Indian Nocturne by Antonio Tabucchi Page B

maybe it was luck.’
    ‘And what is this name?’
    ‘Nightingale,’ I said.
    ‘Nice name,’ said Christine. ‘Go on.’
    ‘Well, then obviously he manages to find out where I am, pretending he has some important business with me: someone tells him that I am in a luxury hotel on the coast, a place like
this.’
    ‘All righty,’ said Christine, ‘now you’d better tell the story really well: we’re on set.’
    ‘Right,’ I said, ‘you’ve got it: I’ll take this as the set. Let’s suppose that it’s an evening like this evening, warm and spicy, a first-class hotel,
by the sea, a big terrace with tables and candles, soft music, waiters who move about attentively, discreetly, the best food, naturally, with an international cuisine. I am sitting at a table with
a beautiful woman, a girl like yourself, with a foreign look to her; we are at a table on the opposite side to the one we’re sitting at now, the girl facing the sea, while I on the other hand
am looking toward the other tables. We are talking amicably, the woman laughs from time to time, you can see from her shoulders, exactly like yourself. At a certain point . . .’ I stopped
talking and looked across the terrace, my eye running over the people eating at the other tables. Christine had snapped her mint stick, she was holding it in a corner of her mouth as if it were a
cigarette, following intently. ‘At a certain point?’ she asked. ‘What happens at a certain point?’
    ‘At a certain point I see him. He’s at a table toward the back on the other side of the terrace. He’s sitting the same way I’m sitting, we are face to face. He’s
with a woman, too, but she has her back to me and I can’t see who she is. Perhaps I know her, or I think I know her, she reminds me of somebody, of two people even, she could be either of
them. But from a distance like this, with the light from the candles, it’s difficult to say for sure, and then the terrace is very big, just like this one. He probably tells the woman not to
turn round, he looks at me for a long time, without moving, he has a satisfied expression, he’s almost smiling. Perhaps he too thinks he recognises the woman I’m with, she reminds him
of someone, two people even, she could be either of them.’
    ‘In short, the man who was looking for you has managed to find you,’ said Christine.
    ‘Not exactly,’ I said, ‘it’s not quite like that. He has been looking at me for a long time, and now that he has found me he no longer has any desire to find me.
I’m sorry to split hairs but that’s how it is. And I have no desire to be found either. We both think exactly the same thing; we look at each other, but nothing more.’
    ‘And then?’ asked Christine, ‘what happens next?’
    ‘One of the two finishes drinking his coffee, folds his napkin, adjusts his tie, let’s suppose he has a tie, gestures to the waiter to come, pays his bill, gets up, politely draws
back the chair of the lady who’s with him and who gets up together with him, and goes. That’s it, the book is finished.’
    Christine looked at me doubtfully. ‘It seems rather a lame ending to me,’ she says, putting down her cup.
    ‘Right, it does to me too,’ I said, likewise putting down my cup, ‘but I can’t think of any other solution.’
    ‘End of story, end of meal,’ said Christine. ‘Both at the same time.’
    We lit cigarettes and I made a sign to the waiter. ‘Listen, Christine,’ I said, ‘you’ll have to excuse me but I’ve changed my mind, I’d like to buy you
dinner, I think I have enough money.’
    ‘No way,’ she protested, ‘the agreement was explicit, a friendly dinner and we both pay our own.’
    ‘Please,’ I insisted, ‘take it as an apology for having bored you so much.’
    ‘But I’ve enjoyed myself immensely,’ retorted Christine, ‘I insist on going halves.’
    The waiter came up to me and whispered something she couldn’t hear, then padded off in his