Tirade

(excerpt from ‘Isola Madra’)

Have you watered the trees yet? They’re thirsty and will otherwise keep their fruits to themselves. The Germans brought us to our knees, but do you really think we’ll just hand over the cork and the olives? I’d sooner eat turkey for an entire year. They may brag about their successful conquests, but they will never possess me. I, after all, own a plantation with coffee beans from Colombia. Does that grow here? With enough love, I daresay it does.

Have they even signed their contracts? Uncle Fascia’s lax attitude leads to loss of face. Not a single hair on my head will let itself be touched by such a swine from the north. And yet… of course, I adore sweethearts, and there are such people. Are we too vain — will we go down the same path if we keep to ourselves?

Mr. Gismonti has joined the Third Battalion after burning the rebate register of Isla Normandia.

What can we do if the rocks refuse to meddle? Could we not entice them with the beauty of our beaches? No, I’d sooner sell my body — it’s much younger and, though alive, far less valuable than what reveals itself to us all.

Do you still have Antonella’s letters? Who even remembers her? Have you seen her recently? From afar? Doesn’t seem enough, since her green eyes alone betray her condition. This condition analysis is crucial, as we’ll soon have to submit our satisfaction survey. Before long, we’ll be forced to drink seawater!

It’s very important to deceive figures like Gismonti and Antonella. We must make them believe the enemy wishes to devour us with love. We must tell them about the hidden sewers of Isola and about the possibility of forgiveness for all our past sins from the admittedly bribed priest of Carniere. Only thus can one keep them near — by lying to them and deceiving them. They must not be allowed to leave.

Turn off the lights and come with me, Marie. They’ve released the bloodhounds on the beach. Do you think they’ll find the manganese? They can’t swim — how could they dive? Still, I suspect the existence of an accessible cave where the riches of the deep sea have already been stored.

Ask Rudolf Mühlhausen, the new draftsman from Livorno, whether he bases his work on what Mondrian is currently up to in America.

You don’t need to sing for me, Marie. Just whisper, and whatever you spread — true or false — may be erotic. Don’t stoop to raising your voice; don’t tire us from an imaginary stage. Speak to me in bed, where only the sun is a witness.

Near Livorno there’s a village called Pilat. I’ve just heard that a truckload of carrots overturned there this morning. The supply is now being eaten by the local fauna. It delights me when such things happen, though I can’t explain exactly why. Forgive me.

Will you forgive me if my mouth dries up, if I’ve trimmed my nails, and no longer abuse my power over you? Will you then merely tolerate the calm sight of the sea, or try again with me? You may forget me, Marie, but promise me you’ll keep my tirades safe — if necessary, with a caring third party.

You see: the tiles are warming up, the grass is in bloom. In Switzerland, the glaciers are melting — and what happens here? Time stands still and the sleeping lands are being occupied. Are you also eagerly awaiting the visit of Modigliani? Forgive me, that was a bad joke, but that’s how I show you my vulnerable side: silliness is allowed, and so is the body’s lethargy, as long as we escape the dance.

I bless you, darling, for having visited me once. Was I waiting for you when you, unseen and unheard, touched my cheek? Of course you had to start talking again about Paolo’s finances. That man isn’t good for you; he’s parked his horse and cart and run off with the cat. You deserve better, even if he still brings you flowers when you’re up to your neck in water. Flowers? A flock of ducks would be better.

Explanation? Setting? Rhetoric? None of it will help you stop thinking. Better sit down and serve the words — however businesslike their usual habitat — on the plate. Someone will eat them, someone who loves surprises.