Letter from Casablanca by Antonio Tabucchi Read Free Book Online Page A

one—two—three—four—five—six—seven—eight—nine—ten. I felt it was the most stupid thing I could do but I couldn’t stop myself, and while I was thinking of the absurdity of that counting I continued to count by accenting the seconds, as if for good luck, a kind of protection—from what I didn’t know, or rather I didn’t have the courage to admit. When I reached one hundred and twenty I heard Nena’s footstep. I judged that she was still far away, at the beginning of the avenue. On her return she avoided the gravel, but I heard her just the same. I got up on tiptoe, bathed in sweat, and through the slats of the blinds I saw her approach slowly with her eyes lowered. She had on her face an expression of sadness that I had never known—Nena who was always so happy. In one hand she held a hat and in the other a piece of paper which she worried between her index finger and her thumb. Then I returned to bed and went to sleep.
    And it was as if I woke up the following Saturday. Because that week hurried away very rapidly in its slowness, lined with silence, interwoven with the glances that Nena and Mama exchanged, while I tried to be present as little as possible with the excuse that the make-up exercises took me all afternoon. But in reality they didn’t take me any time at all, because my notebook was full of barbed wire.
    The morning of the following Saturday Mama made ravioli with ricotta. We hadn’t eaten ravioli with ricotta for a long time. We had almost forgotten it. For months we had eatenonly food that was horrifyingly mundane. Mama got up early. I woke up at six and heard her moving quietly in the kitchen, working. It was a pleasant morning. When Nena and I got up we found the table covered with strips of pasta already ready to be cut into shapes like a shell, which then had to be filled with ricotta. We had to have our coffee and milk on the little radio table, then we threw ourselves into cutting the pasta. Actually, it was Nena who cut the shape, I filled it with a spoon and passed it to Mama, who saw to the closing of the edges with a little fold and a light pressure of her fingers, with great caution, because if you pressed too hard the filling squirted out and the tortello was ruined.
    “Today we’ll have a little party,” said Mama. “It’s a special day.” And then, without knowing exactly why, I felt again that blast of heal inside my chest that I had felt when Nena had made that statement. And then I began to sweat and I said, “How hot it is already this morning.” And Mama said, “Well, of course, today’s the third of August. Remember this day—today is Saturday, August third.” And I said, “If you don’t mind, Mama, I’ll go to my room for a little while. If you need any help, call me.” I don’t know why I didn’t go outside. Maybe it would have been better. The humidity had not yet descended on the garden. I could have checked the state of the pergola—that is, do something. But I preferred the shade of my room.
    Mama was happy during dinner, too happy. The ravioli was delicious and Nena wanted two plates of it, but Mama seemed to be in a hurry for us to finish and frequently looked at the clock. At quarter past one we finished dinner and Mama cleared away hurriedly. She said, “We’d better leave the dishes for later. Now let’s all go and rest. It will do you good, too. We all got up too early this morning.” Nena, contrary to her custom, did not make a fuss and went straight to the divan in the dining room. Mama settled herself in the living room inher usual armchair, with the blinds closed and a handkerchief over her eyes. I lay down in my clothes, without turning down the bed, to wait. In the silence of my room I heard my heart beat tumultuously, and I felt that that dull noise could be heard even in the other room.
    Perhaps I dozed off, but probably for just a few minutes, then I jumped at the sound of the clock which struck quarter to two and I stayed