ordered him another beer with stuzzichini.
“Let’s take one of my housemates as an example. So that it’s not about me but someone else. That makes it easier. He comes from Senegal. He’s black. His name is Djiby. Yes, write that in your notebook: Djiby. Got that, concerned white citizen of the world? Great. He’s a man with a spectacular refugee story. Go and interview him. I’d be happy to introduce you to him.”
“Thank you.”
“But the principle is the same.”
“What principle?”
“My family saved up, too. I have five brothers. And a couple of sisters, but they don’t count. Apart from that, I have about forty cousins. The family picked me out. The crossing and the documents cost a couple thousand euros. The illegals, like Djiby, paid even more. But in Africa, it’s considered a wise investment. Everyone knows how difficult it is to get into Europe. That’s why they choose their best sons or cousins. The people with the best chance of success in Europe. They picked me because of my professional training and because I speak English. And everyone knows the investment is returned. Because if he manages to reach Europe, he’ll automatically get rich and send back money, fridges, and cars to the family members who took out loans to get him there.”
“What if it doesn’t work?”
“That’s not an option.”
“But it happens.”
“In almost one hundred percent of the cases. But it’s not an option. Because they’ve invested too much in you. And apart from that, you’d be the first.”
“The first?”
“Not to make it in Europe.”
“And all those others then? All those Moroccans and Senegalese like the ones you’re sharing the house with?”
“The legals get themselves knee-deep in debt so they can return to the homeland in August in a hired Mercedes with a trunk full of Rolexes.”
“And that keeps the fairy tale alive.”
“Fairy tales aren’t fairy tales if no one doubts their being true.”
“And the illegals?”
“It’s a fairy tale paid for with the family’s entire assets. Do you know how much money that is in Africa, a couple thousand euros? In Casablanca, they assume that I’ll immediately start earning that on a monthly basis. Because I’m in Europe. Because I managed to get to Europe.”
“What would happen if you went back and admitted that the project failed?”
“The illegals do the same as us. Except they can’t go home. They spend the whole day sweating in call shops, explaining in their language why the money transfer hasn’t arrived yet. It seems like all of Senegal hangs out on the pavement in front of the Western Union. And they use that money not to buy food or to open a shop or start a business—they buy Rolexes to show their friends they’ve made it because they have a second cousin in Europe.”
“And how much do you earn now, if I may ask?”
“If I returned empty-handed, without fridges and Mercedes for the whole family, it would mean that I, the chosen one, was the first to violate the sacrifices and trust of my kinsfolk. I would be disowned by my family and friends and I wouldn’t have any family or friends anymore. I’d be the ultimate loser, a pariah no one would ever want to have anything to do with. I’d be as good as dead.
“These roses are imported and stripped in the Ghetto. They are sold illegally in the early morning on Via della Maddalena for fifty cents apiece. I take forty on weekdays and a hundred and twenty on Fridays and Saturdays. I sell them for a euro. And I rarely manage to sell them all. I have to pay my rent and in the meantime my family keeps asking where the Rolexes have got to.”
“And so?”
“And so and so and so. And so everyone does what I do. From time to time, I send them fifty, a hundred, two hundred euros.”
“And you borrow that?”
“I borrow it.”
“And how are you going to pay it back?”
“I live in a fantasy, Ilja. And not even one I made up myself.”
26.
An interviewer in my home country once asked me, “Why do you keep falling in love with waitresses?” I have no idea where he got his information from. I didn’t have much time to think about it; I had to come up with a witty response: “Because they can’t escape my gaze.”
I’m writing to you, my friend, because I’m afraid things are about to get out of hand with the waitress from the Bar of Mirrors. I say afraid, and I mean for you, because she is, as I’ve repeated to the point of boring you with it, the most beautiful girl in Genoa. You’ll never see me again anyway, but given the most recent developments, I’m afraid I have to admit the fact with an ever-broadening grin on my face.
To maintain the suspense, I’ll tell you something else first. I found the Mandragola. You’ll remember I told you about my new friend Cinzia and she gave me the romantic or more accurately medieval task of going off in search of it. I used that as a reason to penetrate even more deeply into the alleyways than I usually do when I got lost. This was right at the start of my time in Genoa, when getting lost was one of my main pastimes. Cinzia is an intelligent girl. She understands stuff. I didn’t entertain for a moment the illusion that the Mandragola actually might exist. But still, I went in search of it. Anyone wanting to make their home in a new country can’t ignore orders given by clever, well-meaning local residents. You can’t ignore an order given by any woman, until you’re married to her and can secretly ignore her orders. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
The Mandragola exists. It’s a restaurant. I went there yesterday. There were tables outside on a square the size of a service court when you’re playing tennis. In front of a blackened Roman church that through the centuries has been grilled, roasted, and burned down so often it has carbonized to its essence and can decay no more. The minuscule, crammed terrace is shared with a café located in the crypts of an adjacent building in medieval cellars that would be an excellent torture spot if only for the reason that the walls are so thick cries for help would never reach the outside world. And you can descend even lower, to the underground river, where there are cushions on the floor and burning torches. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to find this café, this square, or the Mandragola ever again, assuming it would all still exist the next time, if it did exist yesterday and wasn’t just a figment of my imagination. Because the way it exists, it exists in the shadowy net of dark alleyways at the foot of Santa Maria in Castello where even the rats get lost.
I was there with her. No, not with Cinzia, but with her. Really. When I finally found the Mandragola, it was thanks to the most beautiful girl in Genoa.
27.
I broached it in a really smart way, if I may say so myself. I did the unimaginable. I spoke to her.
“But…” I said.
I’m picturing a traditional Italian wedding. With a white dress and a church. Friends who fly in for it and a long table on a piazza. We’ve talked about nothing but the menu for months. Antipasta misti, we agree about that. Sardinian salami and Spanish pata negra was my suggestion. A few ripieni. Courgettes filled with minced meat. And something for the vegetarians, of course. Carpaccio of swordfish, tuna, and salmon with wasabi sauce. And fried melanzana. Acciughe impanate too, breaded anchovies, fileted and opened out so you can eat them with your fingers. But you said that wasn’t an antipasto but a secondo. And those Calabrese meatballs of yours then? You do have a white dress. So in any case we should serve food that doesn’t stain, because I know you. Crudité di gamberoni crudi. And vongole with cozze. Penne al gorgonzola. As a primo. For a wedding? Pears with Parmesan cheese, is that a primo or a secondo? I think it’s a dessert.