Two Stories

The short stories “The Cheshire Cat” (“Il gatto dello Cheshire”), “Wanderlust” (“Vagabondaggio”), and “A Day in Olympia” (“Una giornata a Olimpia”) by Antonio Tabucchi are found in the collection Il gioco del rovescio, published in a second edition by Feltrinelli Editore in 1988 (reprinted in 1991). Newly added to the Feltrinelli edition, these three racconti were not part of an earlier edition of the volume published by Il Saggiatore. Since the English translation of Il gioco del rovescio, entitled Letter from Casablanca: Stories (New Directions, trans. Janice M. Thresher), was based on the Il Saggiatore edition, it does not include these three stories. As far as I can determine, the two translations published here mark their first appearance in English. Both stories will also apppear in a collection published by Archipelago Books. “A Day in Olympia” remains unpublished at this time.

A certain kindred spirit attends each of these, a nameless protagonist, musings on Time, a tendency to leave the reader hanging, wanting to know more, and a sense of equivocal uncertainty. The theme of Time, which the author once described as “our existential roommate,” occurs frequently in Tabucchi’s works. In “The Cheshire Cat,” the protagonist comes face-to-face with Time when confronted with the prospect of meeting, after many years, a woman he once loved. And the vagabond hero of “Wanderlust” is driven by a sense of Time evaporating, a limited Time ticking away, restricting what can be experienced in life. In each story there is a feeling of impotence before Time’s inexorable march as well as an aura of nostalgia, longing, and regret.

A sense of enigma also shapes these stories; their cryptic, inscrutable quality entices and beguiles. Stephen Koch once described Tabucchi’s voice as having “this trait above all: it would rather die than tell us what it is saying.” Ever elusive, Time is a mystery, a constant companion whose face we cannot see or know. As Saint Augustine observed, “the present, should it always be present, and never pass into time past, verily it should not be time, but eternity” (Confessions, XIV, trans. Edward B. Pusey).

• The Cheshire Cat
• Anne Milano Appel (bio)

1

In the first place, it wasn’t true. Let’s just say palpitations instead, even though palpitations are merely a symptom, and so. But not fear, no, he told himself, how stupid, it’s simply excitement, that’s all. He opened the window and looked out. The train was slowing down. The overhanging roof of the station platform quivered in the torrid air. A scorching heat, but if it’s not hot in July, when will it be? He read the sign for Civitavecchia, lowered the window shade, heard voices, then the stationmaster’s whistle and doors slamming shut. He thought that if he pretended he was asleep, no one would enter the compartment. He closed his eyes and said: I don’t want to think about it. And then he said: I have to think about it, this thing doesn’t make sense. But why, do things ever make sense? Maybe they do, but an undisclosed sense, that you understand later on, much later, or that you don’t understand, but they have to make sense: a sense of their own, of course, that at times has nothing to do with us, even if it seems to. For example, the phone call. “Hello Cat, it’s Alice, I’m back, I can’t explain now, I have only a couple of minutes to leave you a message.” (A few seconds of silence.) “. . . I have to see you, I absolutely must see you, it’s what I want most now, I’ve thought about it constantly these past years.” (A few seconds of silence.) “How are you, Cat, do you still laugh that way? Sorry, that’s a stupid question, but it’s so hard to talk and know that your voice is being recorded, I must see you, it’s very important, please.” (A few seconds of silence.) “The day after tomorrow, July 15, at 15:00 hours, Grosseto station, I’ll...