The Other Language(26)

“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.



This part of the journey, from the Big Island to the Small Island, was a last-minute diversion from my original itinerary. I’d been invited to attend a conference in Dar es Salaam on ecosystem disturbances and the management of protected forests. It was only once I was on the plane to Tanzania, while perusing the map of East Africa, that I realized how close I’d be to the place where Andrea had disappeared. Not exactly close-close, but certainly closer than I’d been in all this time, when it seemed he had vanished somewhere unreachable and exotic, never to be found again. None of us—not any of his friends—had ever heard of this tiny island in the Indian Ocean, which at the time of his disappearance was mentioned only in passing in guidebooks; later, when we’d all become expert Internet surfers, all I could find online in relation to the island were a couple of blurred photos of the ruin of a mosque, as though no travel writer had ever cared to explore it.

I’m a biologist with a doctorate in agriculture and food sciences and my specialty is biodiversity in Central European forests. At the conference in Dar I spoke at length to a sleepy audience on the effects of atmospheric pollution on lichens. Afterward, in the half-empty conference room, a mix of scientists from different parts of the world exchanged mild comments about my talk over watery coffee and stale biscuits. Before I could say anything they had already switched subjects, and were discussing the heat, the malfunctioning of the air-conditioning in their rooms and the poor reception on their phones. Once in my hotel room, instead of giving in to my resentment, I decided I still had a chance to give this exhausting trip a more significant purpose. To finally get hold of an ex-lover I hadn’t heard from in ages seemed a much more rewarding task than introducing rare species of lichens to my colleagues. I Googled all the local airlines till I found a connection that could take me to the island where Andrea supposedly still lived. From Dar I’d have to fly to the Big Island and from there the only way to the Small Island would then be to get on a rusty ferry that takes a day and a half. The Indian Ocean tends to be choppy—at least that’s what I read on Trip Advisor—so I opted for a twelve-seater plane. Before I bought the tickets I Googled Andrea’s name in various combinations with the island name till I found a number for an NGO. Someone picked up the phone after the first ring. It was him. I gasped.