A Tranquil Star by Primo Levi Read Free Book Online

Collins was waiting for him, in velvet trousers, tanned and relaxed. Antonio wondered whether it would be kinder to ask about the result of his conversation with the publisher or not, but James anticipated him:
    â€œYou were quite right—he rejected the manuscript. But he gave me such precise and encouraging suggestions that I immediately began to write again. No, not about you: it’s a somewhat fictionalized story about my inventions—their
Entstehungsgeschichte
, their origin, how they occurred to me. Besides, as I see it, it’s better for you this way: they told me that you made yourself into a character. Much better—you have a better chance of staying on for a while. My Antonio, in fact, was a little weak.”
    Antonio listened distractedly: he was too intent on observing the landscape. The boat that brought him had made a long journey up a broad, clear river that ran between thickly forested banks. The current was fast and silent, there was not a breath of wind, the temperature was pleasantly cool, and the forest was as motionless as if made of stone. The water reflected the colors of a sky such as Antonio had never seen: dark blue overhead, emerald green in the east, and violet with wide orange stripes in the west. When the rhythmic rumble of the motor stopped, Antonio became aware of a faint thunder that seemed to saturate the atmosphere. “It’s the waterfall,” James explained to him. “It’s right on the border.”
    They went along the pier, of rough square blocks, and set off together on a trail that wound its way up around the rampart from which the waterfall cascaded. They were hit by blasts of spray, and the sky was filled with intertwining rainbows. James had politely taken Antonio’s suitcase from him; it was very light. Majestic, exotic trees, of many different species, grew on both sides of the path. Flowers hung from the branches, yellow and flesh-colored—some even seemed made of flesh—and trailed in garlands to the ground. There were also fruits, long and rounded; the air held a light, pleasant but slightly musky scent, like that of chestnut blossoms.
    At the bar marking the border, no one asked him anything: the two guards saluted him, a hand to their visors, as if they had been expecting him. A little farther on, Antonio entered an office where he was officially registered; a courteous and impersonal functionary checked off his name, handed him aration card for food, clothes, shoes, and cigarettes, and then said:
    â€œYou’re an autobiographer, right?”
    â€œYes. How did you know?”
    â€œWe know everything. Look!” He gestured behind him, where a card catalogue occupied an entire wall. “The fact is that at the moment I don’t have a single chalet available. The last one we assigned yesterday to Papillon. You’ll have to adjust to having a roommate for a few days—another autobiographer, of course. Here, there’s a place at 525, with François Villon. Mr. Collins will show you—it’s not very far.”
    James smiled. “You’ll be amused. François is the most unpredictable of our fellow-citizens. He used to live with Julius Caesar, but he got out: he pulled some strings, and was assigned a custom, prefab house on the shores of Lake Polevoy. They didn’t get along: they quarreled because of Vercingetorix, then François courted Cleopatra intensely, in Shakespeare’s version, and Caesar was jealous.”
    â€œWhat do you mean, in Shakespeare’s version?”
    â€œWe have five or six Cleopatras: Pushkin’s, Shaw’s, Gautier’s, and so on. They can’t stand one another.”
    â€œAh. And so it isn’t true that Caesar and Pompey are caulkers?”
    â€œWho ever told you that?” asked James, in amazement.
    â€œRabelais II, 30. He also says that Hannibal is a chicken seller, Romulus a cobbler, Pope Julius II goes around selling pies, and