Tristano Dies Read Online Free PDF Page A

like calling her today, just
girl
, they wound up at a sort of pensione, by accident, everything in life happens byaccident, at times I think even free will is just an accident … how strange, can you believe that I remember exactly what we ate –
cacciucco
– fish stew – and I can’t remember if we made love, but he suggested to her that she pose like the origin of the world, that’s the truth, the proof’s in that sorry photo, it was a late summer afternoon, the light was low, beautiful; Rosamunda, Tristano said, let’s do the origin of the world … but for them there was no origin of the world, they didn’t originate a damn thing, a sterile love, I’d say, with no transmission of the flesh … well, it’s better that way, besides … This water’s warm, I told you the faucets are reversed, cold water’s on the right, and next time, put in the straw that’s there on the nightstand, otherwise I drench the sheet, see, I can’t really swallow, I can’t lap up water like a dog … I was telling you about Frau, last Sunday she read me a poem, seemed like a nice one … Last night I had a good dream, I entered the origin of the world … but whose?… bring me a little more water, but get the straw … dreams are pretty wretched miracles … I’ve never believed in real miracles … the real ones are illusions … especially dreams. Sunday was the day before yesterday, right? – I’ve lost track of time – there’s Frau, knocking quietly like she used to seventy-five years ago, now, it’s poetry time, young sir. She sits down, opens a book … Sunday … Frau understands Sundays, she’s one of those people in life who understands Sundays, she tries to clear her voice, which isn’t possible, by now she sounds like a bellows, she puffs when she speaks, emphysema, the doctor was clear about that, but she pretended not to understand, Frau’s incredible, if you tell hersomething she doesn’t like, then she makes sure she’s a German just off the boat, she sneaks cigars, smokes them, hiding out in the vineyard, Agostino’s nephew told me, he does the tilling, which is useless in that diseased vineyard; professor, sir, he says, madam Frau will sit under the poplar at the back of the vineyard, and she’ll smoke three Toscano cigars, one after the other, every day she’s there, from three to five, I thought you should know – it’s a bit shocking. And what’s she doing while she smokes? I asked. Nothing, Agostino’s nephew says, staring off into the distance, looking lost; I walked right past her and she didn’t even notice, or she pretended not to. She must be thinking back to when she was a girl in Germany, I told him; don’t you ever think back to when you were a child? – sure you do, but it’s easier because you’re at home and you were a child here, so don’t concern yourself with her, let her smoke all the cigars she wants, even people who don’t have anyone have to think about someone … I heard a buzzing, something on my face, must be that big fly. Maybe if you cracked the shutters, it could find its way out, but just a crack now – too much light – that light seems to make my leg hurt even more … Frau read me a poem by a poet I don’t know, must be a poetess instead of a poet, right? – if the poet’s female she’s a poetess, right? – oh, it doesn’t matter – young sir, she tells me, Sunday’s poem, and she begins … this quiet dust. I know that one by heart, I said, it’s American, and has always filled me with regret. No, she says, this one’s Italian, it just has the same title, but it’s already five to five, we’re ten minutes late … Renate, I said, how on earth is it possible, you’rereally something, so much time’s gone by since we were children, all the time in the world, and everything time brings with it, hunger, war and famine, our own disasters, and especially the dead, everyone’s dead, Renate, we’re the only