each door you open is the wrong one, you withdraw in confusion, you seem to be lost in the book with white pages, unable to get out of it.
A lanky young man comes forward, in a long sweater.
----
As soon as he sees you, he points a finger at you and says, "You're waiting for Ludmilla!"
"How do you know that?"
"Irealized. One look is enough for me."
"Did Ludmilla send you?"
"No, but I'm always wandering around, I meet this one and I meet that one, I hear something here and see something there, and I naturally put them together."
"Do you also know where I'm supposed to go?"
"If you like, I'll take you to Uzzi-Tuzii. Either Ludmilla has been there for a while already or she'll come late."
This young man, so extroverted and well informed, is named Irnerio. You can call him tu, since he already calls you that. "Are you a student of the professor's?"
"I'm not a student of anything. I know where he is because I used to pick up Ludmilla there."
"Then Ludmilla's the one who studies in the department?"
"No, Ludmilla has always looked for places where she could hide."
"Who from?"
"Oh, from everybody."
Irnerio's answers are a bit evasive, but it would seem that it is chiefly her sister that Ludmilla tries to avoid. If she hasn't arrived punctually at our appointment, it is so as not to meet Lotaria in the hall; she has her seminar at this hour.
But you, on the contrary, believe there are some exceptions to this incompatibility between the sisters, at least as far as the telephone is concerned. You should make this Irnerio talk a bit more, see if he really is as knowledgeable as all that.
"Are you a friend of Ludmilla's, or of Lotaria's?"
"Ludmilla's, of course. But I manage to talk with Lotaria, too."
"Doesn't she criticize the books you read?"
----
"Me? I don't read books!" Irnerio says.
"What do you read, then?"
"Nothing. I've become so accustomed to not reading that I don't even read what appears before my eyes. It's not easy: they teach us to read as children, and for the rest of our lives we remain the slaves of all the written stuff they fling in front of us. I may have had to make some effort myself, at first, to learn not to read, but now it comes quite naturally to me. The secret is not refusing to look at the written words. On the contrary, you must look at them, intensely, until they disappear."
Irnerio's eyes have broad, pale, flickering pupils; they seem eyes that miss nothing, like those of a native of the forest, devoted to hunting and gathering.
"Then would you mind telling me why you come to the university?"
"Why shouldn't I? There are people going and coming, you meet, you talk. That's the reason I come here; I don't know about the others."
You try to picture how the world might appear, this world dense with writing that surrounds us on all sides, to someone who has learned not to read. And at the same time you ask yourself what bond there may be between Ludmilla and the Nonreader, and suddenly it seems to you that it is their very distance that keeps them together, and you can't stifle a feeling of jealousy.
You would like to question Irnerio further, but you have arrived, by some back stairs, at a low door with a Sign, DEPARTMENT OF BOTHNO-UGARIC LANGUAGES AND LITERATURES. Irnerio knocks sharply, says "Ciao" to you, and leaves you there.
The door opens, barely a crack. From the spots of whitewash on the jamb, and from the cap that appears, over a fleece-lined work jacket, you get the notion that the place is closed for renovation, and there is only a painter inside or a cleaning man.
----
"Is Professor Uzzi-Tuzii in?"
The gaze that assents, from beneath the cap, is different from what you would expect of a painter: the eyes of one preparing to leap over a precipice, who is projecting himself mentally to the other side, staring straight ahead, and avoiding looking down or sideways.
"Are you he?" you ask, though you have realized it can be no one else.
The little man does not widen the
A lanky young man comes forward, in a long sweater.
----
As soon as he sees you, he points a finger at you and says, "You're waiting for Ludmilla!"
"How do you know that?"
"Irealized. One look is enough for me."
"Did Ludmilla send you?"
"No, but I'm always wandering around, I meet this one and I meet that one, I hear something here and see something there, and I naturally put them together."
"Do you also know where I'm supposed to go?"
"If you like, I'll take you to Uzzi-Tuzii. Either Ludmilla has been there for a while already or she'll come late."
This young man, so extroverted and well informed, is named Irnerio. You can call him tu, since he already calls you that. "Are you a student of the professor's?"
"I'm not a student of anything. I know where he is because I used to pick up Ludmilla there."
"Then Ludmilla's the one who studies in the department?"
"No, Ludmilla has always looked for places where she could hide."
"Who from?"
"Oh, from everybody."
Irnerio's answers are a bit evasive, but it would seem that it is chiefly her sister that Ludmilla tries to avoid. If she hasn't arrived punctually at our appointment, it is so as not to meet Lotaria in the hall; she has her seminar at this hour.
But you, on the contrary, believe there are some exceptions to this incompatibility between the sisters, at least as far as the telephone is concerned. You should make this Irnerio talk a bit more, see if he really is as knowledgeable as all that.
"Are you a friend of Ludmilla's, or of Lotaria's?"
"Ludmilla's, of course. But I manage to talk with Lotaria, too."
"Doesn't she criticize the books you read?"
----
"Me? I don't read books!" Irnerio says.
"What do you read, then?"
"Nothing. I've become so accustomed to not reading that I don't even read what appears before my eyes. It's not easy: they teach us to read as children, and for the rest of our lives we remain the slaves of all the written stuff they fling in front of us. I may have had to make some effort myself, at first, to learn not to read, but now it comes quite naturally to me. The secret is not refusing to look at the written words. On the contrary, you must look at them, intensely, until they disappear."
Irnerio's eyes have broad, pale, flickering pupils; they seem eyes that miss nothing, like those of a native of the forest, devoted to hunting and gathering.
"Then would you mind telling me why you come to the university?"
"Why shouldn't I? There are people going and coming, you meet, you talk. That's the reason I come here; I don't know about the others."
You try to picture how the world might appear, this world dense with writing that surrounds us on all sides, to someone who has learned not to read. And at the same time you ask yourself what bond there may be between Ludmilla and the Nonreader, and suddenly it seems to you that it is their very distance that keeps them together, and you can't stifle a feeling of jealousy.
You would like to question Irnerio further, but you have arrived, by some back stairs, at a low door with a Sign, DEPARTMENT OF BOTHNO-UGARIC LANGUAGES AND LITERATURES. Irnerio knocks sharply, says "Ciao" to you, and leaves you there.
The door opens, barely a crack. From the spots of whitewash on the jamb, and from the cap that appears, over a fleece-lined work jacket, you get the notion that the place is closed for renovation, and there is only a painter inside or a cleaning man.
----
"Is Professor Uzzi-Tuzii in?"
The gaze that assents, from beneath the cap, is different from what you would expect of a painter: the eyes of one preparing to leap over a precipice, who is projecting himself mentally to the other side, staring straight ahead, and avoiding looking down or sideways.
"Are you he?" you ask, though you have realized it can be no one else.
The little man does not widen the
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