Sulle tracce di Antonio Tabucchi
Erano anni che non leggevo un libro di Tabucchi. Troppi anni, forse. Oggi ero in barca verso l’isola di Apo per fare delle immersioni. Ho aperto un libro di Tabucchi che ho comprato l’ultima volta che sono stato in Italia. Mi aveva attratto il titolo: Viaggi e altri Viaggi; ma soprattutto una frase nella nota d’introduzione:
‘Ma, a conti fatti, ho viaggiato molto, lo ammetto; ho visitato e ho vissuto in molti altrove. E lo sento come un grande privilegio, perché posare i piedi sul medesimo suolo per tutta la vita può provocare un pericoloso equivoco, farci credere che quella terra ci appartenga, come se essa non fosse in prestito, come tutto e’ in prestito nella vita’
Ecco, ho pensato, io non voglio che una terra mi appartenga e neppure voglio appartenere ad una terra, una terra sola. Voglio appartenere, aiutato dai ricordi, a tante terre, a molti altrove.
Il mare era calmo. Le nuvole basse non promettevano la bella giornata di sole che alla fine abbiamo avuto. Mentre il profilo di Apo diventava più chiaro, ho scorso i titoli dei tanti brevi capitoli che compongono questo libro e sono subito andato a pagina 82: Kyoto. Città della Calligrafia.
E’ un capitolo breve, di sole tre pagine, che raccoglie il ricordo della città che visiterò per la prima volta tra due settimane. Tabucchi descrive la sua visita in un negozio che vende vari tipi di carta di riso sui quali, una volta scelta la carta preferita, viene scritto con l’inchiostro nero un ideogramma. Tabucchi parla dei boschi di Ohara appena fuori Kyoto. Parla della scelta che il viaggiatore può fare tra la bellezza barocca del Padiglione d’oro descritto da Mishima or la sobrietà dei templi buddisti dove riposa lo scrittore Tanizaki.
Ho alzato gli occhi verso Apo. Mancavano pochi minuti al nostro arrivo e alcuni dei passeggeri stavano già armeggiando con le bombole, maschere, e le pinne. Ho pensato che tra due settimane sarò a Kyoto sulle tracce del sogno che ho sempre avito di vistare il Giappone. Un po’ anche sulle tracce di Tabucchi. Anzi, di nuovo sulle tracce di Antonio Tabucchi. Come nel 1990, quando con quattro amici siamo partiti per l’India. Avevamo tutti letto Notturno Indiano e chi lasciavamo guidare, quando il nostro inglese non era granché, dalla stessa guida Lonely Planet che sfoglia il protagonista all’inizio del libro, mentre percorre su un taxi di colore nero, Marine Drive a Bombay.
The Boss eulogy for his lifetime friend Clarence Clemons
This is a slightly revised version of the eulogy I delivered for Clarence at his memorial. I’d like to thank all our fans and friends who have comforted us over the past difficult weeks.FOR THE BIG MAN
I’ve been sitting here listening to everyone talk about Clarence and staring at that photo of the two of us right there. It’s a picture of Scooter and The Big Man, people who we were sometimes. As you can see in this particular photo, Clarence is admiring his muscles and I’m pretending to be nonchalant while leaning upon him. I leaned on Clarence a lot; I made a career out of it in some ways.
Those of us who shared Clarence’s life, shared with him his love and his confusion. Though “C” mellowed with age, he was always a wild and unpredictable ride. Today I see his sons Nicky, Chuck, Christopher and Jarod sitting here and I see in them the reflection of a lot of C’s qualities. I see his light, his darkness, his sweetness, his roughness, his gentleness, his anger, his brilliance, his handsomeness, and his goodness. But, as you boys know your pop was a not a day at the beach. “C” lived a life where he did what he wanted to do and he let the chips, human and otherwise, fall where they may. Like a lot of us your pop was capable of great magic and also of making quite an amazing mess. This was just the nature of your daddy and my beautiful friend. Clarence’s unconditional love, which was very real, came with a lot of conditions. Your pop was a major project and always a work in progress. “C” never approached anything linearly, life never proceeded in a straight line. He never went A… B…. C…. D. It was always A… J…. C…. Z… Q… I….! That was the way Clarence lived and made his way through the world. I know that can lead to a lot of confusion and hurt, but your father also carried a lot of love with him, and I know he loved each of you very very dearly.
It took a village to take care of Clarence Clemons. Tina, I’m so glad you’re here. Thank you for taking care of my friend, for loving him. Victoria, you’ve been a loving, kind and caring wife to Clarence and you made a huge difference in his life at a time when the going was not always easy. To all of “C’s” vast support network, names too numerous to mention, you know who you are and we thank you. Your rewards await you at the pearly gates. My pal was a tough act but he brought things into your life that were unique and when he turned on that love light, it illuminated your world. I was lucky enough to stand in that light for almost 40 years, near Clarence’s heart, in the Temple of Soul.
So a little bit of history: from the early days when Clarence and I traveled together, we’d pull up to the evening’s lodgings and within minutes “C” would transform his room into a world of his own. Out came the colored scarves to be draped over the lamps, the scented candles, the incense, the patchouli oil, the herbs, the music, the day would be banished, entertainment would come and go, and Clarence the Shaman would reign and work his magic, night after night. Clarence’s ability to enjoy Clarence was incredible. By 69, he’d had a good run, because he’d already lived about 10 lives, 690 years in the life of an average man. Every night, in every place, the magic came flying out of C’s suitcase. As soon as success allowed, his dressing room would take on the same trappings as his hotel room until a visit there was like a trip to a sovereign nation that had just struck huge oil reserves. “C” always knew how to live. Long before Prince was out of his diapers, an air of raunchy mysticism ruled in the Big Man’s world. I’d wander in from my dressing room, which contained several fine couches and some athletic lockers, and wonder what I was doing wrong! Somewhere along the way all of this was christened the Temple of Soul; and “C” presided smilingly over its secrets, and its pleasures. Being allowed admittance to the Temple’s wonders was a lovely thing.
As a young child my son Sam became enchanted with the Big Man… no surprise. To a child Clarence was a towering fairy tale figure, out of some very exotic storybook. He was a dreadlocked giant, with great hands and a deep mellifluous voice sugared with kindness and regard. And… to Sammy, who was just a little white boy, he was deeply and mysteriously black. In Sammy’s eyes, “C” must have appeared as all of the African continent, shot through with American cool, rolled into one welcoming and loving figure. So… Sammy decided to pass on my work shirts and became fascinated by Clarence’s suits and his royal robes. He declined a seat in dad’s van and opted for “C’s” stretch limousine, sitting by his side on the slow cruise to the show. He decided dinner in front of the hometown locker just wouldn’t do, and he’d saunter up the hall and disappear into the Temple of Soul.
Of course, also enchanted was Sam’s dad, from the first time I saw my pal striding out of the shadows of a half empty bar in Asbury Park, a path opening up before him; here comes my brother, here comes my sax man, my inspiration, my partner, my lifelong friend. Standing next to Clarence was like standing next to the baddest ass on the planet. You were proud, you were strong, you were excited and laughing with what might happen, with what together, you might be able to do. You felt like no matter what the day or the night brought, nothing was going to touch you. Clarence could be fragile but he also emanated power and safety, and in some funny way we became each other’s protectors; I think perhaps I protected “C” from a world where it still wasn’t so easy to be big and black. Racism was ever present and over the years together, we saw it. Clarence’s celebrity and size did not make him immune. I think perhaps “C” protected me from a world where it wasn’t always so easy to be an insecure, weird and skinny white boy either. But, standing together we were badass, on any given night, on our turf, some of the baddest asses on the planet. We were united, we were strong, we were righteous, we were unmovable, we were funny, we were corny as hell and as serious as death itself. And we were coming to your town to shake you and to wake you up. Together, we told an older, richer story about the possibilities of friendship that transcended those I’d written in my songs and in my music. Clarence carried it in his heart. It was a story where the Scooter and the Big Man not only busted the city in half, but we kicked ass and remade the city, shaping it into the kind of place where our friendship would not be such an anomaly. And that… that’s what I’m gonna miss. The chance to renew that vow and double down on that story on a nightly basis, because that is something, that is the thing that we did together… the two of us. Clarence was big, and he made me feel, and think, and love, and dream big. How big was the Big Man? Too fucking big to die. And that’s just the facts. You can put it on his grave stone, you can tattoo it over your heart. Accept it… it’s the New World.
Clarence doesn’t leave the E Street Band when he dies. He leaves when we die.
So, I’ll miss my friend, his sax, the force of nature his sound was, his glory, his foolishness, his accomplishments, his face, his hands, his humor, his skin, his noise, his confusion, his power, his peace. But his love and his story, the story that he gave me, that he whispered in my ear, that he allowed me to tell… and that he gave to you… is gonna carry on. I’m no mystic, but the undertow, the mystery and power of Clarence and my friendship leads me to believe we must have stood together in other, older times, along other rivers, in other cities, in other fields, doing our modest version of god’s work… work that’s still unfinished. So I won’t say goodbye to my brother, I’ll simply say, see you in the next life, further on up the road, where we will once again pick up that work, and get it done.
Big Man, thank you for your kindness, your strength, your dedication, your work, your story. Thanks for the miracle… and for letting a little white boy slip through the side door of the Temple of Soul.
SO LADIES AND GENTLEMAN… ALWAYS LAST, BUT NEVER LEAST. LET’S HEAR IT FOR THE MASTER OF DISASTER, the BIG KAHUNA, the MAN WITH A PHD IN SAXUAL HEALING, the DUKE OF PADUCAH, the KING OF THE WORLD, LOOK OUT OBAMA! THE NEXT BLACK PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES EVEN THOUGH HE’S DEAD… YOU WISH YOU COULD BE LIKE HIM BUT YOU CAN’T! LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, THE BIGGEST MAN YOU’VE EVER SEEN!… GIVE ME A C-L-A-R-E-N-C-E. WHAT’S THAT SPELL? CLARENCE! WHAT’S THAT SPELL? CLARENCE! WHAT’S THAT SPELL? CLARENCE! … amen.
I’m gonna leave you today with a quote from the Big Man himself, which he shared on the plane ride home from Buffalo, the last show of the last tour. As we celebrated in the front cabin congratulating one another and telling tales of the many epic shows, rocking nights and good times we’d shared, “C” sat quietly, taking it all in, then he raised his glass, smiled and said to all gathered, “This could be the start of something big.”
Love you, “C”.
My picture just published
My picture on the front cover.
A hug in Manila
‘Terminal 1’, I say to the taxi driver. ‘300 Pesos, sir’, the driver says with a tired look. I put my bags in the boot and leave the Pension Natividad in Malate (Manila). While I was here it has been raining and I thought they were the last hic-ups of the typhoon that reached the Philippines earlier this week.
Wed rive long the sea but soon have to stop. The usual traffic jam. We queue. The taxi driver complaints. We pass a gasoline station and start a discussion about gasoline prices which are now at 52 Pesos/liter. ‘When I was in Saudi Arabia’, he says, “the gasoline was 25 Centavos per liter (i.e. 0.25 Pesos/litre). Guess how much was a liter of water, sir? 10 Pesos!’, he says before I can reply. The traffic stops again. He takes a pack of medicine from his pocket. He says that since he eat four quail eggs the other day he has not been feeling well. ‘Too much vitamin in those eggs, sir. NOt good for my heart.’
We manage to go through a critical junction to the airport and drive more smoothly. Five more minutes and there we are at T1. We get though the usual car check at the airport. Mirror under the car and quick check of the boot. We climb up the ramp that lead to the departure entrances and drive pass next to a white cab, the back door is open as if the passengers jumped down while the taxi was still moving, maybe in a hurry being late for their flight. But they are. They stand next to the half open door. A man and a woman. Filipinos. They hug with passion filled with sadness. I can only see his face over her shoulder. He is whispering at her ear some words of comfort, I imagine. It is clear that she is the one who is leaving and he will stay here. They may be husband and wife or maybe lovers, it does not really matter. What matters is that most probably she will be away for a long time. He kisses her few times on her cheek. Their lips then meet for a shy second filled with memories.
It is late afternoon and I think about how many good byes were said at this terminal today. Men and women boarding Emirates , Qatar, Etihad, Cathay, or Singapore Airways. How many good byes? How many memories filling those planes at take off? But then again there must have been many reunions as well. Men and women exiting the arrival glass door and running towards their kids and partners after a long time spent overseas. Each with it own unique story and dreams.
I take my bags from the taxi boot and walk towards the entrance. I said my good by this morning to Katja and the girls, but will not be away for long.
Justin night in Hong Kong.
Transfer in Hong Kong. I walk towards T2 and take the train to the Asia Expo from where I can walk to The Marriott Hotel. It is ten in the evening and the Expo should be quiet, but there is excitement in the air. A group of 14 or 15 years girls pass me running. It is Justin night here in Hong Kong. Bieber is playing, or rather singing, in the main auditorium. I pass in front of the doors and can hear the teenagers’ cheers inside the hall. I see young mothers mothers who look even younger tonight walking in with they daughters. I see fathers with bored expressions sitting alone at the bars tables and sipping beer while waiting their kids to come out from the concert. Bieber was in Manila the other night, will I meet him in Phnom Penh where I am directed? I doubt it.
I check in at the hotel. An Indian mother with her daughter is asking for a room. The girl the reception says that the hotel is full. No more rooms, sorry. Another girls has Justin written with a marker all over her legs. She is almost asleep in in an armchair in the lobby. The tour continues.
Italian sunset and Proust
Saturday evening. The sun is slowly setting on the fields at the outskirts of my hometown. There is a warm yellow light at the horizon. The same colour and light in spring as well as autumn as if the season would be unsure as to which direction to take.
I stay at a friend place just outside the old centre. It is quiet here and I can hear men talking outside the bar down the corner. I imagine them standing just outside the door of of the bar. A glass of prosecco in their hand. The clear colour of the white wine reflecting the sunset sunlight. They talk of other people’s lives: a friend is no longer live with his wife, another is turning soon 50, they compare eachothers white hairs and laugh about it. I hear the cling of glasses of a toast: ‘to us’, they say.
Tonight I will do the same when I will be at dinner with some old friends. We will talk about men and women who are not in the room, will recall the
memories that hold our friendship together, We will compares lives and the choices we have made. The same ritual that takes place every time I come back where I was born and where most of my childhood friends live. Maybe is not a coincidence that I entered today the tiny bookshop next to Piazza del Duomo and Proust’s Recherche.
Location:Cremona, Italy
Lambeth South, Costa Café
it 7:20. The blue sky is covered by clouds tjis morning. The Costa Coffee has opened just 20 minutes ago. I am one of the first customers. Two men and a woman work here, dressed in modern-coffee-place-style uniforms. The two men speak a language I do not know. We are all foreigners in this place. The woman has black hairs with some red dye in it. I sit at the table I have been sitting for breakfast during the last few days. I am at the large window and can see the entrance of the tube station. A man enters the coffee opening the door with a deep sigh. He has a bag on his left shoulder. I saw him the first morning I was here. It was rainy. I wore a blue suit and was walking in front of the door while finishing a cigarette. He has now more classic clothes. A tweed jacket on a thick cotton shirt. He orders as last time a coffee to take away. Most of the people do so. Nobody seems to have time to sit down and sip their coffee. I look outside the window and see cars and bycicles rushing to work. Few joggers wearing headphones and a rucksack with their office clothes. Next weekend there is the London marathon and they are getting ready for it. People exit from the tube stations at regulat intervals. Some wear winter clothes, others spring clothes, apparently Undicided as to what the weather will bring today.
Arnaldo posted this using BlogPress from my iPhone
Location:Lambeth, London
Sunday run in London
To run or not to run. It is Sunday morning. Blue sky outside the windows of the hotel. Just before 8. Ok, run. I take the running shoes, running clothes, my heartbeat monitoring, the GPS watch which will draw a path on a Google Map later on.
The first few metres are chilly. The legs feel the cold. The lungs hurt a bit. It will get better in few minutes. I reach the Tower Bridge, run down the stairs and I am on the walk along the river. I decide to go east, towards Southbank.
It all look empty. I see two Asian tourists, maybe Japanese who walk dressed in winter clothes. They may be jet lagged as I am. I look at the watch to choose the pace. it is 6:15 min/km now. I slow down a bit while I get warmer. I pass next to the Town Hall building made of glass and looking as a reverse shell. Start to get into my thoughts and pick up random images. My rhythm is now nice and steady. Feel warmer and am happy I decided to take this run after a month or so. Bars and coffee shops are opening. Waiters prepare tables that will be later filled by tourists and Londoners enjoying the sun. Two guys talk loudly to to each other and over the music they listen in their headphones while the clean the floor in front of a cafe. I see a family of four near the Shakespeare theatre. Two kids between eight or ten walking in front of the parents. He is in his mid forties and helps his wife in her later thirties who cannot walk well. She seem to be recovering from a stroke at her young age. She wears jeans, comfortable jogging shoes. She has short blonde hairs with nice colourful hair clips and sun glasses. They enjoy the sun and the nice morning battling the change in their life.
I see other runners. Some alone. A couple racing for a sprint with red cheeks and happiness for the effort. A man with a dog. A German couple passes on my right hand side on their runner blades. She seem to be learning, while he moves effortlessly. He goes a bit head and then waits for her. Then again ahead and then waits for her once more. We are the Tate Modern. I pass another couple walking at a fats pace, kind of power walking. He is tall, short brown hairs and beard. Glasses. She is the one doing the talking and she talks as fats as she walks.They seem Swedish. He replies at short interval saying ‘jo’. While I pass next to them I hear him saying ‘jo’ at least six times.
I am on my way back to the bridge. I pass Tracey Thorn who is running toward the London Eye. She looks down on the pavement. I am thinking about listening to her music in Dumaguete, 9600 km from here. Then getting up this morning to go for a run. She, doing the same thing. And now being on this walk path along the river Thames at the same time.