The Other Language (14 page)

One day, across from her office, right next door to the Pasticceria
Paradisi, she saw that a stylish young woman had opened a vintage clothing store. Caterina browsed through the racks during her lunch break. The labels were all quite exclusive and prices were high.

“I have a vintage Chanel,” she found herself saying. “Would you be interested?”

The woman raised her head from the book she was reading.

“Of course. As long as it’s in good condition.”

“It’s perfect. It’s never been worn.”

The woman seemed skeptical.

“Bring it and I’ll give you an evaluation,” she said, lowering her eyes to her book again.

Caterina rang Pascal in Paris—he was about to direct his first play—and told him that she was finally getting rid of the Chanel. He replied without hesitation, saying it was blasphemy to sell it to a secondhand store.

“I need the money. It’s not a hand-me-down, it’s a very exclusive vintage store right across from the studio in Via del Boschetto. I’m tired of keeping this corpse in my closet.”

“Whatever,” Pascal said. He was busy, or perhaps tired of the game, which by now was more than ten years old.

“It’s gorgeous,” the stylish young woman from the vintage store said as Caterina freed the dress from its body bag. “Is it yours?”

“Yes. I bought it almost a dozen years ago. It’s from the cruise collection.”

The woman brushed the fabric with her fingertips and delicately fluffed up the feathers.

“May I ask you why it’s never been worn?”

“Oh … it’s a long story. Actually that’s not true, it’s quite a simple story. Every time I tried it on it never looked right.”

The woman smiled. She had beautiful black hair piled up high
on top of her head and wore a dark red lipstick that contrasted with her very white skin.

“I can hardly believe it didn’t look right on you. You have such a nice figure.”

“Thank you.”

“And the dress is a masterpiece.”

“You think you can sell it?”

“Of course. It’ll sell like that.” She snapped her fingers.

“And how much do you think we could …”

“I can get more than a thousand for sure, but I’ll have to check online. Probably it’ll be the most expensive item in the store. If I had the money I would buy it from you for myself,” she said with a hint of regret, gazing at the gown with longing.

“I have clients who will fight to have it. Costume designers, maybe a couple of actresses …”

She caressed it again and under her delicate touch the fabric rustled as though it were coming back to life.

“Are you really sure you want to part with this?” the young woman asked. “I feel a bit bad selling it. You might regret it afterward.”

“No. Thank you. But I don’t think so. Really. I kind of want to get rid of it. Actually I’ve been wanting to for years.”

The woman was silent for a few seconds.

“Do me a favor. Just try it on one last time. Please.”

When Caterina came out of the dressing room sheathed in the alpine lake cloud, the woman just stared at her and said nothing. She then brought her thin hands to her face, like a stunned child.

“What?” said Caterina.

“I beg you. Don’t make the mistake. Keep it. You can always sell it later on.”

“When? On my deathbed?”

The woman laughed.

“No, seriously. I won’t take it unless you wear it at least once.
It would be—it would really be unethical of me. It looks too good on you, trust me.”

Caterina looked at herself in the mirror. She knew what the dress looked like on her—she had lost count of how many times she had tried it on—but now she saw something different.

“Please,” whispered the woman, behind her now. “I know clothes. You keep this one.”

“I can’t believe it. This thing just won’t let go of me,” Caterina said out loud, and sank onto a chair in front of the mirror. The dress had never looked so good. As if it didn’t want to leave her.

She took it back under the livid light of the metropolitana, holding it in her arms like a child. She felt a special tenderness now, similar to the joy someone experiences having just rescued something that seemed forever lost. She had been on the verge of making a terrible mistake by disowning the dress as something she didn’t need, or worse—something she didn’t deserve and never would. How could she not have seen it? The dress was a talisman—her own talisman—the gift that she must always treasure, like the gold dust that she feared would fly out the window and follow Pascal all the way to Paris.

She resurfaced into the sunshine at the Garbatella stop and straightened her back, walking briskly toward her street. She clutched the dress bag closer to her body, feeling the glorious softness of the fabric inside, the faint crackling of feathers under her fingertips. Perhaps she just needed to remind herself more often how that gold was still floating above her head, its minuscule particles visible only when pierced by a certain light.

Big Island, Small Island

The swallows keep darting back and forth across the roof like shooting arrows. I think they must be playing a game—a kind of hide-and-seek—because they don’t seem to get tired of it. I am not used to seeing birds fly through airports. It’s quite a stretch to call this thatched roof standing on pillars an airport and I’m worried about the size of the plane we are about to board. If this is the size of the airport of the Big Island and we are going to the Small Island, how big can the next plane be?

I look around at my fellow passengers. We are not more than ten and that worries me too. There are large men clad in white
kanzus
(I’m already using the local language thanks to the
Teach Yourself Swahili
booklet I bought in Dar es Salaam) and
kofia
, which I just learned is what their finely stitched cap is called. Judging from their potbellies and thick gold watches they seem rather affluent. A couple of them have small-sized wives sitting next to them, wrapped in the black cape they call
buibui
. The men talk loudly, mostly among themselves or on old-fashioned Nokias—only a few have smartphones—whereas the wives don’t flinch. They are as still as pillars of salt surrounded by hefty bundles and boxes. I can see baskets brimming with mangoes, cartons containing some household appliances, an electric fan, a kettle, a DVD player. They must’ve been shopping on the mainland; I didn’t see any shopping opportunities for such items as kettles or fans on the Big Island. Just a few gift shops and a desolate, half-empty
supermarket. A crackling voice on the intercom speaks in Swahili, and the man next to me shakes his head with disdain.

“Delay,” he says, meeting my eyes.

“How much?”

“One hour.”

It could be worse, I think, so I pull out my book.

I’ve been to Africa before—to Egypt and Morocco—but never south of the Sahara and never to such a remote place. During my travels I rarely ever mix with the locals, sealed as I am in my work bubble, always surrounded by colleagues. We end up spending most of our time inside conference rooms, in line at those ghastly buffet lunches, or in our anonymous hotel rooms watching the news. Since I’ve been on this particular detour I’ve been feeling more vulnerable but also more adventurous. I think I’m beginning to get the hang of traveling solo. For instance, whenever I am the only white person within a contained space, I find that reading is the best thing to turn to. It’s actually an act of courtesy, I realized; it allows people to stare and even point at me if they need to—usually it’s the women who find something ridiculous about my clothes and tend to giggle with hands over their mouths. My reading gives them total freedom to examine me without creating unnecessary embarrassment.

“Are you Italian?” a voice asks me in English.

I lift my eyes from the book. Sitting across from me is a man in his early fifties. He’s clearly been looking at the cover of my book. He must have just sat down; I hadn’t noticed him earlier. He wears a white linen shirt, nicely tailored cotton trousers in a shade of ocher, Ray-Bans and soft loafers without socks. This last detail, more than anything, tells me he must be Italian as well. Those are expensive car shoes, the kind Mr. Agnelli made famous. Only Italian men wear loafers without socks with their ankles showing this much beneath the trousers.

“
Si
,” I say, and I shake the hand he’s already holding out.

I am not sure whether to be relieved or disturbed by this
chance encounter. He lights a Marlboro and begins to chat amiably in Italian, ignoring my desire to read on.

His name is Carlo Tescari, he’s been living in Tanzania for the last ten years. He’s built a couple of luxury safari camps near Ngorongoro. Before that he lived in Kenya, where he built more luxury camps and sold them for a fortune. Twenty-five years in East Africa, he says, as though it’s a record of some kind. Funny, because he looks as if someone had just lifted him from the Via Roma in Capri and landed him in this tiny airport on the Big Island, on his way to another, smaller island not many people have ever heard of.

“Are you with the NGO?” he asks me.

“No.”

“Just visiting?”

“Yes.”

“There are no hotels, you know. Not even a guest house.”

“I’m staying at a friend’s place.”

“Are you?” He looks at me with a hint of suspicion. “Is it an African friend?”

“No. An old friend from Italy. He has been living there for fifteen years.”

“Is this the man who works for that NGO?”

“Yes. That’s him.”

“I thought so. Someone at the embassy in Dar suggested I see him to get some advice. I’ve got his contacts somewhere.”

He opens his leather briefcase and flicks through his documents.

“Here it is. Andrea Nelli, right? I spoke to him last week on the phone, he’s expecting me. Well, that’s quite a coincidence, isn’t it?”

I nod, politely.

“Then I’ll come along with you to his place. We can share the cab. If you don’t mind.”

“No, I don’t,” I say, even though I do, actually.

“I just need to ask him a few questions, it’s not going to take long. He’s the only
mzungu
that lives on the island, other than Jeffrey Stone. I’m staying at Jeffrey’s, I know Jeff from Nairobi. He’s the local veterinarian and hates it there. Apparently your friend has been on the island for, what did you say, fifteen years?”

“More or less, yes.”

“Jeffrey has been there only three months and he’s desperate to leave. Not much company.”

“No?”

“No. And it’s a dry island. No booze. The death of an Englishman. Very traditional Muslim community.”

That, I’m aware of. Andrea has instructed me over the phone “long sleeves and no bathing suits. You can swim in a dress if you
really
have to.”

Carlo Tescari seems eager to extract more details about my host.

“What’s he like? He wasn’t very forthcoming on the phone.”

“I haven’t seen him in ages. Since he moved out here.”

“I see.”

He takes a good look at me.

“So is this a happy reunion?”

“Yes.”

“A sort of ‘Dr. Livingstone, I presume’ moment.” He chuckles, then adds, “I hear your friend has become very local.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised, given that there are only locals, as you say. Except for your unhappy vet, of course.”

He grins, showing a crown of teeth so white they might even be false.

It troubles me, to arrive at Andrea’s house in the company of this man. I had envisaged a completely different scene when I decided to track him down a couple of weeks ago. And now, after such a long journey, I am nearly at his doorstep, about to show up with exactly the kind of person he will loathe.