The Other Language(32)
After two more visits in the neighborhood, we are back on the road, although the way Farida grips my arm enhances the feeling of being her prisoner. We walk past the mildewed Soviet tower, toward what looks like the center of town, but soon I realize there is no center, no pretty square as such, no leafy gardens, no latticed verandas, no bustling heart of the village, but only more cement buildings decaying among heaps of trash. The market—the destination I have so eagerly prepared for—sits underneath yet another concrete structure, built by the same ghastly planners. At this time of day it’s half empty except for packs of stray dogs wandering through the leftovers of market day.
I look around, searching for a view of the ocean. It comes to me that since I’ve landed I haven’t seen a single shade of blue. I look in every direction, walk this way and that, but the sea is nowhere to be seen. How can this be possible? How can an island—especially such a small island—conceal the water surrounding it? My anxiety mounts. There must be an outlook, a promontory, a belvedere from which one can see water. I pose the question to Farida. Where is the sea? The sea! I ask in an almost desperate tone. Water? But she shakes her head, amused. I try with Italian. Mare? Acqua? Eau? No, she doesn’t understand a word, and I didn’t carry my Teach Yourself Swahili with me. Suddenly I must see water. My heart pounds. This must be what a real attack of claustrophobia feels like.
It is then, from out of the corner of my eye, that I get a glimpse of khaki. My brain registers the shade, the texture of the fabric, and instantly flashes a message. Your tribe. It is indeed a man in his thirties, in a light blue shirt and shorts. Right behind him are the loafers of Carlo Tescari. He and his friend Jeffrey Stone—tall, with thick blond sideburns and round across the waist—are chatting as they come out of the fishmonger’s with a parcel wrapped in newspaper.
My brain flashes again. I know exactly what’s happening here. They will have delicious peppered shrimps in chili sauce for dinner. I raise my arm and yell.
“Hey!”
It has not been easy to get rid of Farida. She was very upset when I began to smilingly signal “You can go home, it’s fine, I know the way. Just go home now, I’m okay.” But the stubborn girl didn’t want to move.
“Who is she?” Jeffrey Stone asked. We had just been introduced by Tescari, who had rejoiced when I had invited myself for a drink.
“You need a break from that madman, eh?” Tescari said, and I think he winked, too. “What did I tell you?”
“Who is this girl now?” Jeffrey Stone asked again.
I didn’t reply and Farida didn’t budge.
“Can you speak to her in Swahili? Please tell her she can go home, that I’ll be fine, I know my way back.”
Both Tescari and Stone spoke to her with the brisk tone people use with servants in this part of the world. Farida seemed hurt. She gave me a look under her long eyelashes, perhaps expecting me to explain her role to these men. She was my hostess, her face said, she was responsible for me. We must go home together. But I didn’t obey her silent request. Instead I moved my hand again toward what I figured was the direction home.
Please. Please go.
Then a couple of words from the Swahili book resurfaced.
Nyumbani, tafadhali.
Reluctantly she turned and started walking away.
Jeffrey Stone lives in a slightly nicer concrete box than Andrea’s, although no building on this odd, seemingly seaviewless island meets any of the requirements that might elevate it to something even remotely romantic. Stone has made an effort to make the place look cozy, though. He has a few colorful throws scattered across his sofa and armchairs, a Moroccan rug on the floor and a few coffee table books with old photographs of hunting expeditions or East African interiors. We sit outside on the veranda on plantation chairs and an older man with a severe expression in kanzu and kofia brings out a tray with iced gin and tonics and freshly roasted cashew nuts. Apparently Tescari has brought the booze all the way from mainland Tanzania and, judging from what’s left in the bottle, they’ve had quite a lot of it already.
Tescari has an appointment tomorrow morning with the Ministry of Land and he’s pretty optimistic that he’ll get his permits without a problem.
“Despite,” he adds, turning to me, “what your friend claims.”
I ignore his remark and say yes to a refill of my glass.
“He has married a local, right?” Jeffrey Stone inquires as he pours.
“Was that her?” Tescari asks.
I nod and feel both men’s eyes on me. I know they expect me to make a remark or to crack half a joke as a sign of solidarity to the white man’s cause when stranded on such unfriendly land, but I keep my straight face and ignore the question, asking Jeffrey what his job involves and whether he’s planning to stay here much longer. He isn’t, he’s applied for a post in Uganda. Come the end of the year and he’ll get the hell out of this hole.
This short parenthesis in the colonial world on the island has had the power to rejuvenate me, probably because of the alcohol intake, but I walk home strengthened, and full of ideas.
Andrea’s on the porch, crossed-legged on the baraza. Pretending to be looking into some miraculous cloud formation in the sky. I know he’s been waiting for me, but when I walk in he just says hi, as though he’s not interested in where I’ve been. I move to sit next to him and he scoots over to make room. We sit quietly for a moment, though I am not quiet inside. I am energized and determined to pierce through the armor with which he has been shielding himself. We enjoy a moment of silence, then I begin.