The Flying Creatures of Fra Angelico by Antonio Tabucchi Page B

girl shrugged her shoulders. She seemed visibly annoyed, as if his confession contrasted somehow with her own candour. ‘You’re not being fair,’ she said. ‘They’ve paid for everything, the trip, the hotel. They couldn’t have treated you with more respect.’
    He waved his hand in a gesture of indifference. ‘I didn’t come for their country, I came for the conference. They treat me with great respect and I show mine by beinghere, so we’re quits.’ He concentrated on cracking open his lobster, making it plain there was nothing else to say about the matter. A small gust of wind blew away the paper napkin covering the bread basket. The sea was getting choppy and was deep deep blue.
    The girl seemed put out, but maybe it was just a show. When she finally spoke it was in a tone of faint resentment, but with a hint of reconciliation too. ‘You didn’t even tell me what you’ll be talking about, it’s as if you wanted to keep me in the dark about everything, which isn’t fair, I don’t think.’
    He had finally managed to overcome the resistance of his lobster and was now dipping the meat in mayonnaise. His face brightened and in a single breath, like a schoolboy parroting a lesson, he said: ‘Structures and Distortions in Middle Latin and Vulgar Texts of the Pays d’Oc.’
    The girl gulped, as if her food had gone down the wrong way, and she began to laugh. She laughed uncontrollably, covering her mouth with her napkin. ‘Oh dear,’ she hiccupped. ‘Oh dear!’
    He started to laugh too, but stopped himself becausehe wasn’t sure whether it was best for him to join in her outburst of hilarity or not. ‘Explain,’ he asked, when she had calmed down.
    â€˜Nothing,’ the girl said, between intermittent giggles. ‘It just occurred to me that you’re rather better suited to the vulgar than the Middle Latin, that’s all.’
    He shook his head in fake pity, but you could see deep down he was flattered. ‘In any event we can begin the lesson now; so listen carefully.’ He held up a thumb and said: ‘Point number one: you have to study the minor authors, it’s the minor authors will make your career, all the greats have already been studied.’ He raised another finger. ‘Point number two: make the bibliography as long as you possibly can, taking care to disagree with scholars who are dead.’ He raised yet another finger. ‘Point number three: no fanciful methodologies, I know they’re in fashion now, but they’ll sink without a trace, stay with the straightforward and traditional.’ She was listening carefully, concentrating hard. Perhaps the sketch of a timid objection was forming on her face, because he felt the need to offer an example. ‘Think of that Frenchspecialist who came to talk about Racine and all Phaedra’s complexes,’ he said. ‘A normal person, would you say?’
    â€˜What? Phaedra?’ asked the girl, as though thinking of something else.
    â€˜The French specialist,’ he said patiently.
    The girl didn’t answer.
    â€˜Quite,’ he said. ‘These days critics are in the habit of unloading their own neuroses onto literary texts. I had the courage to say as much and you saw how outraged everybody was.’ He opened the menu and set about a careful choice of dessert. ‘Psychoanalysis was the invention of a madman,’ he concluded. ‘Everybody knows that, but you try saying it out loud.’
    The girl looked absent-mindedly at the sea. She had a resigned expression and was almost pretty. ‘So what next?’ she asked, still speaking as though her mind were elsewhere.
    â€˜I’ll tell you that later,’ said the man. ‘Right now I want to say something else. You know what’s positive about us, our winning card? Do you? It’s that we’re normal people, that’s what.’