Letter from Casablanca by Antonio Tabucchi Page B

she understood death. I understood at once when I met her that she was a woman who understood death. And she also understood the same thing about me. She understood that there was a little of this in my stupid novel, and that’s why she did everything to make it become a book. She prevented me from arriving in Mentone. She freed me from the condition of “poor young aspiring writer, son of immigrants, returning to his native land with a manuscript in his pocket.” Did you think that my love for Fitzgerald was so vast as to have driven me on a pilgrimage through his itinerary? That my descriptions of his hotel in Baltimore were the result of a maniacal passion? It really isn’t so. Let’s say that I’m a reporter. I spent my early childhood in that hotel. I prefer to pass over the particulars. My father was a waiter there for twenty-nine years. He had known Fitzgerald, he had some books with his dedication, he often talked to me abouthim, and also about Zelda, who had liked him very much. She was fond of him because my father prepared very comprehensive drinks for her. She even put him in
Save Me the Waltz
under another name. Then the hotel in the course of the years had fallen into decadence, the clientele had deteriorated. They had given my father and me a room in the rear wing. After Mama’s death he wouldn’t have known to whom to entrust me. At least I was safe there, or at least so he presumed. He spent his last years serving supper to old fur-wrapped whores, to distinguished morphine addicts, to argumentative pederasts… . Here he is, my Fitzgerald. Your mother understood many things about me. And so did I about her. Would you like to know exactly what our relationship was? It’s not something you can say in a few lines. I loved her very much, I think that’s enough.
    Everybody wanted St. Raphaël, and instead the evening then dragged on at the Hôtel du Cap. Maybe the Negronis were a little strong. And then there was a quantity of Gershwin for Mr. Deluxe. And then there were the Arrigos installed on the terrace. Who could resist those two? They were two perfect McKiscos, bitter and quarrelsome, too
cocasse
. At ten o’clock at night they were at each other’s throats. They seemed to have just emerged from
Tender Is the Night
. It was impossible to shake them off to go to St. Raphaël. They’ve never known they’re the McKiscos, poor things, probably they didn’t even know who Fitzgerald was. “And your novel, Perri, at what point is your novel?” Mrs. McKisco always repeated the same question. She was polite, over-solicitous. She wore very elegant scarves and a pearl shamrock on the collar of her white jacket. Mrs. McKisco was never seen without her white jacket. I said that it wasn’t going badly, yes, it truly wasn’t going badly, I was at a good point, look, the story already had everything, dramatics, I mean, but with a bit of frivolity, frivolity’s good for drama, two destinies which don’t meet, a wronged life, two wronged lives… . Despair? Of course, butin moderation. Maybe a death. Of him or of her, I didn’t know yet, or else, what can I say, a great betrayal. But principally inadequacy in life, as if nothing is enough, and a sense of waste, and with it something like non-reason, and then a perverse selfishness. Mrs. McKisco sighed with understanding, as if saying, “But to whom can life ever be enough?” She lifted her voluminous breast, the pearl shamrock sparkled. Mr. McKisco watched her grimly as if he were about to bite her. She was melancholy, incongruous, her unhappiness was of a touching simplicity. Away with you, Mrs. McKisco, I would have liked to comfort you. Rest your generous breast on my shoulder and unburden yourself, cry. It’s true, your life is wasted, your husband is an orangutan full of Pernod, you have too much money and now you ask yourself what good is money, what do you do with your paper mills. But it all goes for nothing, right, Mrs. McKisco? There were