The Other Language (16 page)

Andrea hands the plan back to him. He speaks, slowly, enunciating each word distinctly. His tone is steady, unwavering.

“You can rest assured you will not get any permit, nor any help, to build this resort. The people on this island are not interested in facilitating this kind of project so that you and your investors can stash your clients’ dollars into a Swiss account. If anything, I will do everything in my power to prevent this from happening.”

There’s a moment of silence. Tescari clears his throat.

“I’m afraid there’s a misunderstanding. We are going to hire locals. Everyone will profit from this venture,” he says. “By which what I really mean is that it will give jobs to lots of people. I’m sure that you, more than anyone here, realizes that this island needs some—”

Andrea raises his palm to stop him.

“This is a traditional island. We won’t allow foreign speculators to wreck our customs and offend our values. We don’t want half-naked tourists on our beaches smoking and drinking. The people here don’t need jobs, we grow our own food and catch our fish, and this is the way the island has lived for centuries.” Andrea’s voice is quiet, unperturbed. “We don’t need you. Is that clear enough? Now you can go. Please.”

And he stands up, gesturing toward the door with a sweep of his arm.

Tescari shoots up, holding his folded plans to his chest, stunned. He turns toward me. “This man is crazy.”

“Please go. I see your taxi is still waiting for you,” Andrea insists, standing by the door.

“Crazy,” Tescari says to me, a finger to his temple. “Honestly, if I were you I wouldn’t stay here.”

And then he’s out the door.

I hear the engine start and the taxi pulls away. It is a relief and yet part of me feels abandoned.

“Wow,” I say.

I’m waiting for Andrea to remark, waiting for him to erupt in a roaring laugh and utter something outrageous. For him to undo the monastic posture, get out of the starched
kanzu
and declare that what he just said was a joke, a performance he played on the Italian with loafers.

Instead he keeps very still and suddenly I feel uneasy.

“What are you?” I ask.

“What do you mean?”

“What are you here, anyway. Are you some kind of mullah?” I say, with a nervous laugh.

Andrea strokes his short beard and thinks for a moment. He doesn’t get that my question is meant to be humorous.

“No. Although I did convert to Islam years ago.”

“Oh. I see,” I say, as though that explains everything.

We stare at each other uneasily. I look around the empty room and I wonder many things at once: whether he has a guest room for me or I am to sleep on the screeching plastic couch, whether he might in fact have gone crazy or even be under medication, whether coming here was a terrible mistake. It has nothing to do with his converting to Islam. It’s that he just seems so much slower. Numbed.

“That guy,” he says, “isn’t the first one to show up here with a plan. I’ve told them all to fuck off. One by one.”

Here he gains a bit of speed. He’s more animated and that feels reassuring.

“I know how their plans work. They build what they call an
eco-friendly self-sustainable
camp in the wilderness for a pittance, so that for five hundred dollars a night millionaires can take a crap under the stars. Then, slowly but very very surely they declare the beach off limits, they deny access to the local fishermen because
their clients need their ‘privacy.’ As though this has been their land for generations. Over my dead body they’ll get in here.”

“Absolutely!” I cheer. I’m relieved: he’s sounding like himself at last.

It’s only now that I realize that since I first arrived Andrea still hasn’t really looked at me. And I cannot tell whether he’s happy to see me or not.

His body used to be lean and taut. Hip bones, ribs and knee caps showing under baggy jeans and faded T-shirts. Long hands and nimble fingers that touched things gently. I loved his feet too. Once I told him, “You have the hands and feet of a dancer,” because there was a special gracefulness in the way he moved in space. He never brushed his hair, which was a tangle of light brown curls, often shading his eyes—those green, bright eyes that changed with the weather—and I suspect he didn’t wash it often. Whenever we’d be all together—me, our friends—discussing something we’d read, whether it was politics, literature, ethics, he’d sit back while we made our loud arguments. His silence made us edgy, we felt observed and judged. We wanted him to level with us, so we’d turn to him and say, How about you, Andrea, let’s hear what you think, and often what he said was just the opposite of what we’d so fervently maintained till then. He always seemed to come at things from another perspective, and what we had thought was right suddenly seemed wrong, what we thought was daring seemed banal.

We all wanted to be a this and a that: a writer, a photographer, an actor, an architect, a political activist, whereas he didn’t seem to strive to be anything. He was good with his hands, he knew how to fix things and work with wood, he worshipped his motorcycle and spent hours adjusting and calibrating its mechanisms. We were aware that he knew a lot—more than us—that he loved to
read and the books he chose were unusual and difficult, as though he had already read and digested what we were reading and was way ahead of us. He read essays, literary criticism, obscure playwrights and poets, but he never lectured, never quoted from them. I think he found it pathetic, the way we showed off, always keen to sound wittier, more well read, more up-to-date.

We never met his parents and knew very little of his background. He was an only child and apparently his father was a strange man who drank too much and didn’t seem to have a real job. His mother had left the family when Andrea was a teenager and he didn’t like to talk about her. Once he said he thought Freud had given all of us an alibi to whine.

At a time when we all strived to be reckless, he was the most fearless with drugs, though he never seemed high, only more concentrated, sharper. We made love the first time under a shower, while tripping on LSD. I still remember how the yellow mosaic of the bathroom glimmered, and how I was convinced I was inside an Egyptian palace, shimmering with gold and sunshine. I don’t remember whose apartment it was, and why I was alone under the shower—the sprinkling water felt like a cascade of yellow diamonds—but suddenly there he was, smiling, getting out of his clothes, entering the magic circle of gold with me.

I was already in love with him by then and I wasn’t the only one. We all fought to get his attention, to spend time alone with him—men and women alike—and some of us fought harder to become his lover. There were jealousies and treacheries, though he never used the power we had given him to manipulate us.

One day he announced he was going away. Someone he knew had offered him a place as a volunteer to teach English to children in Africa. He mentioned the name of the island, a name so difficult to pronounce that it became impossible to remember.

The last time I saw him it was on a winter day on the street right below my apartment. He had come around to say goodbye right before getting on the plane. He must have buzzed the
intercom and I had come down. I was living by the Via dei Riari then, in a small studio at the end of the street, at the foot of the Gianicolo Hill, and I remember the feeling of sorrow clinging to my clothes as I walked out on the street. It was drizzling and cold and he wasn’t wearing a coat or a jacket; all he had on was a thick black turtleneck and his old leather gloves. I also remember how he was leaning against a brick wall next to his motorcycle and how the wind ruffled his hair.

He has a wife.

She must have been the one throwing water on the floor. She is only a girl—a very thin, very young girl like so many I saw along the island road with sloshing buckets balancing on their heads—who looks frightened to see me. She wears a threadbare
kanga
wrapped around her waist and another one with the same pattern over her shoulders. As she advances, she pulls its edge over her hair, which is braided in thick cornrows, as though she needs extra protection. Andrea speaks quickly to her in Swahili, and she whispers something inaudible. She lowers her eyes to the floor as she stands before me like a schoolgirl in front of the principal.

“This is Farida,” Andrea says. “She hasn’t met many Western women.”

I stretch out my hand and she hesitates before moving hers tentatively toward mine. I rush to grab it. It’s limp, and still wet from the washing.

“Hello, Farida, very nice to meet you,” I say in English.

I realize my voice has taken the hideous inflection I sometimes can’t help myself from having when talking to Africans. I tend to stretch all my vowels, in an unconscious effort to imitate their accent.

“Women don’t shake hands here,” Andrea warns me.

“Right. Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, foreigners don’t always know.”

Farida has beautiful eyes with long, curled eyelashes and her skin looks soft, flawless. She must be eighteen at the most. Her pupils dilate with apprehension, so I let go of her hand.

“She doesn’t speak any English,” he says.

Farida whispers something to him, he nods, releasing her, and she rushes off, back where she’s been hiding.

He shows me where I am to sleep. It’s a small room in the back, behind the kitchen, with a Spartan four-poster bed and a mosquito net. He stands by the door for a moment and I feel his eyes on me for the first time. I look at him and again, for a split second, I feel that flicker of recognition, a tiny leap of the heart, as though we both know what the other one is thinking. Snippets of the past are hovering between us. I am about to say something—I am not sure yet as to what—but I need to say something that will shorten the distance, make us close again. He cuts me off before I open my mouth.

“I’m going to the mosque for prayer, then we’ll have dinner. You must be hungry.”

It’s beginning to get dark outside when he comes back. I hear more water splashing, this time from the plastic bucket he showed me in the bathroom we are meant to share. When he knocks at my door to call me for dinner he has changed into a pair of cargo pants and a faded T-shirt. We sit on the mat under a bright fluorescent light and Farida brings out our dinner. Andrea scoops up rice, fish in coconut sauce, thinly cut greens mixed with sweet potatoes and chapati from warm aluminum pots covered by lids, while Farida retreats again to the back room. He hands me a full plate and begins to eat skillfully with his fingers, using the chapati to gather the food and mop up the sauce. I take a moment to study his technique. No food reaches past his first knuckle, I observe. A trick I’m unable to imitate.

“Would you like a spoon?” he asks.

“That would be great, actually.”

He says something in the direction of the kitchen, and after a moment Farida reappears with a spoon, then departs again.

The food is not bad but it is bland. I am disappointed; I was counting on some delicious surprises coming out of that kitchen. Instead it’s an unhappy sort of food, without zest, like one finds in hospitals or schools. And the buzzing light overhead washes everything in a deathly pallor.