Free Letter from Casablanca by Antonio Tabucchi

in a striped jacket and white gloves. He held the tray as if he were handling a pair of pruning shears. But you had to be indulgent with him: after all, he’d been hired as a gardener.
    The conversation usually concerned Monsieur Huppert’s passion, that is, the Dark Continent, for which he nurtured a love that bordered on idolatry. His work of importing the best materials on behalf of important European firms had allowed him, in ten years of travel, to consider Africa as his chosenland. And to hear his stories, Africa still seemed the continent of Livingstone, of Stanley, and of Savorgnan di Brazza, so well did Monsieur Huppert understand its most secret heart, its most mysterious witchcraft, its less touristy itineraries. Listening to him talk I seemed to delve again into my schoolbooks or into the dreams of my childhood, into the tales of Tarzan, the adventures of Cino and Franco, the films of Ava Gardner and Humphrey Bogart. He knew all the trails off the beaten track, for instance, which safaris to choose among those which left from Fort Lamy and Fort Achambault, which seasons to avoid in order not to fall into the bedlam of rich Americans seeking thrills. He knew the best guides in Nairobi, the paleolithic dwellings of Olor-Gesalie, the rock paintings of Cheke, the mysterious ruins of Zimbabwé, which some believed were the mythical King Solomon’s Mines. But he also knew the fascination of the Victoria Falls, the luxury of the N’gor Hotel at Dakar, the picturesque cottages on the slopes of Kilimanjaro where the rich Rhodesians spent their vacations, the emerald golf courses of South Africa. During supper I remained silent listening to him tell stories. What else could I do, after all? And once in my room I took down muddled notes in a notebook that I’d entitled
Voyage en Afrique
. I created an ideal tourist itinerary for a trip on which I was certain sooner or later the Hupperts would invite me to accompany them. I was aware, with perfect objectivity, that my prestige was clearly in ascent. Among other things, the victory over the gallery in Zurich, which had responded congratulating me and accepting my conditions, scored an indisputable point in my favor.
    When the telephone call came from Monsieur Delatour, I was alone in the house. The Hupperts had gone shopping in town (Madame had to buy some Christmas decorations) and had entrusted the villa to me, as by this time they did when they went out. In such cases I answered the telephone, signedreceipts for possible registered mail, paid the tradesmen, gave instructions to Constance for supper.
    More than surprised, Madame became greatly agitated when she learned of Monsieur Delatour’s arrival the next day. She said that it was a catastrophe, my God, we had nothing in the house, we were out of everything, and then, was he coming alone or with Madame Delatour? I didn’t know? But, holy heaven, it was
jondamentale
, it was so embarrassing to receive guests uncivilly, and then the Delatours! Oh, how foolish not to have bought flowers in town, there wasn’t even material for a decent Ikebana.
    The next day was a feverish one; in the morning Madame tried to compose a Shinsei with pine and magnolia leaves, but she thought it turned out poor and clumsy, and she took it apart. I suggested a good-omened Jushoku to her, with chrysanthemums, fern, and a branch of kaki, Japanese persimmon. It had the advantage of being a simple composition, and then the kaki from the garden, with its shiny red fruit, was really splendid. For a base we used a modern, very elegant Turkish blue vase from Venini. The composition came out satisfactorily, although as a centerpiece it was really nothing to rave about. At best, it might go well on the chest of drawers in the dining room, or rather on the buffet. Flanked by the fruit, it looked picturesque, but nothing more.
    The blue carnations which I had ordered from the shop in Sanremo arrived unexpectedly to save us. I’d almost forgotten