A metaphysical detective story about love and existence from the Italian master, Antonio Tabucchi. When Tadeus sets out to find Isabel, his former love, he soon finds himself on a metaphysical journey across the world, one that calls into question the meaning of time and existence and the power of words.
Isabel disappeared many years ago. Tadeus Slowacki, a Polish writer, her former friend and lover, has come back to Lisbon to learn of her whereabouts. Rumors abound: Isabel died in prison under Salazar's regime, or perhaps wasn't arrested at all. As Tadeus interviews one old acquaintance of hers after the next, a chameleon-like portrait of a young, ideological woman emerges, ultimately bringing Tadeus on a metaphysical journey across the continent. Constructed in the form of a mandala, For Isabel is the spiraling search for an enigma, an investigation into time and existence, the power of words, and the limits of the senses. In this posthumous work Tabucchi creates an ingenious narration, tracing circles around a lost woman and the ultimate inaccessible truth.
A metaphysical detective story about love and existence from the Italian master, Antonio Tabucchi. When Tadeus sets out to find Isabel, his former love, he soon finds himself on a metaphysical journey across the world, one that calls into question the meaning of time and existence and the power of words.
Isabel disappeared many years ago. Tadeus Slowacki, a Polish writer, her former friend and lover, has come back to Lisbon to learn of her whereabouts. Rumors abound: Isabel died in prison under Salazar's regime, or perhaps wasn't arrested at all. As Tadeus interviews one old acquaintance of hers after the next, a chameleon-like portrait of a young, ideological woman emerges, ultimately bringing Tadeus on a metaphysical journey across the continent. Constructed in the form of a mandala, For Isabel is the spiraling search for an enigma, an investigation into time and existence, the power of words, and the limits of the senses. In this posthumous work Tabucchi creates an ingenious narration, tracing circles around a lost woman and the ultimate inaccessible truth.
Paperback(Translatio)
-
SHIP THIS ITEMTemporarily Out of Stock Online
-
PICK UP IN STORE
Your local store may have stock of this item.
Available within 2 business hours
Related collections and offers
Overview
A metaphysical detective story about love and existence from the Italian master, Antonio Tabucchi. When Tadeus sets out to find Isabel, his former love, he soon finds himself on a metaphysical journey across the world, one that calls into question the meaning of time and existence and the power of words.
Isabel disappeared many years ago. Tadeus Slowacki, a Polish writer, her former friend and lover, has come back to Lisbon to learn of her whereabouts. Rumors abound: Isabel died in prison under Salazar's regime, or perhaps wasn't arrested at all. As Tadeus interviews one old acquaintance of hers after the next, a chameleon-like portrait of a young, ideological woman emerges, ultimately bringing Tadeus on a metaphysical journey across the continent. Constructed in the form of a mandala, For Isabel is the spiraling search for an enigma, an investigation into time and existence, the power of words, and the limits of the senses. In this posthumous work Tabucchi creates an ingenious narration, tracing circles around a lost woman and the ultimate inaccessible truth.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780914671800 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Steerforth Press |
| Publication date: | 09/05/2017 |
| Edition description: | Translatio |
| Pages: | 144 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.40(w) x 6.10(h) x 0.60(d) |
About the Author
Antonio Tabucchi was born in Pisa in 1943 and died in Lisbon in 2012. A master of short fiction, he won the Prix Médicis Étranger for Indian Nocturne, the Italian PEN Prize for Requiem: A Hallucination, the Aristeion European Literature Prize for Pereira Declares, and was named a Chevalier des Arts et des Lettres by the French Government. Together with his wife, Maria José de Lancastre, Tabucchi translated much of the work of Fernando Pessoa into Italian. Tabucchi's works include The Flying Creatures of Fra Angelico, The Woman of Porto Pim, Time Ages in a Hurry, and Tristano Dies (all from Archipelago).
Elizabeth Harris’s translations from Italian include Mario Rigoni Stern's novel Giacomo's Seasons (Autumn Hill Books), Giulio Mozzi's story collection This Is the Garden (Open Letter Books), and Antonio Tabucchi's novel Tristano Dies (Archipelago Books). Her awards include a 2013 PEN/Heim Translation Fund Grant and the 2016 National Translation Award for Prose, both for Tabucchi’s Tristano Dies. A professor of creative writing for many years, Harris now translates full-time. She lives with her family in a small town in Wisconsin, along the Mississippi.
Read an Excerpt
For Isabel
A Mandala
By Antonio Tabucchi, Elizabeth Harris
archipelago books
Copyright © 2017 Antonio TabucchiAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-914671-80-0
CHAPTER 1
First Circle. Mónica. Lisbon. Evocation.
I'd never been to Tavares in my entire life. Tavares is the fanciest restaurant in Lisbon, with nineteenth-century mirrors and velvet chairs; the cuisine is international, but they also serve typical Portuguese dishes, though delicately prepared: you might order clams and pork, for instance, what you'd get in Alentejo, and you'll wind up with something more like a Parisian dish, or so I'd been told. But I'd never been, I'd just heard about it. I took a bus to Intendente. The square was full of whores and pimps. It was late afternoon, I was early. I went to an old café I knew, a café with billiard tables, and I started watching a game. An old man with only one leg was leaning on a crutch while he played; his eyes were bright, his hair kinky and grey, and he was hitting pins like there was no tomorrow, he cleaned everybody's clock in the place, then sat down and slapped his belly like he'd just had a good meal.
You want to play, my friend? he asked. No, I answered, I'm sure I'd lose. If you want, though, we could play for a little port, I could use an aperitif, but I'd be glad to offer you one, if you'd prefer. He looked at me and smiled. Your accent's strange, he said, you a foreigner? Somewhat, I answered. ^^ere're you from? he asked. Outside Sirius, I said. I don't know that town, he said, what country's it in? The Great Dog, I said. Huh, he said, so many new countries in the world these days. He scratched his back with his cue. So what's your name? he asked. Waclaw, I answered, but that's just what I was baptized, my friends call me Tadeus. His suspicious look disappeared, and he gave me a wide grin. Then you're baptized, he said, so you're Christian, let me offer you a drink, what'll you have? I told him a white port, and he called the waiter over. I know what you need, the man went on, you need a woman, a beautiful African woman, eighteen years old, good price, practically a virgin, just came yesterday from Cape Verde. No thanks, I said, I have to be going soon, I'll be getting a taxi, I have an important appointment tonight, I don't have time for girls right now. He stared at me, puzzled. Hmm, he said, so what're you looking for around here? I lit a cigarette and was quiet a moment. I'm looking for a woman, too, I said, and I'm going around asking about her, I just stopped in here to pass the time, because I have an appointment with a lady who can give me some information, and I want to hear what she has to tell me; actually, I'd better go, there's a taxi free at the stand, I'd better hurry. Wait a second, he said, why're you looking for this woman – do you need her? Maybe, I answered, you might say I lost track of her and I've come from the Great Dog just to look for her, I'd like to know more about her, and that's why I have this appointment. And where is this appointment? he asked. In the most elegant restaurant in Lisbon, I told him, a place full of mirrors and crystal, I've never been, I suppose it'll cost quite a bit, but I'm not the one paying, what can I say, my friend, I'm here on leave, I barely have a coin to my name, so I'd better accept the invitations of others. Is it a fascist place? the old man asked. I couldn't say, I answered, to be honest I never really thought about it in those terms.
I rose quickly, said goodbye, and left. The taxi was still at the stand. I slipped inside and said: good evening, Tavares, please.
We met at the Escravas do Amor Divino boarding school for girls in Lisbon. We were sixteen years old. Isabel was a legend for the entire class because she'd attended the French high school. In that period, you know, the French high school was a place of resistance, all the teachers who taught there couldn't find positions at the public schools because of their anti-fascist beliefs, and going to the French school meant that you knew the world, that you went on field trips to Paris, that you were connected to Europe. We, instead, were from the public high school, a real shithole – pardon the expression – where you studied the Salazarista corporative constitution and the rivers of Portugal and you divided the national poem, The Lusiads, into stupid sections, it's a beautiful poem about the sea, but you wound up studying it like some African battle. Because there were colonies back then. But they weren't called colonies; they were called Overseas. Nice name, don't you think? And some people had grown rich from Overseas, I have to say that was normal for the families of those girls at the boarding school, all seasoned Salazarists, real fascists, but not our parents, I mean mine and Isabel's, another reason, maybe, why we became friends, because our families had this in common. She came from an old Portuguese family that had nothing to do with Salazarism, a family in decline, with property up north, in Amarante, where they make bread in the strangest shapes, but like I said, it was a family with no money or power, their lands up north had all been entrusted to tenant farmers or land agents, with no returns. We spent a few summer vacations, Isabel and I, in their house in Amarante. It wasn't a house, it was a Medieval stone tower, filled with heirlooms and coffers, that overlooked the river, and we were happy there. Those summers were beautiful, back then. Isabel wore a straw hat. Her oval face was even lovelier under this funny hat someone in the family had brought back from Tuscany. And then she'd paint. She was convinced she'd be a painter, and she painted windows. Windows with shutters closed, windows with shutters open, windows with curtains, windows with iron bars, but always windows like those found in Douro or Minho, with their beautiful wooden frames, and often lace curtains. But she never included human beings, they ruin the mystery, she said, see, this window I'm painting is so mysterious with no one there, but if I put in the person who'd be at that window, the mystery would vanish, it's the veterinarian in Amarante, he has a goatee and wears a hairnet while he's sleeping to keep his hair in place, just imagine, he stands by the window and does knee bends, you know, yesterday, while I was painting his window, he showed up and just stood there all stiff at the windowsill, pretending he didn't see me but of course he did see me, he just gazed up toward the heavens, looking inspired, apparently extremely proud to be in my painting, but screw him – I'm not putting him in. And then we'd go for a walk. Just outside Amarante, the river creates channels of still water where frogs breed. We'd spend our mornings fishing for frogs, but in Portugal, people don't know how to fish for frogs because no one eats them, and we came up with a system like boys use for catching lizards. We tied a slip knot in a rush blade, slowly brought the loop over a frog's head, and when it got ready to jump – plop – we caught it. Back then there weren't plastic bags, so we used a mesh bag, the kind for groceries, and the frogs would poke their heads through the mesh, and we were quite the sight, me in my trousers and Isabel in her straw hat from Florence, while we strolled through Amarante carrying our bagful of frogs. People thought we were nuts, which we enjoyed, because at that age you enjoy such things. We'd kill the frogs in the evening, and this became my job, because Isabel refused. Their heads have to be cut off with a quick slice of the knife, and for a few minutes, they kick their legs, headless, as long as their life force continues. Listen, Isabel would say, someday if I kill myself, I think I'll go just like this, with a few kicks, because if you can't cut off your own head, you can always hang yourself, which is something similar, four kicks into empty air, and goodnight everybody. We cooked the frogs' legs à la Provençal, the way Isabel liked them, because during her time at the French school she'd been to France, to Arles, and she'd eaten frogs' legs à la Provençal, with garlic and parsley, and she said it was the best dish in the world. But we soon grew tired of eating frogs' legs à la Provençal. Those disturbing little legs, so white and so delicate, almost tasteless, while the rest of the family was eating roast kid and egg soups. And at that age, we had a good appetite. Sure, it's easy to mythologize exotic food eaten in Provence, but then you get hungry. And so we started setting the frogs free in the garden, and the garden grew full of frogs, they were everywhere, in the grass, the bushes, the goldfish pond, the clumps of bamboo. Luckily Isabel's parents had a sense of humor, they didn't mind that invasion, they were always cheerful, open-minded, understanding. Then they died in a car accident, but that's another story, no, it's the same story. Fridays, we went to Barcelos, which had the most beautiful market in the whole region. Maybe you can't picture how beautiful the small-town markets were back then. Or maybe you can. We caught an early-morning bus to Braga, then another from there to Barcelos. The bus arrived around noon. Time enough to wander a little and look at the terracotta ceramics, you know, in Barcelos they make painted terracotta roosters, the symbol of Portugal, and all sorts of other little ceramic things, dolls, typical figurines, nativity sets, musical bands, cats, pitchers, and decorative plates, and then it was time for lunch. We always picked cheap places, taverns filled with regular customers and market vendors. Little old men and little old ladies who came from all over Minho, one looking for a chicken, one wanting to buy a gosling or cow, the quaintest were the brokers, who wore neckerchiefs and drank young wine, they were marvelous, even at their table they acted like they were at the market, screaming, rolling up their sleeves, sweating. It was hot, in Barcelos, and in the tavern, you'd smell the mix of food and the stink of animals off the square, it was beautiful and new for Isabel and me, two girls who spent the year in a city like Lisbon, and we were thrilled; we were fascinated by the brokers, wanted to buy something ourselves, and one day we bought a kid, a sweet little creature, black and white, with spots on his muzzle and delicate legs; we rode home on the bus with him in a large basket, and because he wasn't weaned, for a time we fed him milk from a bottle. We put him in the garden, made him a leaf hut, and in the mornings, when we went shopping in Amarante, we led him around on a leash. I can't begin to describe the looks we got, me in my trousers and Isabel in her straw hat from Florence, no bag of frogs now, just a little goat on a leash, and what's more, at the bakery, Isabel wanted to buy that bread in the shape of a male organ, like they make in Amarante, only it's the servants who buy that bread for making canapés, and we bought it just to get attention, and we stuffed our bag full of these loaves, it was scandalous, everyone staring at us, even that fitness fanatic of a veterinarian wouldn't show up at the window anymore. In other words, it was a hoot. And then the summers ended. They ended because we wound up at the university. No, really, because Isabel's parents had died. Like I said, they died in a car accident. On Povoa de Varzim Road, after lunch, after Isabel's papa had a lot to eat and drink. No one knows who was to blame, because it was a head-on collision. But I think Isabel's papa had drunk too much, because I knew him, he liked to drink. They didn't die right away. They were in a coma for three days then died at the same time, he and his wife. Funny, don't you think? Both of them going into a coma and then dying at the same time because there was nothing else to do: the heart stops beating and that's when the doctors pull out the tubes. But that's what happened. Isabel and I spent three days and three nights at the hospital in Oporto, in the intensive care unit. The nurse let us sleep in a side-room, and now and then we'd slip into their rooms. Papa, Papa, it's me, Isabel would say, Mama, do you hear me? – do you remember the frogs we brought back to the house in Amarante, me and my friend, Monica, look, we want to get more next summer, come on, Mama, wake up, come out of this goddamned coma, I want you to smile at me, to tell me what to wear, like before, to scold me parce que je ne suis pas parfaite the way you'd like, I need you to, Mama. But her mama didn't scold her anymore and neither did her father. They died together, like I told you, in the exact same hour, and we arranged the funeral. Isabel had them buried in the same shrine, in a village cemetery out in the countryside surrounding Amarante. ^^en we went to the funeral, it was a beautiful, warm, sunny October day. Isabel was dressed in dark blue and I wore a beige dress that made me look older than her. You see? Isabel said when we got back from the cemetery, they went away, and you know what, Mónica, it's over now, no more summers with frogs, no more eating out in Barcelos, childhood's over, they're gone now, I'm an orphan, and I think you're something of an orphan yourself. And I did feel like I was something of an orphan myself. Because Isabel's parents were real parents, what mine never were. My father was always off on trips in his Mercedes-Benz, away on business, like we'd say at home, and my mother had her own friends and engagements. And so I was left feeling like something of an orphan myself. The walks to the river, the old house in Amarante, the dream summers: all over. We met again at the university, but it wasn't the same. I was majoring in classics, a choice which, in the ideological division that existed then at the University of Lisbon, was considered conservative. And it's true: the classics students didn't do anything, they never called any meetings, they never even went to the cafeteria, where most real discussions took place. Isabel majored in modern languages, and that major, yes, that one had some life to it. One professor taught a course on Camus and existentialism, another, a course on surrealism in Portugal, and there were even poets from that illustrious movement who came and read their work, I can't remember who anymore, but they were well-known, and it was a real triumph, the assembly hall was packed, I remember Isabel, who'd become a leader and introduced the poets to the students, there were even kids sitting on the floor, not that those poets spoke out directly against fascism, this just wasn't possible, but their poems were nonconformist, in some ways, revolutionary, revolutionary in quotes, though, because back then, everything was in quotes. Isabel stepped onto the stage in her pink scarf, and this too was a sign: back then, you couldn't use red, you had to use a color tied to red, and that was a sign. It felt strange seeing Isabel again, up on the stage in that assembly hall; she spoke with ease, maybe a slight nervous inflexion to her voice, she read her biographical notes on the poets, and she said: two free-verse poets who honor us, because today free-verse is banished. And a thunderous applause broke out, one of the poets rose to his feet and read a surrealist poem mocking bourgeois values, and the audience went crazy, then the other poet went up and read an homage to Garcia Lorca, murdered by the fascists – you might laugh today, but back then, something like this was a great political event, you probably know this better than me, Portugal was a country forgotten by Europe and forgetful of Europe, we were closed off on a dead-end street, in a sort of moldering monastery whose sexton was Antonio de Oliveira Salazar. And everything unfolded as in a monastery: conventions, habits, rituals, when kids got together in someone's home, subdued, melancholy gatherings. Sometimes Isabel would organize fado castigo sessions in her home, I mean the aristocratic fado, as you know, and this too was one of Isabel's contradictions, meetings with revolutionaries at the university and aristocratic fados at home, but I liked those sessions, I went to some, I remember Thereza de Noronha showed up one time – for us she was a legend – she came from an old aristocratic family and sang old fados in a proud voice, Isabel would light the candles on the table in the living room, there was port for everyone, and we listened solemnly to the singer, the aristocratic fadista, a shawl covering her shoulders, all of us there, in veneration, around the candles and the port. We were celebrating a rite and we all knew it, and meanwhile the world kept rushing along, the world outside, but in those gatherings of hers, we didn't seem to notice. Isabel wore mauve-colored sweaters crocheted by her nanny, who'd remained with her, an elderly lady who was once her wet nurse, she took the place of Isabel's parents, she came from Beira Baixa and still had a strong provincial accent in spite of all her years in Lisbon, she's the one who knows everything about Isabel, she was close to Isabel during her most difficult years, such devotion, but I think I might be rambling, am I rambling?
(Continues...)
Excerpted from For Isabel by Antonio Tabucchi, Elizabeth Harris. Copyright © 2017 Antonio Tabucchi. Excerpted by permission of archipelago books.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.