The Other Language(14)
By then her English was fluent and flawless, and she hardly had a trace of an accent. She made sure to pick up every mannerism and colloquial expression that might polish her new identity. Whenever someone asked her where and when she’d learned to speak such good English, she said something about a summer in Greece and an English boy named Jack she’d had a crush on. This tale, from which David had been conveniently omitted, had become the standard answer to the question and everyone always agreed with her answer: falling in love was surely the only way to learn a language properly. The fiction of Jack as her first love grew more and more solid. But it was impossible to completely erase David from her biography. He had the unshakable position of the boy to whom she’d lost her virginity.
Her happiness with the biologist didn’t last. Within a year Emma fell out of love (she later admitted that she had been more in love with the idea of becoming an American than in love with him) and she moved to New York. Initially she had little hope of sustaining herself, but soon enough everything fell into place. Friends of friends offered her a place to stay; she got a part-time job with an architectural firm, moved into her own place and obtained a work visa. Three years later, on the day she received her green card, she got drunk on Champagne at eleven in the morning and declared to her friends, “It was my destiny. I always knew I belonged somewhere else.”
A few months later, Emma flew to Rome to visit her family, where she lectured Luca and Monica on the benefits one had living in America. It was the usual litany about efficiency, good service, being able to return a clothing item even if already worn, getting your phone service up and running in a matter of minutes, being able to FedEx anything for a pittance, etc., etc. They resented being spoken to as if they were still living in the Middle Ages (they’d been subjected to her pro-America rhetoric before and were in tacit agreement that Emma’s obsession to become an American was, to put it bluntly, pathetic).
Shortly after her arrival in Rome, Emma sat on a bench in the Piazza Navona eating a gelato while waiting to meet an old friend for a movie. It was a beautiful evening, warm and clear, and the large oblong square was busy with tourists taking pictures of the Fountain of the Four Rivers, while swifts flitted overhead. She was early and had a little time to contemplate the scene. She observed a crowd of Korean women in floppy hats, dark shades and with short legs entering the church of Saint Agnes in an orderly line; a mime with a face plastered in white set up his portable speaker, getting ready for his act; and children riding their bicycles in circles, oblivious to their mothers’ calls. Emma felt buoyant, something of a tourist herself, able to look at every detail with a fresh eye.
The mime’s sound track boomed from the speakers. It was, predictably, a frenzied piano score from a silent film. He was dressed in a business suit and his gig was about having to lift a very heavy suitcase. His efforts seemed titanic. The suitcase wouldn’t move. He signaled a child to step out of the circle of onlookers and gestured for him to lift the suitcase for him, which the child did, effortlessly. People cheered and laughed. Emma smiled at the na?veté of the performance, and slid back into her musings. She saw that now that she lived in another country she had been able to develop a completely different affection for Rome. She no longer felt responsible for any of the things that had humiliated her in the past. The graffiti on the walls, the garbage on the streets, the potholes, the hideous traffic, the cheap tourist menus, the cheeky café waiters: none of it concerned her anymore, it was pure folklore.
Suddenly Emma felt a shift of energy around her and realized the circle of onlookers were now looking at her. The mime seemed to have zeroed in on her as his next assistant. She shook her head a couple of times and mouthed “no, no” but he ignored her and leaped forward, stretching his hand out. She spoke under her breath.
“No. No, please. Someone else, please. I can’t.”
But he already had her by the wrist and was pulling her in. The audience signaled their approval with applause. It was too late, he was already pointing at the suitcase. Obediently Emma lifted it: it was empty and weightless. The mime feigned bewilderment; he scratched his head like a clown and gestured for her to carry it over to his left. She did. More head scratching, more laughter from the audience, then he pointed to his far right. Emma complied, wanting to be done with it as fast as possible. He stood next to her and tried to lift the suitcase in vain. It really did look as if the suitcase weighed a ton. People clapped and cheered. Before she could take her exit, the mime grabbed Emma’s arm and whispered in English.
“Wait. I think I know you.”
“What?”
“Are you Emma?”
Emma stared at the white mask, the eyes penciled in black. A panda face.
“I’m Jack. Don’t you remember? Jack from Kastraki beach.”
He asked her to wait for him to finish his gig but she told him she had only fifteen minutes, she was supposed to be somewhere.
“Fifteen minutes. I need to wash my face. I can’t talk to you with this stuff on.”
“Yes. Sure. Fine. I’ll wait for you over there.” She pointed to one of the cafés bordering the square.
She kept an eye on him from where she sat. She watched him close his act in a hurry, gather his things and store them behind a potted plant. He washed his face with a sponge, at one of the water fountains.
When he sat at the table she recognized him. It was Jack all right, but a deflated version of younger Jack, his skin no longer so taut, some creases in his forehead. Still handsome, brown-eyed Jack, though, with a full head of hair. In his haste to meet her he’d left some smears of white makeup on his face. He stared at her, bewildered.