The Other Language(28)

“I can’t believe I finally got hold of you!” I almost shout, unable to repress my enthusiasm.

“Wait a minute, let me deal with him first,” he says calmly, almost dreamily, lifting his chin toward Tescari, who has stayed behind, talking to the taxi driver, possibly telling him to wait for him.

It’s disappointing, of course, that joy for this reunion should be put on hold and mitigated by the presence of a stranger.

Tescari sprints onto the porch baring his white teeth. He offers his hand.

“So very pleased to meet you at last. I can’t stand communicating via e-mail or phone; one has to be able to look people in the eyes when talking business, don’t you think?”

I catch a flash of surprise in his eyes as he takes in the white kanzu and kofia.

Andrea doesn’t answer, he simply shows us into a small room, empty save for a green couch sheathed in plastic, a makeshift bookcase with a few paperbacks, and a sisal mat on the cement floor. On the bare walls hangs but a single picture, Arabic calligraphy. Tescari takes in the ambiance, then throws me a reproachful glance, as if I have lured him into a trap. Andrea shows him the couch.

“Please sit down.”

Andrea instead sits on the floor, folding his legs in lotus position. Tescari slides uncomfortably onto the very edge of the couch, as though he wants to avoid contamination, and the plastic cover makes a screeching, embarrassing sound under him. He opens his briefcase and pulls out the drawings. I stand, as I’ve not been asked to sit down yet, glad to keep a distance from the position that Tescari has been given on the couch.

There is a moment of uncomfortable silence. Andrea and Tescari stare at each other as if neither one wants to be the first to speak. Then Andrea makes a gesture with his hand, signaling that Tescari should begin.

Tescari fumbles through his documents, then unfolds a large drawing.

“As I told you on the phone, I have investors in Europe that are extremely keen on this project. They are ready to come in as soon as I let them know the permits have been secured. Here, take a look at the plans.”

Tescari hands the drawing down to Andrea, who takes a cursory look at it and says nothing. I hear a noise in the next room. Someone is splashing water on the cement floor.

“We’re planning to fly the clients down from Dar to make it easier for them to reach the camp. All we need is a landing strip for a Cessna, that’s not a problem, but we’ll have to build a road to carry building materials and so on.”

Tescari taps his shirt pocket.

“Can I smoke?”

“No. You can go outside if you wish.”

Tescari leaves the pack of cigarettes in the pocket.

“How far is the beach from the main road? From the plane we couldn’t see, the foliage was too thick. And how about water? Do you have any idea how deep one has to dig?”

Andrea doesn’t answer. Just sits there with his legs in a knot. Tescari is puzzled but decides to ignore the awkward silence.

“You are the first person I am talking to, here. I will see the Ministry of Land and Forests as well, of course. But before I do I wanted to have a clearer picture of the technical aspects. I was told you’re the best person to talk to since you know everybody on the island.”

Tescari watches as Andrea folds the map shut.

“I’ve lived in East Africa long enough,” Tescari says. “I know it can be tricky to start a project like this if you are an outsider. That’s why I came to see you first. To get a sense of—”

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.