tissue, the Arab without a name. I pretend not to notice him. He is looking at me.
Around noon I go home to make lunch. After we eat, the architect plants himself in front of the TV for another round with Al Jazeera. Sometimes I think of Al Jazeera as a real rival, a sort of daytime lover. He spends more time with her than with me. And so? So what. Maybe I’m starting to become a jealous wife. Should I be worried?
At four my husband leaves the house to go to work. The second part of my free time begins. I take Aida and go to see Samira, my best friend. We live in the same building—all I have to do is go down one floor. For me she’s like a big sister. Samira is Algerian; she’s ten years older than I am, and has lived in Rome for fifteen years. She’s married to a Tunisian truck driver, and she has three children. She’s a housewife, but she doesn’t wear the veil. I met her when I arrived in Rome. We became friends immediately, and now we see each other practically every day, usually in the afternoon. We tell each other everything and we give each other a ton of advice. I often leave Aida with her when I have pressing things to do.
At eight I go home. After dinner I put my daughter to bed with a story. I’m not sleepy, so I decide to watch TV. I take a quick tour of the channels, using the remote. Nothing interesting on the Italian ones. So I try the Arabic. On a Lebanese channel I find a classic film with the legendary singer Abdel Halim Hafez and the actress Meriem Fakhr Eddine. It’s a love story about a young aspiring singer, desperately poor, and a beautiful rich girl. Soap-opera stuff? No, not at all. It’s a romantic movie with fabulous songs. It reminds me of my adolescence. I was in love, too. With whom? With a doctor, but he was married and had children. It was a platonic love, consisting of looks and a lot of fantasies. I’ve seen this film a bunch of times. I know all the details. Here’s my favorite scene. The two lovers are on the banks of the Nile. It’s night, the stars are out, Abdel Halim sings to his beloved
Belumuni leh
?, why do you criticize me?
Why do you criticize me?
If you, too, could see
Her eyes, so beautiful you could die,
It would seem to you right that I think only of her
And can no longer sleep.
Issa
T he other day Mohammed the Moroccan received a strange phone call from the Rome police headquarters. He was told to appear the following day to receive his residency permit. He thought they were pulling his leg, but it was true. He woke at dawn so he’d be punctual for the appointment, assuming he’d have to wait in the usual long line for non-Europeans.
As soon as the office opened he went in to make inquiries. The agent, sitting behind a window with a tired and irritated look, merely entered the name in the computer. As he waited for the response Mohammed was very worried. Apart from that blasted telephone call, he had nothing, not a single scrap of paper with an official stamp, to bring as proof. Appointments are serious. You can’t just show up empty-handed. That’s how things work at police headquarters, commissioners’ offices, and checkpoints in airports. And Mohammed knows this very well, because he’s been in Italy since the eighties. Over time he has also developed a system of defense against possible reactions of police and municipal and postal employees, their use of the familiar
tu
rather than the formal
lei
, the sarcastic expressions, the ironic smiles, the provocative questions . . .
This time, however, it was different. The policeman said, with a big, broad smile, “Signor Mohammed, they are expecting you in the diplomatic office. Here, take your pass.” He couldn’t believe his ears. It was too strange. It seemed to him a sort of
Candid Camera
featuring not celebs but poor immigrants. Maybe he let slip to himself some comment like “What’s happening to me?” or “Bastards, they’re making fun of me,” or “I’m only dreaming and
Around noon I go home to make lunch. After we eat, the architect plants himself in front of the TV for another round with Al Jazeera. Sometimes I think of Al Jazeera as a real rival, a sort of daytime lover. He spends more time with her than with me. And so? So what. Maybe I’m starting to become a jealous wife. Should I be worried?
At four my husband leaves the house to go to work. The second part of my free time begins. I take Aida and go to see Samira, my best friend. We live in the same building—all I have to do is go down one floor. For me she’s like a big sister. Samira is Algerian; she’s ten years older than I am, and has lived in Rome for fifteen years. She’s married to a Tunisian truck driver, and she has three children. She’s a housewife, but she doesn’t wear the veil. I met her when I arrived in Rome. We became friends immediately, and now we see each other practically every day, usually in the afternoon. We tell each other everything and we give each other a ton of advice. I often leave Aida with her when I have pressing things to do.
At eight I go home. After dinner I put my daughter to bed with a story. I’m not sleepy, so I decide to watch TV. I take a quick tour of the channels, using the remote. Nothing interesting on the Italian ones. So I try the Arabic. On a Lebanese channel I find a classic film with the legendary singer Abdel Halim Hafez and the actress Meriem Fakhr Eddine. It’s a love story about a young aspiring singer, desperately poor, and a beautiful rich girl. Soap-opera stuff? No, not at all. It’s a romantic movie with fabulous songs. It reminds me of my adolescence. I was in love, too. With whom? With a doctor, but he was married and had children. It was a platonic love, consisting of looks and a lot of fantasies. I’ve seen this film a bunch of times. I know all the details. Here’s my favorite scene. The two lovers are on the banks of the Nile. It’s night, the stars are out, Abdel Halim sings to his beloved
Belumuni leh
?, why do you criticize me?
Why do you criticize me?
If you, too, could see
Her eyes, so beautiful you could die,
It would seem to you right that I think only of her
And can no longer sleep.
Issa
T he other day Mohammed the Moroccan received a strange phone call from the Rome police headquarters. He was told to appear the following day to receive his residency permit. He thought they were pulling his leg, but it was true. He woke at dawn so he’d be punctual for the appointment, assuming he’d have to wait in the usual long line for non-Europeans.
As soon as the office opened he went in to make inquiries. The agent, sitting behind a window with a tired and irritated look, merely entered the name in the computer. As he waited for the response Mohammed was very worried. Apart from that blasted telephone call, he had nothing, not a single scrap of paper with an official stamp, to bring as proof. Appointments are serious. You can’t just show up empty-handed. That’s how things work at police headquarters, commissioners’ offices, and checkpoints in airports. And Mohammed knows this very well, because he’s been in Italy since the eighties. Over time he has also developed a system of defense against possible reactions of police and municipal and postal employees, their use of the familiar
tu
rather than the formal
lei
, the sarcastic expressions, the ironic smiles, the provocative questions . . .
This time, however, it was different. The policeman said, with a big, broad smile, “Signor Mohammed, they are expecting you in the diplomatic office. Here, take your pass.” He couldn’t believe his ears. It was too strange. It seemed to him a sort of
Candid Camera
featuring not celebs but poor immigrants. Maybe he let slip to himself some comment like “What’s happening to me?” or “Bastards, they’re making fun of me,” or “I’m only dreaming and
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