Little misunderstandings of no importance : stories by Tabucchi Antonio 1943

Author:Tabucchi, Antonio, 1943 [Tabucchi, Antonio, 1943]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Short stories, Italian
Publisher: New York : New Directions
Published: 1987-08-13T22:00:00+00:00

rumpled sheets that they've been making love. He strokes her head and says: "Let me keep on breathing the scent of your hair." At that moment a clock strikes. "It's late," she says; "I must go." But you answer: "The Chinese tell time by a cat's eye. It's not time yet, Isabelle, everything has yet to happen: I've still to involve you in the real betrayal, but it won't be my fault, believe me, it's the fault of things that will it so—who knows what determines their course?—and you have still to let yourself be involved in the betrayal; but it won't be your fault either, and then, in my own way, I'll have to bring about your death, but this, too, won't be my fault. It will be your remorse, and meanwhile he'll know nothing of my betrayal, only one day a notice in the newspaper, a short, secret phrase, which only we two know— Any where in the world —will be the signal, and then everything will happen." Instead, everything had already happened, only the man in that room didn't know it and said: "You're right, it's late. Go along, and I'll go afterwards."

Now you leave the cafe and walk across the square. A prostitute in a car signals to you with the headlights but you shake your head, still thinking: it's not possible, it's just a coincidence, a trick of fate. But something tells you it's no such thing. A chill has penetrated your bones and its iciness is a sort of certainty; the cathedral clock rings out the same hour as a clock rang four years before, you think again that it's a repetition of the same story; perhaps I could eat something— I'm just cold and hungry. A tram goes by, but you don't want to get on. You prefer to go on foot up the steep street leading from the river to the castle; there are laughing foreign tourists and sightseeing buses and an Indian restaurant where you often go for a chicken balchao —the owner is a fellow from Goa who talks his head off, perhaps he drinks too much, but he makes a sauce that goes well with the rice and sometimes he serves a spiced wine. Two American couples are happily eating near the window; the table lamps have checked red-

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