In the early days it seemed to me that I was still living in Cairo. I saw so many Egyptians around that I wondered, a little astonished and bewildered, “Where is this Rome?”
Issa
Am I getting to be a regular client of Little Cairo? It looks that way. I’ve been coming here for six days. Constancy is a virtue that never betrays you—sooner or later I’ll be rewarded. It just takes a little patience and a lot of luck. Is there any danger of being found out? Don’t be ridiculous. I’m a poor Tunisian immigrant who’s come to Rome in search of a better future. New arrivals always need some reference point and I’ve found one in this place, among my Arab brothers. There’s nothing odd about it.
I make the usual phone call to my “Tunisian mother.” We’ve gotten to know each other better recently. She’s rather a chatterbox, but that’s good. Ten minutes is enough to find out the news: my “brother” Adel (older or younger?), who graduated four years ago, has found a job in a bank, thanks to the connections of “uncle” Ali. My “cousin” Mohsen has moved to France with his wife. Finally, my “sister” Amel is pregnant. This is really good news. I’ll finally be an uncle. Shit!
After the call to Tunisia I decide to hang around at Little Cairo. I sit down next to two young guys (at a rough guess, I would say they’re Egyptians) to watch Al Jazeera. There’s a repeat of a program that’s very popular in the Arab world. The format resembles a cockfight: there are two guests, experts with opposing opinions, and a moderator who plays the part of the impartial referee. The discussion today is heated, the subject is very much on people’s minds: Is it right to export democracy to the Arab world by means of tanks, as happened in Iraq? Are the American neoconservatives right or wrong?
The adversaries are tough and the moderator conducts the game cleverly, he doesn’t miss a chance to fan the flames. He always manages to set them against one another, for example: “What do you mean? The Arabs will never be able to achieve democracy by themselves? Then please explain to us, and without false nationalist rhetoric, what we should do.” Or: “You declare openly that you are in favor of exporting democracy by force of arms. Then you’re a traitor in the pay of the Americans. Respond to that charge from your questioner.”
Arabs have a particular outlook, they see betrayal and plotting everywhere. It’s a real disease that I’ve noticed in my travels in the Arab world.
I take advantage of a short ad to socialize with the guy sitting on my right. I, too, might have something to say on the subject, no? Anyone is allowed to make a comment on democracy. In other words, George W. Bush and his advisers don’t have a monopoly on it. And so I move from words to action.
“Personally, I’m against the exportation of democracy as if it were merchandise.”
“My friend, what does democracy have to do with it? The West just wants to colonize us again.”
“You’re right.”
“Why aren’t they taking democracy to North Korea or Castro’s Cuba, eh?”
“It’s true.”
“They want our oil, that’s the truth.”
I go along with a nod of the head. Too bad, there’s no time to continue the discussion, because the duel of the talking heads is starting up again. I have to wait for the next commercial. One of the two guests starts to raise his voice, or, actually, shout: “Westerners are hypocrites, they talk about democracy only when it’s useful to them! For years they’ve supported the worst regimes in the Arab world.” The other doesn’t give in; instead, he starts raging like a wounded bull: “The only thing we Arabs are any good at is feeling sorry for ourselves and blaming the West for all our troubles. If we are oppressed, poor, unhappy, illiterate, sexually impotent and so forth, it’s never our fault but that of the Western colonialists.”
Suddenly I hear someone calling me. It’s Akram.
“Tunisian!”
“Yes?”
“Are you still looking for a bed?”
“Yes.”
“Then today is your lucky day! A place has become free in an apartment near here.”
By now they all call me “Issa the Tunisian” or simply the Tunisian. I’m happy with that. Maybe I’ll finally become a resident of Viale Marconi. Akram takes a piece of paper and writes the phone number of the landlady, a certain Teresa. He takes the opportunity to give me some useful advice. First of all I should call the lady immediately and tell her that I’m getting in touch with her on his recommendation. As a Sicilian, I know all too well the system of recommendations; everyone wants guarantees. Then I should insist on having an appointment today, there’s the risk that the place will go to some other needy soul. Make your move before it’s too late! Finally, he puts me on my guard against the greed of my future landlady.
“Teresa is a shit, she’ll ask two hundred and fifty euros a month. She’ll try to cheat you to take some trip at your expense.”
“A trip at my expense?”
“Teresa has a nickname: Vacation. Get it?”
“No.”
“She likes to travel, so she always needs money.”
“So then how should I act with her?”
“Stick to two hundred euros. You have a residency permit, so she can’t treat you like the tenants who don’t have papers.”
I nod without saying anything. I take Teresa’s number and go into the booth to call her. Luckily, she answers after just three rings. She tells me to wait for her at Little Cairo because she’s shopping at the supermarket on Via Oderisi da Gubbio. After this phone call I become aware of a problem I had completely underestimated: to seem credible I have to speak a labored Italian, even a little ungrammatical. Sometimes I forget the part I’m playing. I have to identify with the character of Issa, a Tunisian immigrant. I try to remember how my Arab acquaintances speak, especially the Tunisians. I even have to imitate their accent. The ideal is to speak an Italian with a dual cadence: Arab, because I’m Tunisian, and Sicilian, because I’m an immigrant who has lived in Sicily. Maybe the less Italian I speak the better. I promptly decide to temporarily suspend a lot of grammatical rules, so no more subjunctive or remote past. It annoys me to give up our beloved passato remoto.
After a few minutes Teresa arrives with two big shopping bags. She’s around sixty, short, fat, round face, dyed red hair, and slightly overdone makeup. She has a relaxed face, I’d say slightly tanned—she seems to have recently returned from a vacation. In other words, the lady is in good health. They say that travel helps fight depression. The biggest problem of modern times consists in the refusal of the old to grow old. I read or heard this somewhere. But it’s too intellectual for my taste. Intellectual nonsense. Today cheap travel to exotic countries is within reach of all pockets and all year round. Even cruises aren’t exclusively for the rich anymore. Wow, how amazing––low-cost cruises!
Teresa alias Vacation tries to intimidate me linguistically with her Roman dialect. The problem is, though, that she has neither the fascination of Anna Magnani nor the charm of Alberto Sordi. Her voice is irritating; it reminds me of that politician who’s on all the talk shows and news programs, and who seems like he’s spitting when he speaks.
“Oh, goood, so you’re also Egyptian?”
“No, I’m Tunisian.”
“Afef’s country!”
“Yes.”
“Tunisia! Ahh, how nice. I been there four times, last year I went to Hammamet. I took the occasion to visit Craxi’s grave. You know Bettino Craxi?”
I avoid telling her that in Tunisia Bettino Craxi is very well known.
And then I feel like showing off my Sicilian. Eye for an eye! But it’s better not to, I can’t afford to, under the circumstances. I’ve just got to lump it, the end. The man who holds his tongue lives a hundred years.
Anyway, it all went according to Akram’s script. There were no surprises or dramas. We agreed on two hundred euros after a short but intense negotiation. Still, she did manage to trick me into an advance of three months. I’ve got to fork over the whole six hundred euros. So s
he can reserve a low-cost cruise at my expense? Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not taking anything out of my own pocket. I’ll be drawing on the funds of the Italian taxpayer. I’m on a mission for the good of my fellow-citizens. I’m now a very important employee of the State!
Business almost done, the bed is mine. I can move in tomorrow. Teresa asks if I want to see the apartment and I say yes. On her cell phone she calls one of the tenants, who works at the market nearby. After a while a short thin guy arrives. He’s around thirty, his name is Omar, and he’s from Bangladesh. His smile immediately strikes me. On principle I don’t trust merchants and their broad fake smiles. It’s a trick to get money out of you. That’s how it always works.
Before I follow the Bangladeshi to the apartment, Teresa makes a date with me for tomorrow to finalize the agreement: I’ll have to give her the six hundred euros in cash. No checks or transfers. All under the table, naturally. I don’t give a damn, since I’m on a mission.
On the way to see the house Omar gives me some advance information on my future fellow-tenants. He tells me, for example, that the majority are Egyptians. The minority is represented by a Senegalese, a Moroccan, and a Bangladeshi, that is, him. “The important thing is that we are all Muslims,” he concludes, with a big laugh. The smile changes to a laugh? It’s already better. Should I be worried?
The apartment is very close to Little Cairo; it’s on the fourth floor. Omar takes me in, shows me the kitchen, the bathroom, and two bedrooms. There’s no one home. I’ve got time to count the bunk beds. There are six. At first glance it seems like a dormitory.
After the tour I invite the Bangladeshi to the café for coffee. It’s the least I can do to thank him for his trouble. We sit talking for quite a while. Actually, I say very little. The Bangladeshi tells me his story. He came to Rome ten years ago, after a long and expensive trip. His immigration was carefully planned. The family chose him because he was the best suited among his five brothers. Omar was lucky enough to go to school, so he can read and write, and also he was very healthy. Two important requirements for success as an immigrant.
Omar explains one important thing to me: every self-respecting immigrant has a plan for his immigration. Already, before he left, he had a strategy in place, with precise goals to be realized: building a house, marriage, acquiring land, contributing to the dowries of his sisters, paying for the schooling of his younger brothers . . . He’s not just some poor devil who needs welfare.
Planned immigration is a kind of economic enterprise; it has nothing to do with the desperation of the illegal immigrants. In this case money, a lot of money, is invested in future earnings. An immigrant like Omar becomes a small entrepreneur who is in the service of a family plan. He is willing to risk everything to become successful, for himself and his loved ones.
To get to Italy Omar relied on an organization that specializes in trafficking illegal immigrants, and he paid out a good ten thousand dollars. This sum was collected by the family, which went into debt up to its ears. From his native city in Bangladesh he left for Moscow with a tourist visa. Then he crossed many countries in Eastern Europe, to arrive illegally in Italy. Altogether the trip took two months.
At first he stayed with a cousin, in Brescia. Later he decided to join a childhood friend in Rome. Thanks to the last amnesty for immigrants, he became legal, so he could return to Bangladesh to visit his family, and he became engaged to a second cousin.
In these years of work and sacrifice, Omar not only succeeded in paying the debts contracted by his family for the journey but, through remittances, helped accomplish wonderful things: building a new house for his whole family, dowries for his sisters, etc. In other words, Omar is happy, because he did not betray the expectations placed in him.
At the moment my future fellow-tenant works at the market; he manages a vegetable stall with two other Bangladeshis. I don’t understand why he accepts living in a dormitory rather than renting a single room, to have a minimum of privacy.
“My friend, the bed helps me save money.”
“You manage to live with eleven people?”
“Of course. I’ve lived even with twenty people under the same roof!”
“How do you rest?”
“Rest? I’ll rest, but not now and not here.”
“When and where?”
“When I return to Bangladesh to get married.”
To hell with privacy and repose! I’m still thinking like an Italian, I can’t put myself in the shoes of the non-European immigrant. Many of my fellow-citizens don’t understand why the shops of the immigrants in Italian cities are open even on Sundays. But it’s natural. They’ve come here to Italy to work, not to rest. In other words, they’re not tourists! The adopted country becomes a sort of factory, where you work and pile up money.
Unfortunately we have to interrupt our interesting chat. Omar has to go back to work at the market.
I return to Little Cairo to thank Akram for his intercession. The cockfighting program on Al Jazeera is over. I sit down to watch the news. We’re told about a chain of bombings in Baghdad. That’s not news anymore. The story about the robbery of a tobacconist’s shop or a pit-bull attack now makes a greater impression than the death of ten people in Iraq.
To distract myself from this succession of the dead and wounded I start making a little balance sheet of my mission. So far I’ve met a few people, mostly Egyptians. No one has yet invited me for tea or coffee, but I’m hopeful. I’m on a good path. The other day I met a Tunisian, a guy my age who works in construction. We had a nice chat between fellow-countrymen. At first I was disoriented, then I opened up. My “fellow-countryman” wasn’t from Tunis, like me, but from Sousse, a little south of the capital. We talked about this and that, from the war in Iraq to the latest offers for prepaying your cell phone, from Italian politics to the Tunisian soccer championship. I pretend to be a fan of the Taraggi, a sort of Tunisian Juventus. Luckily I’m better informed about Tunisia than many real Tunisian immigrants. I always manage to amaze people, including myself.
I take the bus back to Via Nazionale. I send Judas a text message asking if I can see him right away. For reasons of security we can meet only in the usual apartment. I arrive in about twenty minutes. The captain is already there.
“News?”
“Yes. I found a bed in an apartment near Little Cairo.”
“Wonderful! And good work, Tunisian. And?”
Judas doesn’t like summaries; rather, he insists on details. He’s a sort of professional gossip. In fact he wants to fully understand this business of the bed. Could it be a trap? A trick of Akram and his companions to check me out up close? Maybe they’ve already found me out? Bullshit. Still, the captain is right, we have to get rid of every doubt. Luckily, I have a solid, reliable memory, trained by the study of Arabic. The vocabulary of the Arabic language is really a good gym. You have to remember a lot of things. For example the word “sword” has a good three hundred synonyms. And so I tell him everything from A to Z. He keeps interrupting to ask for clarification or to make a comment. I listen to his instructions like a devout disciple before the venerable master.
“We’re about to begin Phase 2 of the operation. Are you ready, Tunisian?”
“Yes.”
“Now the game gets serious.”
Judas is sure that the bed is a great opportunity. Now that I have a good cover, being a resident of the neighborhood, I can spend as much time as I want at Little Cairo, not just to call the “family” in Tunisia or watch Al Jazeera. Everything becomes easier: making new friends, spending time with the people there, and above all keeping an eye on Akram.
The fact of having this damn bed as a cover, however, creates greater expectations on the part of the captain. Now I’m going to have to work harder, and get concrete results.
Before dinner the most beautiful couple in the world arrives: Antar and James. The former is dark, the second fair, just like Starsky & Hutch. The C.I.A. agent is somewhat worried, because so
far we haven’t identified any suspect belonging to the second cell. At Langley, the C.I.A. headquarters, in Virginia, they want more information about Operation Little Cairo.
James tries to explain the point of view of his superiors: “Al Qaeda wants to show the world that the Americans are incapable of defending themselves, by attacking a symbolic and strategic place, like our Embassy in Rome.” Judas tries to calm him, insisting on the fact that the Italian secret service patrols the neighborhood of Via Veneto day and night. Antar doesn’t find this very convincing: “Al Qaeda tested its strategy when it attacked the American Embassies in Kenya and Tanzania. The bastards didn’t miss a trick. They were really good. In my view it’s not difficult to launch a rocket at a particular target or find someone willing to blow himself up in a crowd.” James nods and confirms the analysis of his Egyptian colleague: “Attacking the American Embassy in Rome means humiliating not only the U.S.A. but also Italy, the European Union, and the Vatican. An attack like that would produce a tremendous wave of panic.”
Judas listens in silence, then he gets up and goes out on the balcony to have a cigarette. At a certain point he turns to us, and says, in a serious voice, “We have to find the second cell, immediately.”
Late that evening I pack a suitcase to take to my new home, and only then do I realize the significance of what Judas said about Phase 2 of the operation. I choose my clothes carefully, giving up my dark-blue suit, a couple of Pierre Cardin shirts, and three silk ties. It’s not the right stuff for a non-European, unless he’s a pimp, or a drug dealer. At the court in Palermo I saw all types. I also have to leave behind (briefly, I hope) all the objects connected to Christian Mazzari, like documents and photographs. I have the sensation of saying a final goodbye to this Christian who has been with me from birth. Before going to sleep I hear an inner voice saying, “You can’t go back, and nothing will ever be as it was.”
Sofia
Divorce Islamic Style (9781609458942) Page 4