Time Ages in a Hurry (7 page)

– And meanwhile what do you do all day long, here under the umbrella, don’t you get bored?

– Not at all, said the man, I practice the art of
nefelomanzia.

The girl opened her eyes wide, made a face and then smiled. It was the first time she’d really smiled, showing little white teeth crossed by a metal thread.

– Is that a new invention?

– Oh no, he said, it’s a very ancient thing, imagine, Strabo talks about it, it has to do with geography, but you won’t study Strabo till
ginnasio
, in junior high you only study a bit of Herodotus as you did this year with your geography teacher, geography is a very ancient thing, dear Isabèl, it’s existed forever.

Isabella was watching him, doubtful.

– And what would this stuff consist of, what’s it called?

–
Nefelomanzia
, said the man, it’s a Greek word,
nefele
means cloud
and
manzia
, to foretell,
nefelomanzia
is the art of predicting the future by observing the clouds, or rather, the form of the clouds, because in this art, form is substance, and that’s why I’ve come on vacation to this beach, because a friend from the air force who deals with meteorology assured me that in the Mediterranean there’s no other coast like this one where clouds form on the horizon in an instant. And as quickly as they take shape they dissolve again, and it’s right in that instant that a real
nefelomant
must practice his art, to understand what the shape of a certain cloud foretells before the formation dissolves in the wind, before it transforms into transparent air and turns to sky.

Isabella had gotten to her feet, mechanically shaking the sand from her thin legs. She combed back her hair and threw a skeptical glance at the man, but her gaze was also full of curiosity.

– I’ll give you an example, said the man, sit in the chair next to mine, to study the clouds on the horizon before they vanish you need to sit and focus carefully.

He pointed toward the sea.

– Can you see that white little cloud, down there? Follow my finger, more to the right, near the promontory.

– I see it, said Isabella.

It was a little puff rolling in the air, very far away, in the lacquered sky.

– Watch carefully, said the man, and consider it, in
nefelomanzia
you need quick intuition but consideration is indispensable, don’t lose sight of it.

Isabella shaded her eyes with her hand. The man lit a cigarette.

– Smoking isn’t good for your health, said Isabella.

– Don’t worry about what I’m doing, think about the cloud, in this world there are lots of things that aren’t good for your health.

– It’s opened at the sides, exclaimed Isabella, as if it’s taken on wings.

– Butterfly, said the man confidently, and the butterfly has only one meaning, there’s no doubt.

– Which is? asked Isabella.

– People with existential disagreements stop having them, people separated will be reunited and their life will be gracious like the flight of a butterfly, Strabo, page twenty-six of the main book.

– What book is that? asked Isabella.

– The main book of Strabo, said the man, that’s the title, unfortunately it was never translated into modern languages, it’s only studied in the last semester of college because you can only read it in ancient Greek.

– Why was it never translated?

– Because modern languages are too hurried, said the man, in the haste to communicate they become synthetic and grow less precise, for instance ancient Greek uses the dual in conjugating verbs, we only have the plural, and when we say
we
, in this case you and I, we can also mean many people, but for the ancient Greeks, who were quite exact, if only you and I are doing or saying that thing, only a pair of us, the dual was used. For instance, the
nefelomanzia
of that cloud is
being done only by the two of us, only we know about it, and for this they had the dual.

– Really awesome, said Isabella, and let out a little shriek, putting a hand over her mouth, look at the other side, at the other side!

– It’s a cirrus, the man said, a beautiful baby cirrus that in a moment will be swallowed by the sky, ordinary people would mistake it for a nimbus, though a cirrus is a cirrus, too bad for them, and the form of a cirrus can’t have any other meaning but its own, which other clouds don’t have.

– Which is? asked Isabella.

– Depends on the shape, said the man, you have to interpret it, and here’s where I need you, otherwise what kind of
nefelomanti
are we?

– It seems to be splitting in two, said Isabella, look, it really is split in two, they seem like two little sheep trotting side by side.

– Two
cirrinus
lambs, without a doubt.

– I just don’t get it.

– It’s easy, said the man, the meek lamb by itself represents the evolutions of humankind, Strabo, page thirty-one of the main book, watch carefully, but when it splits, it becomes two parallel wars, one is just and the other unjust, they’re impossible to distinguish, which ultimately isn’t all that important to us, what matters is to understand how they’ll both end up, what their future holds.

Isabella glanced at him like someone awaiting an urgent response.

– A miserable end, I can assure you, dear Isabèl.

– Are you really sure? she asked in an anxious voice.

– You tell me, whispered the man, I’m closing my eyes now, you have to interpret them, watch them, be patient, but try to catch just the right moment, because after that you’ll be too late. The man closed his eyes, extended his legs, lowered a cap over his face, and remained still, as though falling asleep. Perhaps a minute passed, even more. Over the beach was a great silence, the bathers had gone to the restaurant.

– They’re flaking in a kind of
stracciatella
soup, said Isabella in a low voice, like when the trail of a jet breaks up, now you can hardly see them, how weird, I can hardly see them, you look too.

The man didn’t move.

– It’s not necessary, he said, Strabo, page twenty-four of the main book, he wasn’t ever wrong, two thousand years ago he prophesied the end of all war, but nobody up to now has fully grasped it, and today we’ve finally deciphered it on this beach, the two of us.

– You know you’re an awesome man? said Isabella.

– I’m perfectly aware of that, answered the man.

– I think it’s time to go to the restaurant, she went on, maybe my mom is already waiting at our table and she gets angry, can we keep talking this afternoon?

– I don’t know,
nefelomanzia
is a very tiring art, maybe this afternoon I’ll have to sleep, otherwise this evening I won’t even make it to dinner.

– Is this why you take so many pills? asked Isabella, because of the
nefelomanzia
?

The man raised the cap from his face and looked at her.

– And what do you think? he asked.

Isabella had gotten up, she stepped out of the circle of shade, her body shone in the sunlight.

– I’ll tell you tomorrow, she replied.

First of all, he would have told him that what he liked most about the new house was the view of the Unter den Linden, because this made him still feel at home. In other words, it was a house that made him feel at home, as when his life still meant something. And that he liked that he’d chosen Karl-Liebknecht-Strasse, because this too was a name that meant something. Or it used to. Hadn’t it? Of course it had, especially la Grande Struttura.

The tram stopped and the doors opened. People boarded. He waited till the doors closed again. Go ahead, go ahead, I’d prefer to walk, I’ll take a healthy stroll, the weather’s too nice not to. The light was red. He studied his reflection in the glass of the closed door, although a strip of rubber divided him in two. Divided in two is fine,
caro
, always divided in two, half here, half there, that’s life, life’s like that. But not bad at all: a handsome older man, white hair, an elegant jacket, Italian loafers from a downtown shop, the well-off look of a well-off person: the rewards of capitalism. He hummed:
tout est affaire de décor, changer de lit, changer de corps.
He knew quite a bit about that, yes, he’d spent a whole life in that mode. The tram left. He waved after it, as if waving good-bye to someone on board. Who was that person on the tram headed off to the Pergamon? He gave himself an affectionate pat on the cheek. Well, it’s you, my friend, it’s really you,
et à quoi bon, puisque c’est encore moi qui moi-même me trahis.
He softly sang the final lines of the stanza, his voice deep and slightly dramatic, like Léo Ferré used to do it. The boy waiting for the green light, sitting on his scooter with his Pizza Hut box, stared at him in wonder: an elegant old man singing like a lark at a tram stop, funny, no? Go on, young man, it’s green now, he waved the boy on, take your shit pizza to its destination, clear out, clear out, nothing to see here, just an old man humming the poems of Aragon, a faithful comrade from the good old days, he’s cleared out too, sooner or later we all clear out, even his Elsa’s eyes were dull now, good night Elsa’s eyes. He watched the tram turning onto Friedrichstrasse and waved good-bye to Elsa’s eyes. The cabdriver looked at
him, bewildered. So, he said, you getting in? The old man apologized: sorry, my mistake, I was saying good-bye to someone, I wasn’t waving to you. The cabdriver shook his head disapprovingly. Turkish, probably. This city’s full of Turks, Turks and Gypsies, they all pour in here, those bums, to do what? to beg, yes, to beg, poor Germany. Ah, and now he’s complaining too, the immigrant, the nerve of this guy. I told you you’ve got it wrong, he argued, voice rising, you’ve misunderstood, I was waving at someone else. I only asked if you needed help, the guy explained in broken German, excuse me, sir, do you need help? Do I need help? No, thank you, he answered crisply, thank you, I’m very well, young man. The cab drove off. Are you well? he asked himself. Of course he was well, it was a beautiful summer day, so rare in Berlin, maybe a little too hot. In fact, maybe a little too hot for his liking, and with the heat one’s blood pressure does tend to rise. No salted food and no exertion, the doctor had warned him, your pressure is borderline, it’s probably anxiety, is something worrying you, are you getting your rest, do you sleep well, do you have insomnia? Such questions. Of course he was sleeping well, how could a tranquil old man sleep badly when he had a nice bank account, a magnificent apartment in the center of the city, a vacation cottage in Wannsee, a lawyer son in Hamburg and a daughter married to the owner of a supermarket chain, come on, doctor. But the physician persisted: bad dreams, trouble sleeping, waking up startled? Yes, sometimes, doctor, but life is long, you know, and at a certain age you think back to people who aren’t there anymore, you look back, at the net pulled over us, this torn net, of those who were fishing, because
now they’ve all been fished themselves, you understand? I don’t understand, the physician said, so, can you sleep or not? Doctor, he wanted to tell that good man, what do you want from me at this point? I’ve played all the solitaire and vomited all the kirsch I could, and I stuffed all the books in the stove, doctor, and you expect me to be a sound sleeper? But instead he answered: when I sleep I sleep well, and when I don’t sleep I try to sleep. If you weren’t retired I’d say you were suffering from stress, declared the physician, but quite frankly that’s not possible, so your high blood pressure must be due to anxiety, you’re an anxious person even if you appear calm, take two of these pills before going to bed, avoid salted food, and you have to quit smoking.

He lit a cigarette, a nice, mild American cigarette. When he worked in la Grande Struttura there were people who would’ve denounced their parents for a pack of American cigarettes, and now the Americans, after having conquered the world, were deciding that smoking made you ill. Asshole doctor sold out to the Americans. He crossed Unter den Linden at Humboldt University and sat under the square umbrellas of the würstel kiosk. In line at the kiosk was a nice little Spanish family, dad, mom, and two teenagers, trays in hand. Tourists everywhere now. They weren’t sure how to pronounce the dish.
Kartoffeln
, the woman claimed. No, no, the husband objected, since they were fried you had to ask for
pommes
, in the French way. Clever, this Spaniard with his little mustache. Passing alongside the man he started whistling “Los cuatro generales.” The woman turned and looked at him, almost alarmed. He
pretended not to notice. Were they nostalgists or did they vote socialist? Who could tell. Ay Carmela, ay Carmela.

A sudden gust of wind swept napkins and empty cigarette packs off the ground. This happened often in Berlin: on a muggy day a sudden cold wind might send debris and moods whirling. As though it carried memories, nostalgia, lost sayings like this one: stormy weather and loyalty to principles. He felt a rush of rage. But what loyalty, he said aloud, what loyalty are you talking about, in your private life you’ve been more unfaithful than any man I know, I know everything about you, principles, sure, but which ones, those of the Party you’ve never wanted to know about, your wife you always cheated on, which principles are you ranting about, you fool? A little girl stopped in front of him. Her skirt dragged on the ground, she was barefoot. She pushed a piece of cardboard under his nose: I come from Bosnia, it read. Get lost, he told her, and smiled. The little girl smiled back and went away.

Maybe it was better to take a cab, he felt tired now. Who knew why he felt so tired, he’d spent the morning doing nothing, lounging around reading the paper. Newspapers make you tired, he said to himself, the news makes you tired, the world makes you tired. The world makes you tired because it’s tired. He headed toward the metal trash can and threw away an empty pack of cigarettes, then that day’s newspaper, he didn’t feel like keeping it in his pocket. He was a good citizen, he was, he didn’t like to dirty the city. But the city was already dirty. Everything was dirty. He said to himself: no, I’ll go on foot, I can control the
situation better. The situation, what situation? Well, the situation he was used to controlling at other times. Back then, yes, it was rewarding: your Target would walk ahead of you, unaware, calm, going about his business. You too, apparently, were going about your business, but not at all unaware, quite the opposite: from the photos they made you study, you knew each and every feature of your Target, you’d recognize him even in a theater audience, while he knew nothing about you, you were an anonymous face to him, like millions of other anonymous faces in the world, he went his way and going his own way he guided you, since you had to follow him. He was the compass for your route, you merely had to follow.