, they’re the same exact words from this letter, we’re in Spain, the crossing bar is down, the train might never come and the schedule’s off, and you, off-schedule, are repeating some loudspeaker warning about a canceled train – why? Because Cary was unhappy, she said, and I was really in love, that’s why: for me, it was like finding a home at last, and one night he phoned me, he said, please come, I need you, for me, it was like finding a home, I’m a poor drifter, American, an East-coast girl from a lower middle-class family, with a notary for a father and an idiot for a mother,