The Other Language(25)
“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.