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Justification in the Form of a Note
Private obsessions; personal regrets eroded but not
transformed by time, like pebbles smoothed down by the
current of the river; incongruous fantasies and the inadequacy
of reality: these are the driving principles behind this book.
But I also can’t deny the influence one summer night of watching
a monk dressed in red while he sprinkled colored powder on the
bare stone and made me a Mandala of Consciousness. And on that
same night, finally getting to a short essay by Hölderlin, which I’d
been meaning to read and had carried around in my suitcase for
a month. Here’s what I underlined in the Hölderlin that night,
before the final phase of the moon: “The tragic-moderate weariness
of time, whose object is not in fact of interest to the heart,
follows the onrushing spirit of time most intemperately, and that
spirit then appears wild, not sparing mankind like a spirit by day,
but being relentless instead, like the spirit of the eternally living
unwritten wilderness and the world of the dead.” *
You might find it curious that a writer past fifty, who’s published
so many books, would still feel the need to justify his adventures
in writing. I find it curious myself. Probably, I haven’t resolved
this issue, if it’s a matter of feeling guilty towards the world or
simply not working through a loss. Naturally, other explanations
are also acceptable. I do want to point out, though, that on that
summer night, I happened to fly off to Naples with my imagination,
because in that distant sky, there was a full moon. And it
was a red moon.
A.T.
* Translated from the German by Shaun Whiteside.



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. Where’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.