The Other Language(33)

“How come one never sees the ocean on this island?”

“On this side of the island it’s more difficult to see it.”

“Then take me somewhere where I can. Otherwise I’ll never believe this is an island.”

He stares into nothingness.

“Come on. Let’s go. Just you and me this time.” I make my voice sound as conspiratory and commanding as I can.

But he looks up at me, as if weary.

“Why?”

“Because I’ve come all this way to see you, and you, Andrea, haven’t spent a minute with me. You’ve either handed me over to your wife, or talked to me like a stranger.”

He doesn’t reply and looks away. I can feel him retreating, curling up. I raise my voice.

“Come back!”

He looks at me, startled, almost frightened. “What do you mean, come back?”

“Just come back, for God’s sake!” I shout. “Come back into yourself! Come back! I feel you have turned into an alien.”

“Have you been drinking?”

“It doesn’t matter and who cares? It’s exactly what I think. This person you are pretending to be—is not you.”

“Oh really? And who am I then?”

“I’ve known you a long time. Longer than anybody else here. I know this is not you.”

He stares at me and doesn’t say anything. I hold my breath. Does he hate me?

“No you don’t,” he says coldly. “You think you know me, but you don’t.”

He glances toward the door of the house. “And please lower your voice.”

Fifteen years of never eating fresh vegetables, but only rice, chapatis and fried fish in coconut oil have modified his shape, the texture of his skin, the molecules of his inner organs. Fifteen years of not having access to decent books, but just airport paperbacks snatched from the few foreign visitors, must have starved his mind, shrunk his intellect. Fifteen years of not speaking his mother language, forgetting its poetry, its songs, its sonorities and rhythms. And how about going to prayer five times a day, kneeling on a mat, his forehead touching the ground? In which way might that strict discipline transform an agnostic, a free spirit, a biker with long curls?

“Why are you still here?” my voice breaks. I had no idea I’d be so crushed.

He doesn’t say anything.

I think about my boyfriend of five years, Gregorio, whom I’m not sure I’m still in love with but who has become my family, our sunny two-bedroom apartment in Monteverde Vecchio, my old dog, Olga. My daily morning run in the park, my small, cluttered office at the faculty, a couple of my brightest students. The list of my life’s highlights is not that long and maybe not that interesting.

Who am I to judge? Maybe Andrea didn’t come here seeking adventure. Maybe he has chosen this place to venture inward rather than expand, since everything here—the people, the buildings, even the geography—lacks beauty and brilliance. Maybe he was relieved when he found a place where he could shrink and settle into a smaller life, away from the eyes of others. From all our expectations.

“I am here because this is my home now,” he says, looking up again, to somewhere far away, above the mango trees across from the house.

“Don’t you ever miss Rome?”

“Rome?” he asks, as baffled as if I’d said Mars. “No. Never. I never think of Rome.”

“And us? Don’t you ever think of us?”

He shakes his head slowly.

“No I haven’t. In a long, long time.”

That’s fair, I think. I hadn’t been thinking much about him either. I hadn’t truly missed him till now.

“Take me to see the ocean, Andrea. Just the two of us.”

He stares at me and something shifts in his eyes—is it tenderness? Or maybe just a spark of it.



We drive for almost an hour in his battered Toyota with the NGO’s logo painted on the side, heading north through a thick forest and then turning west, toward the setting sun. We walk on a sandy path through the bushes and suddenly it’s as though a curtain has been lifted. Miles and miles of open view, of deep blue sea and sand lined with the vibrant green of the forest. The sand is as fine as talcum powder and snowy white, just as Tescari’s brochure described it. I fill my lungs with the salty air, exhilarated by the open space. We sit, and watch the sun go down. It’s low tide and the water has just started to retreat, its rivulets are sculpting wavy furrows in the sand, the crabs running obliquely on its translucent surface.

“This is beautiful,” I say.

The sun looks like an egg yolk ready to plop into the sea. I stand up and quickly strip off my shirt and unbutton my trousers.

He stands up, too, alarmed.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going for a swim.”

“No. You can’t go in like that.”

He quickly picks up my clothes and hands them back to me.

“Yes, I can. There’s nobody around for miles and miles. And you’ve seen me naked before.”

“Stella!”

I drop my panties on the sand and I slide off into the velvety, lukewarm water. I dive in and swim until I’m almost out of breath. When I reemerge I see him standing on the edge of the water with my clothes crumpled in his hand.