the void there’s a sort of wisdom, the wisdom of appearing and disappearing, and therefore we must entrust ourselves to the void as to a generous wet-nurse . . .
Outposts in the Void
is actually the title of the book I’m working on . . .’
Time passed, and I couldn’t manage to step into the flowing river of his sentences. I still had an hour before the last bus. I didn’t know how to approach the object of my visit.
Luckily, after a while he got up to refill his whisky glass , and my eye fell on an extremely beautiful Persian rug, the only antique in the house.
I pointed to it and asked, ‘So where did that come from?’
‘Does it seem like a contradiction to you? It is, in fact. My father was a rug merchant – it’s one of the few I still have.’
‘Is it an heirloom?’
‘No, it’s my strongbox. Something I can sell if I have to . . .’
Instead of returning to his chair, he sat beside me on the sofa-bed. Its springs squeaked under his weight. We stayed like that for a while in silence; not far away, a dog was barking desperately. Then he took one of my hands and began examining it. ‘According to the ancients, a person’s hand contains all the qualities of his soul . . . Here I see intelligence and nobility of thought . . . Your hand is a lot like mine.’
Our hands were resting on my leg, side by side. Mine shook a little.
‘It’s a lot like yours because I’m your daughter,’ I said, in a voice whose calmness amazed me.
The curses of an old man who was trying unsuccessfully to silence the dog overlaid its barking.
The professor sprang away from me. ‘What’s this, a joke?’ he asked, in a voice halfway between alarm and amusement. ‘Or a bit of bad theatre?’
‘Padua, the seventies. One of your students . . .’
He stood up so he could see my face better. ‘Marvellous years. Girls flung themselves into my arms like bees diving into a flower.’
‘Naked-truth-telling.’
A hard light came into his eyes, rendering them opaque and extinguishing their bright flashes. ‘If you’re here to make accusations, let me tell you at once that you’ve come to the wrong place.’
‘No accusations.’
‘Then what do you want? Some compensation, some money? If that’s the reason, the most I can give you is a rug.’
‘I don’t need money, and I don’t want a rug.’
‘Then why, assuming that you really are my daughter, have you come all the way out here?’
‘Simple curiosity. I wanted to get to know you.’
‘Human beings can never completely know each other.’
‘But curiosity is an attribute of intelligence.’
‘
Touché!
’
The bus would be passing very soon. While I was putting on my jacket, he opened the front door and said, ‘Come back whenever you want. I’m always here in the afternoon. I often go out in the morning, so if you’re going to come then it’s best to call first.’
After that first time, I visited him once a week for three months. We often took walks along the beach. In the beginning, the bathing season was still far off, and on sunny days the strong-smelling clumps of algae rotting in the shallows along the shore attracted flocks of herring gulls, which were always on the lookout for food.
The water level varied greatly, in accordance with the tides. Sometimes, the fishermen-pensioners had to wade out almost to the horizon in order to find clams and scallops.
We frequently came across joggers, athletic young men or older, big-bellied fellows, dripping with sweat even in the middle of winter.
Often, during the milder days, we saw lovers sitting on the trunks of trees blown down by sea storms. On one such occasion, my father pointed to a couple locked in an embrace and said, ‘Do you know why lovers love to look at the sea? It’s because they’re convinced that their love is without end, like the horizon. In short, they gaze at an illusory line and superimpose on it an illusory sentiment.’
He missed no opportunity to
Outposts in the Void
is actually the title of the book I’m working on . . .’
Time passed, and I couldn’t manage to step into the flowing river of his sentences. I still had an hour before the last bus. I didn’t know how to approach the object of my visit.
Luckily, after a while he got up to refill his whisky glass , and my eye fell on an extremely beautiful Persian rug, the only antique in the house.
I pointed to it and asked, ‘So where did that come from?’
‘Does it seem like a contradiction to you? It is, in fact. My father was a rug merchant – it’s one of the few I still have.’
‘Is it an heirloom?’
‘No, it’s my strongbox. Something I can sell if I have to . . .’
Instead of returning to his chair, he sat beside me on the sofa-bed. Its springs squeaked under his weight. We stayed like that for a while in silence; not far away, a dog was barking desperately. Then he took one of my hands and began examining it. ‘According to the ancients, a person’s hand contains all the qualities of his soul . . . Here I see intelligence and nobility of thought . . . Your hand is a lot like mine.’
Our hands were resting on my leg, side by side. Mine shook a little.
‘It’s a lot like yours because I’m your daughter,’ I said, in a voice whose calmness amazed me.
The curses of an old man who was trying unsuccessfully to silence the dog overlaid its barking.
The professor sprang away from me. ‘What’s this, a joke?’ he asked, in a voice halfway between alarm and amusement. ‘Or a bit of bad theatre?’
‘Padua, the seventies. One of your students . . .’
He stood up so he could see my face better. ‘Marvellous years. Girls flung themselves into my arms like bees diving into a flower.’
‘Naked-truth-telling.’
A hard light came into his eyes, rendering them opaque and extinguishing their bright flashes. ‘If you’re here to make accusations, let me tell you at once that you’ve come to the wrong place.’
‘No accusations.’
‘Then what do you want? Some compensation, some money? If that’s the reason, the most I can give you is a rug.’
‘I don’t need money, and I don’t want a rug.’
‘Then why, assuming that you really are my daughter, have you come all the way out here?’
‘Simple curiosity. I wanted to get to know you.’
‘Human beings can never completely know each other.’
‘But curiosity is an attribute of intelligence.’
‘
Touché!
’
The bus would be passing very soon. While I was putting on my jacket, he opened the front door and said, ‘Come back whenever you want. I’m always here in the afternoon. I often go out in the morning, so if you’re going to come then it’s best to call first.’
After that first time, I visited him once a week for three months. We often took walks along the beach. In the beginning, the bathing season was still far off, and on sunny days the strong-smelling clumps of algae rotting in the shallows along the shore attracted flocks of herring gulls, which were always on the lookout for food.
The water level varied greatly, in accordance with the tides. Sometimes, the fishermen-pensioners had to wade out almost to the horizon in order to find clams and scallops.
We frequently came across joggers, athletic young men or older, big-bellied fellows, dripping with sweat even in the middle of winter.
Often, during the milder days, we saw lovers sitting on the trunks of trees blown down by sea storms. On one such occasion, my father pointed to a couple locked in an embrace and said, ‘Do you know why lovers love to look at the sea? It’s because they’re convinced that their love is without end, like the horizon. In short, they gaze at an illusory line and superimpose on it an illusory sentiment.’
He missed no opportunity to
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