In the hotel I opened the letter. On a sheet of white paper was written, in capital letters and without accents, the word SEVER. I reversed it mechanically in my mind and then under it I, loo, wrote with a pencil, in capitals and without accents, REVES. I meditated for a moment on that ambiguous word, which could be Spanish or French and have two absolutely different meanings. I thought that I had no desire to return to Madrid. I would have a check sent from Italy and would write to the Madrid hotel to send my luggage. I telephoned the front desk and asked the concierge to find an agency. I needed a plane ticket for the next day, the airline was not important, the first available flight. “What, are you leaving already?” asked the concierge. “You’ve never had such a short visit before.” “What time is it?” I asked. “It’s five-fifteen by my watch, sir.” “Well, then, wake me for supper, around nine.” I undressed calmly, closed the shutters. The sheets were cool. Again the faraway wail of a siren reached me, muffled by the pillow on which I rested my head.
Perhaps Maria do Carmo had finally achieved her backwards side. I wished for her that it was as she had desired, and thought that the Spanish word and the French one perhaps coincided at one point. It seemed to me that this was the vanishing point of a perspective, as when the perspective lines of a picture are drawn. And at that moment the siren wailed again, the ship docked, I went slowly down the gangplank and began to walk along the quays. The harbor was completely deserted. The quays were the perspective lines that verged toward the vanishing point of a picture. The picture was The Young Ladies in Waiting by Velásquez. The figure in the background, on which the lines of the quays converged, had that melancholy, enigmatic expression that was impressed on my memory. And how funny — that figure was Maria do Carmo in her yellow dress. I was saying to her, “I understand why you have that expression, why you see the backwards side of the picture. What do you see from that point? Tell me. Wait for me to come, too. I’m coming to see now.” And I walked toward that point. And at that moment. I found myself in another dream.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Born in Pisa in 1943, Antonio Tabucchi studied at the University of Pisa and did research at the Scuola Normale there. He currently teaches Portuguese Language and Literature at the University of Genoa and is married to Maria José de Lancastre, with whom he translated and edited the Italian edition of the works of Fernando Pessoa (Una sola moltitudine, 1979) for Adelphi. He has two children and lives for most of the year at his home at Vecchiano in the Tuscan countryside, although he also spends long periods in Lisbon, which he regards as his adoptive city. As part of the “European Foundation Libraries in Extra-European Countries” project (sponsored by the Gulbenkian Foundation in Lisbon and the University of Genoa), Tabucchi has made extensive research trips to Latin America and India.
Antonio Tabucchi made his debut as a novelist with Piazza d’Italia (Bompiani, 1975). This winner of the I’lnedito Prize was followed by 11 piccolo naviglio (Mondadori, 1978), and II gioco del rovescio (II Saggiatore, 1981), which won the Pozzale-Luigi Russo Prize. Two additional books, Donna di Porto Pun and Notturno indiano, were published by Sellerio in 1983 and 1984, respectively. Tabucchi’s most recent collection of stories, Piccoh equivoci senza importanza. was published by Feltrinelli in 1985 and won the prestigious Comisso Prize for that year. Tabucchi’s work has been translated into German, Spanish, Portuguese, Polish, and Hungarian. This edition of his prize-winning Il gioco del rovescio (here titled Letter from Casablanca) marks his first appearance in English.