Manual of Painting and Calligraphy (14 page)

I showed Adelina my traveler’s tale, detached, of course, from the other pages coming before and after. I felt rather wicked as I smugly watched her reading it in front of me, calmly sitting there with her legs crossed, so self-assured, while I knew (the only person on earth to know) that on previous pages she was more than the figure visible to me and aware of herself, because she was something I alone manipulated, pulled toward me or pushed away, without her knowing it, without her so much as suspecting anything. I discovered that my feeling (or should I say impression?) was not merely mischievous but one of genuine malice, malevolence, ill will, something the slave master, a despot or the powerful owner of a plantation might have felt. I had good reason to feel embarrassed and fortunately felt ashamed of myself. I can lay Adelina naked on my bed, yet cannot bring myself to force my hand up her skirt.

“I had no idea you had a talent for writing.” Those were the words she used as she rested the papers on her lap. There was an expression of surprise in her eyes (do eyes have an expression, or is it because of what surrounds them, eyelashes, eyelids, eyebrows, wrinkles?) and an impending question mark, which I might have placed at the end of her sentence had I felt more certain. “I have decided to write an account of my travels until another commission turns up.” “It’s nicely written. Not that I understand much about writing, but in my opinion it’s good.” She paused and then, averting her eyes from mine, she added, “I don’t understand why you’ve called this article (it is an article, isn’t it?) ‘a first exercise in biography.’ How can a travel book be considered biography?” “I’m not sure that it can, I really don’t know, but I couldn’t find anything more interesting to write about.” “Either it’s a travel book or a genuine autobiography. In any case, why should you want to write your biography?”

Logic personified. I know my own feelings and susceptibilities play some part in this, but Adelina, though not normally aggressive, might just as well have asked me, “What could there possibly be in your life that is worth narrating?” I had no answer to give to either question, even less so had she remembered to add, “And to whom?” Therefore I seized the alternative which Adelina had earlier proposed: “Either it’s a travel book or an autobiography.” “I believe we reveal something of ourselves in everything we do and say, in our every gesture, in the way we sit, walk and observe, in the way we turn our head or pick up an object from the ground. This is what painting tries to do. Obviously I’m not talking about my own painting.” I saw Adelina blush: “Why not?” I took pity on her and broke off at once: “Well, in that case a travel book is just as good as a genuine autobiography. The problem is knowing how to read it.” “But anyone who reads a travel book knows what he is reading and it never occurs to him to look for anything else.” “Perhaps people ought to be warned. If they don’t need to be told that a picture has two dimensions rather than three, then they should not have to be warned that everything is biography, or, to be more precise, autobiography.” Adelina carefully assembled the sheets of paper and handed them to me: “You haven’t numbered the pages.” Of course I had not numbered them. I only copied them out to show her. I had no intention of coming clean. “What you’re saying is interesting, but I’m in no position to argue with you. It never dawned on me you had these ideas.” “What ideas?” “This business about writing and thinking about what you are writing. I only saw you as a painter.” “A bad one.” “I never said that.” “But it’s what you are thinking. It’s what everyone thinks.”

I suddenly found myself saying the wrong thing, something I had no intention of saying. Adelina had risen to her feet, was looking flushed again, as if I had offended her. And this impression was so strong that I felt I must apologize. She came up to me and said what she should have left unsaid—“Idiot”—and did what she should not have done: she patted me on the wrist (I have two wrists, so perhaps I should have specified which wrist Adelina patted, but apparently one does not explain these things in a narrative unless it is absolutely essential, for example, if my wrist were bruised and painful and I complained, because then it might be crucial for the rest of the plot, if I happened to be writing a narrative). I simply asked her, “Shall we go?” “Let’s go.” We had arranged to have dinner together and Carmo was to meet us at the restaurant, perhaps with Sandra, who, as Adelina, smiling without malice, informed me, “is sure to flirt with you.” “To amuse herself,” I suggested, paying no attention. Whereupon Adelina, as if thinking about something else, remarked, “People feel this need.” Uttered in all innocence, certain phrases coming from Adelina leave me intrigued. I would even go so far as to say that there is something irritating, barbed, sharp and abrasive about them, yet if written down none of this would show. When I hear them, I feel somewhat betrayed. It sounds as if she is threatening to leave me while I had always assumed that when the time came to split up she would be the one to suffer and not me, because I would be the one to take the initiative. As we walked downstairs, she went first and I followed behind. Listening to the tapping of her heels on the stairs, I went on repeating and pondering her words: “People feel this need.” What do people need when they come together? What are they, or what were they unwittingly looking for when they decided to separate? I realized that our little stroll together was almost over, not because I wanted it to end (always lost in thought and somewhat remote) but because she had become tired for some reason, one more reason why we should separate without delay, before enough time elapsed to warrant further explanations, increasingly futile and compelling, when all it needed was a simple and somewhat discreet gesture to put a period once there was nothing more to be said.

Already in the car, Adelina asked me, “When did you make that journey?” “About two years ago.” “Are you thinking of doing some more writing?” “It’s possible. I didn’t give it much thought when I began writing. But perhaps I’ll carry on.” We kept silent for a few moments. She returned to the subject: “You should try publishing your story in a newspaper. Or in some magazine.” Then she paused before adding, “But I suggest you get rid of that title about an exercise in biography. People won’t know what you mean.” That word “people” again. Such an odd expression. I decided to cut the conversation short. “One can never tell what people need or understand.” Out of the corner of my eye I saw Adelina turn her head in my direction. I heard or thought I heard her take a deep breath, as if determined to ask a serious question, but then I could feel or hear her relaxing and her expression became less bright as she turned her head away again. We said nothing more until we reached the restaurant.

Carmo and Sandra were already seated, poetically nibbling at fresh cheese and sipping wine. These friends of mine appreciate this kind of restaurant, popular
ma non troppo,
with floral-patterned tablecloths and tiled walls, a real family atmosphere with homely types doing the serving and cooking. Yet for some strange reason the clientele always has that civilized look which smacks of intellectualism and pretentious simplicity, a new way of giving the impression that one is cosmopolitan in an age when everyone either is or is on the way to becoming so. Carmo’s eyes were shining, his lips moist. Sandra was laughing as if greatly amused, but knowing her as well as I do, I could tell she was also furious at our late arrival while she sat there being seen with an old man. As we took our seats, I looked coldly at Carmo. I bear him no grudge, I even like him, but it is myself I detest as I look at him, and see what I shall look like in a few years, as old as him and with whom at my side? Whom will I amuse? What younger man, no matter how little the difference in our ages, will sit and stare at me like this? Sandra took over the conversation, interrupted Carmo in the middle of a sentence. The waiter arrived with the menu, we made our choice, settled down to enjoy our meal, the wine was from Alentejo and excellent. Peace be with us.

During dinner, Sandra, fickle as ever, started being sweet to Carmo. It is true that she kept giving me signs with her foot, but I am sure with no intention other than to make me watch her amusing herself as she flirted with Carmo. And my oldest friend (and certainly older than me), as the saying went in my childhood days, was in his seventh heaven. The rules of our frivolous little game demand that we should ask no questions when we are with friends spellbound by love: they will confide in us whenever they find it necessary, if they should find it necessary, because more often than not the hard facts fit into our daily routine without the need for any questions or explanations. In this case, the flirtation was simply a more serious replay of previous episodes. But Carmo probably had his own good reasons. In appearance he looked twenty years younger and seemed to be intoxicated by something other than wine. Lucky Carmo. If he can hold on to Sandra for at least a week, he will either die or pass into immortality.

Adelina asked, “Did you know that H. (which is my name here) is going to write about a journey he made in Italy two years ago?” Sandra politely said, “Really?” Surprised, but smiling, and resolutely happy, Carmo asked me, “Are you serious, old boy?” I looked at Adelina slowly, fixing her eyes with mine: “It didn’t seem worth mentioning.” “You do keep things very much to yourself. Among friends there is no need to be quite so secretive.” I raised my glass of wine, swayed a little: “I don’t like divulging my affairs. I’m among friends and wasn’t trying to be secretive. Or perhaps I was. It was something I had to resolve, but you’ve resolved it for me.” My words were unnecessarily brutal. I finally added, “But who cares.” Sandra jangled her bracelets to banish the shadow which had been cast over our table and asked Adelina, “Have you read it? Did you like it?” “Yes, very much.” Expressed with such simplicity, this judgment pleased me. My remorseful eyes caressed those of Adelina, but I suddenly flinched because something resembling a smile passed over her face, and whatever it was, it meant that she had stopped being on the defensive. It was then that Carmo, who was leaning toward me from the other side of the table (which allowed him to take advantage and rest on Sandra’s arm and left breast), blurted out, “Write your book and I’ll publish it.” I felt a kind of knot in my stomach, lodged near my solar plexus, and turned down Carmo’s offer: “Either you’re mad or downright stupid.” To which he replied, “I’m serious. Write your book and I’ll see that it gets published. I’ll even pay you royalties.” Of course Carmo was not going to lose the opportunity of publishing the work of the Hemingway sitting opposite him, he was not going to lose Sandra, he was not going to relinquish that arm and breast. I pursued the conversation. “You’re both mad. And if this is your idea of publishing, you’ll soon go bust. How do you know whether my book is any good? The fact that Adelina likes it means nothing. She is not one of your readers, and as far as I know, you have no trust whatsoever in your readers.” Carmo wisely accepted this reservation: “All right, then, I haven’t read it and I can’t really be sure if it’s any good. But once you’ve finished writing it, let me read the book, and if I’m sufficiently impressed I’ll keep my promise and publish it.” As if she were taking part in my little game, Sandra suddenly turned to Carmo and kissed his flushed cheek. The kisses we exchange are never taken very seriously, yet I am convinced that same night Carmo slept with Sandra for the very first time.

Second exercise in autobiography in the form of a chapter of a book. Title: The Venice Biennale.

Watching the film
Death in Venice,
I found myself mentally asking the director when he would decide to show, however fleetingly, at least one of the city’s “famous landmarks”: St. Mark’s Square, the Moors on the Clock Tower, the Campanile, Sansovino’s Loggetta, the Doge’s Palace, the façade and domes of the Basilica. But the film ran on and we reached the last reel without lapsing even once into the facile picturesque. Why? I left the question in midair, expecting to find an answer one day. Never expecting it to come so soon.

On my first visit to Venice I used my time to explore the city’s epidermis, scrupulously fixing my feet and eyes where millions of other people had already fixed theirs. For this ingenuous lack of originality let the man who has committed no greater crime punish me by casting the first stone. But on this occasion, once I had revisited all the familiar places and confirmed the incomparable attractions of Venice for tourists, I decided to turn my back on the coastal splendors of the Grand Canal and probe the interior of the city. I deliberately shunned the open spaces and allowed myself to wander without map or itinerary through the most tortuous and deserted streets (or
calli
) until I found myself in the obscure heart of a city prepared to reveal itself at last. And this was when I presumed (and still presume) to have understood Visconti’s conception: if by some magical spell all the salient features of Venice were suddenly to be removed, the city would lose nothing of its unique fascination. The film
Death in Venice
is set in the only authentic Venice: a city of silence and shadows, with that black fringe imprinted on façades by the water in the canals and that all-pervading stench of dampness which no amount of sunshine can remove. Of all the cities I know, Venice is the only one that is manifestly dying; she knows it and, being a fatalist, is not unduly concerned.