Signor Amedeo is different from the other Italians: he’s not a fascist, I mean he’s not a racist who hates foreigners, like that shit Gladiator who despises us and humiliates everyone. I’m telling you the truth: that bastard got what he deserved. The Neapolitan concierge is a racist, too, because she won’t let me use the elevator when I deliver groceries to my customers who live in her building. She hates me for no reason and won’t answer when I say hello. In fact, she insults me on purpose, calling me Hey Pakistani! I’ve told her many times, “I’m Bangladeshi, and I have nothing to do with Pakistan, in fact I have an unbounded hatred for the Pakistanis.” During the war of independence in 1971, Pakistani soldiers raped many of our women. I can’t forget my poor aunt, who killed herself in order not to bring shame on the family. Ah, if only we had had the bomb! I say the Pakistanis deserve to die like the Japanese in the Second World War. Not to mention the professor from Milan, who even asked me to show him authorization to use the elevator. I wondered if you need a residency permit just for the elevator.
When I see Signor Amedeo with his Iranian friend Parviz in the Bar Dandini I feel happy. I say to myself, “How nice to see a Christian and a Muslim like two brothers: there is no difference between Christ and Mohammed, between the Gospel and the Koran, between church and mosque!” Because I’ve been in Rome a long time I can distinguish between racists and tolerant Italians: the racists don’t smile at you and don’t answer if you say ciao, or good morning, or good evening. They don’t give a damn about you, as if you didn’t exist; in fact, they wish from the bottom of their heart that you would turn into a repulsive insect to be ruthlessly crushed. While tolerant Italians smile a lot and greet you first, like Signor Amedeo, who always surprises me with his Islamic greeting: “Assalam alaikum.” He knows Islam well. Once he told me that the prophet Mohammed said that “to smile at someone is like giving alms.”
Signor Amedeo is the only Italian who spares me embarrassing questions about the veil, wine, pork, and so on. He must have traveled a lot in Muslim countries; maybe because his wife, Signora Stefania, has a travel agency near Via Nazionale. The Italians don’t know Islam properly. They think it’s a religion of bans: Drinking wine is forbidden! Sex outside marriage is forbidden! Once Sandro, the owner of the Bar Dandini, asked me:
“How many wives do you have?”
“One.”
He reflected for a moment, then said:
“You’re not a real Muslim, so no virgins for you in paradise, because Muslims are supposed to pray five times a day and observe Ramadan and marry four women.”
I tried to explain to him that I’m poor, I’m not rich like the emirs of the Gulf, who can maintain four families at the same time, but I didn’t see that he was convinced by my explanation. In the end he said to me:
“I respect you Muslim men, because you love women the way we Roman studs do, and faggots really piss you off.”
And Sandro isn’t the only one who says to me: “You’re not a real Muslim.” There’s the Arab Abdu, who sells fish in Piazza Vittorio. That asshole never stops hassling me—he gets on my nerves. One moment he swears that the true Muslim has to know Arabic, the next he criticizes my last name, Amir Allah, which he considers an offense against Islam. Once he said to me:
“My name is Abdallah and you are Amir Allah. If you knew Arabic, you’d understand the difference between Abdallah, which means Slave of God, and Amir Allah, which means Prince of God.”
So I told him that’s my father’s name and I won’t ever change it, so then he called me a heretic because I consider myself a prince superior to God. This is an extremist Arab and he deserves to have his tongue cut out.
Signor Amedeo is a wanted man? I can’t believe that charge. What really puzzles me is the story that all the news shows have broadcast: that Signor Amedeo is not Italian, he’s an immigrant like me. I don’t trust the TV reporters, because they’re always looking for scandals, and they exaggerate every problem. When I hear the bad things that are said about Piazza Vittorio it makes me suspicious: I wonder if they’re actually talking about the place where I’ve lived for ten years or the Bronx we see in cop movies.
Signor Amedeo is as good as mango juice. He helps us present our administrative appeals and gives us useful advice for dealing with all our bureaucratic problems. I still remember how he helped me solve the problem that gave me an ulcer. It began when I went to get my residency permit at the police station and realized that they had mixed up my first and last names. I explained that my first name is Iqbal and my last name is Amir Allah, which is also my father’s name, because in Bangladesh the name of the son or daughter is traditionally accompanied by the father’s. Unfortunately all my attempts were in vain. I went to the police station every day, until one day the inspector lost patience:
“My name is Mario Rossi, and there’s no difference between Mario Rossi and Rossi Mario, just as there is none between Iqbal Amir Allah and Amir Allah Iqbal!”
Then, with the residency permit in his hand:
“This is your photograph?”
“Yes.”
“This is your signature?”
“Yes.”
“This is your date of birth?”
“Yes.”
“Then there’s no problem, right?”
“Wrong, there’s a huge problem. My name is Iqbal Amir Allah, not Amir Allah Iqbal.”
At that point he got angry and threatened me:
“You don’t understand a goddam thing. If you come back one more time I’ll seize your residency permit, take you to Fiumicino airport, and put you on the first plane to Bangladesh! I don’t want to see you here one more time, get it?”
I immediately talked to Signor Amedeo about it, confessing that I was afraid of Amir Allah Iqbal and that a lot of problems could arise in the future because of this change of name. Let’s say for example that someone whose name is Amir Allah Iqbal is a serious criminal or a ruthless drug dealer or a dangerous terrorist like that Pakistani Yussef Ramsi the Americans captured recently. If I adopted that new identity, how would I prove that my children are really mine? How would I prove that my wife is really mine? What would happen if they saw the marriage license and discovered that the husband of my wife is not me but another person, whose name is Iqbal Amir Allah? How would I get my money out of the bank? After my outburst Signor Amedeo promised that he would intervene to release me from this nightmare.
A few days later he kept his promise and went with me to the police station on Via Genova. It was the first time I had gone to a police station without having to wait for one or two hours. His friend, Inspector Bettarini, was expecting us, and he asked for my residency permit. Then he left the office, came back in a few minutes, and I really couldn’t believe my ears when he said to me:
“Signor Iqbal Amir Allah, here is your new residency permit!”
Before thanking him I glanced quickly at the first lines of the document. Name: Iqbal. Surname: Amir Allah. I breathed a sigh of relief, truly a big weight had been lifted off my shoulders. As we were leaving the police station I had a brilliant idea: “You know, Signor Amedeo, my wife is pregnant and soon I’ll be a father for the fourth time. I’ve decided to call my son Roberto. His name will be Roberto Iqbal!” And so it was. My wife had a boy and I called him Roberto. It’s the only way for him to avoid the disaster of a mix-up between name and surname. It will be impossible to make a mistake because Roberto, Mario, Francesco, Massimo, Giulio, and Romano are all first names, not last names. I must do all I can to spare my son Roberto these serious problems. A good father should look out for his children’s future.
I don’t know where he is now, but I’m sure of one thing: Signor Amedeo is not an immigrant or a criminal! I’m positive he is innocent. He isn’t stained with the blood of that young man who never smiled. I’ve known him ever since I unloaded trucks in Piazza Vittorio, before we started the cooperative. I also know his wife, Signora Stefania, she’s a friend of my wife. He helped me find the house where
I live, even though the owner had refused to rent to immigrants. He even persuaded me to send my wife to school to learn Italian. I really hope that Roberto turns out to be like Signor Amedeo. Now I just have to decide whether to send him to the Italian nursery school or the Islamic school, where he would learn the Koran and the Bengali language.
THIRD WAIL
Tuesday February 24, 10:39 P.M.
This morning Iqbal asked me if I knew the difference between a tolerant person and a racist. I answered that a racist is in conflict with others because he doesn’t believe they’re on his level, while a tolerant person treats others with respect. At that point he came closer to me, and, in order not to be heard by anyone, as if he were about to reveal a secret, he whispered, “Racists don’t smile!”
I thought all day about racists who refuse to smile and I realized that Iqbal has made an important discovery. The racist’s problem is not with others but with himself. I would go further: he doesn’t smile at his fellow-man because he doesn’t know how to smile at himself. The Arab proverb that says “He who has nothing gives nothing” is very true.
Monday June 26, 10:05 P.M.
Tonight, near Piazza Venezia, I ran into Iqbal. He told me that he’s suffering from an ulcer, then he looked at me sadly and said, “Amir Allah Iqbal will kill me!” His tone of voice persuaded me to take him seriously. At first I thought Amir Allah Iqbal was a person who was threatening him and wanted to kill him, and I asked him to explain, so that I could understand. We sat down in a café.
“Did you make a report to the police?”
“I’ve made many reports, but they threw me out.”
Luckily my fears didn’t last long. Iqbal pulled out his residency permit and told me the story of the mix-up of name and surname. He lingered for a long time on the problem of the similarity of names and told me a story about a man in Bangladesh who was hanged by mistake because his name corresponded exactly to that of a dangerous criminal. He looked at me, holding back tears: “You know me, Signor Amedeo, my name is Iqbal Amir Allah and I have nothing to do with Amir Allah Iqbal! You’re the only Italian witness who can save me from future accusations.” His words struck me. I promised that I would help him, right away. Tomorrow morning I’ll call Bettarini, who was so helpful in resolving the problem of the pigeons of Piazza Santa Maria Maggiore and preventing a lot of trouble for Parviz.
Thursday January 30, 11:19 P.M.
This morning I went with Iqbal to the police station. Inspector Bettarini managed to take care of everything in a few minutes. Iqbal’s joy was uncontainable. After saying goodbye to the Inspector, he insisted on inviting me to have tea in a café nearby. He’s decided to name his next child Roberto, to make the job of the police easier when they have to distinguish his first and last name, and so protect his son from the same problem of the confusion of names. Iqbal is proud of the fact that his son will be the first child in the history of Bangladesh to have the name Roberto. Then he added, “I know that for you Italians our names are hard to pronounce, but this way I feel certain that all Italians will smile at my son!” I didn’t want to interrupt. I let him finish and then I asked him, “What will happen if your wife has a girl?”
He reflected for a few seconds and then said, “I’ll call her Roberta! Her name will be Roberta Iqbal. I swear that there is not a girl in Bangladesh who has the name Roberta.” I couldn’t resist the impulse to laugh. We laughed together, indifferent to the glances of the other customers. Doctors of the world unite! Invent a new remedy to cure racists of envy and hatred. Iqbal has diagnosed their illness: we need a pill like aspirin to help those wretched people smile.
Tuesday November 16, 11:39 P.M.
Tonight I went with Parviz to buy rice and spices from Iqbal. As we were talking, the subject came up of some anti-immigrant posters on the walls in Piazza Vittorio. Iqbal pointed to a box of apples in front of him: “When I see a rotten apple I immediately separate it from the rest of the apples, because if I left it there all the apples would be spoiled. Why can’t the police be strict with immigrants who are criminals? Why should the honest ones who sweat for a piece of bread suffer!”
Iqbal’s words opened my eyes. Labeling any immigrant a criminal, without distinction, is a déjà vu. Italian immigrants in the United States were accused of being in the Mafia, and suffered tremendously. Certainly, the Italians don’t seem to have learned anything from the lessons of history.
Friday October 30, 11:04 P.M.
Today Iqbal told me with pride that his firstborn, Mahmood, speaks Italian very well. He’s the one who goes with his mother on her daily rounds, to the doctor, for example, or wherever. I asked him if his wife speaks Italian, and he said that the Bangladeshis don’t send their wives to school because Islam prohibits them from mixing with the opposite sex. When I got home I discussed this with Stefania, and proposed that she should organize Italian classes for Bangladeshi women. Stefania agreed, provided I could persuade Iqbal and his friends.
Tuesday March 26, 11:49 P.M.
After much hesitation Iqbal accepted the idea of an Italian class for women; his wife will attend and Stefania will teach it. I asked Iqbal to get other Bangladeshi husbands to send their wives.
Friday February 9, 11:12 P.M.
Tonight I lingered for a long time over these words from Freud’s Totem and Taboo: “A human being’s name is a principal component in his person, perhaps a piece of his soul.”
THE TRUTH ACCORDING
TO ELISABETTA FABIANI
I went to a lawyer to bring suit against unknown persons. Whoever hurt little Valentino has to be punished. What Benedetta, the concierge, said about the Chinese made me suspicious. I asked the lawyer only one question: “Does the law punish people who eat dogs?” And he, taken aback, said, “I’ve never dealt with a question of that sort,” and asked for time to consult the penal code and get advice from colleagues. I didn’t sit there twiddling my thumbs. I got in touch with humanitarian groups like Amnesty International, and I have to say I was shocked. Their response was “We defend men, not animals.” I say this country is not civilized. A year ago I was in Switzerland and I saw with my own eyes how dogs are treated. There are hairdressers, clinics, and restaurants exclusively for dogs. In fact, I visited a little cemetery in Geneva where man’s best friends are buried. When will Italy become a civilized country like Switzerland?
Signor Amedeo is the only tolerant person in this building. He was never irritated by Valentino’s barking, in fact, he was affectionate and kind to him. Stefania, his wife, hates dogs and was always complaining about Valentino. I told her that barking is the only language he has to express his joy, his sadness, his rage, and other emotions. We mustn’t force him to be silent; we should be patient with him when he pees in the elevator, because he’s like a child. Do we spank children when they wet their beds? We all know that dogs pee and sniff urine to communicate with the outside world. Do we want to take away their natural and legitimate rights? One time, I got fed up with Stefania’s aggressiveness toward little Valentino and I yelled at her, “You’re a racist, a fanatic, and I will not allow you to insult Valentino!” After that she didn’t speak to me for years, whereas Signor Amedeo continued to greet me as if nothing had happened. I’m going to go to the Chinese embassy in Rome, I’ll ask them to intervene. That’s the only way I’ll ever hold poor kidnapped Valentino in my arms again.
The Italian state should be on my side. Am I not a good citizen? Don’t I pay my taxes regularly, before the deadline? Can’t I claim the rights guaranteed me by the constitution? Aren’t I a good Catholic who performs her religious duties properly? I’ve written three letters of reminder, to the Holy Father, the President of the Republic, and the Prime Minister. Each of them should carry out his proper responsibilities.
If Benedetta the Neapolitan’s suspicions about the involvement of the Chinese in Valentino’s kidnapping are true, then the least the Italian authorities could do to show solidarity would be to cut off diplomatic relations w
ith China and throw the owners of Chinese restaurants in jail. No, that’s nothing, they should kick China out of the U.N. and place it under embargo. No, that wouldn’t satisfy me, either. Isn’t it legitimate for Italy, as a member of NATO, to declare war? Aren’t some of the taxes I pay deposited in NATO’s coffers? Aren’t there American military bases in Italian territory?
Suspicion also falls on Marina, Benedetta’s daughter-in-law, who every time she saw Valentino never stopped saying, “What a sweetie! What a sweetie!” Everyone knows that Marina is Sardinian, and Sardinia is famous for kidnappings. You remember the business with Fabrizio De André and the entrepreneur Giuseppe Soffiantini? Evidently the kidnappers modified their strategy, going from men to dogs, having got the idea how much people love dogs. I’m expecting a call asking for ransom. I won’t inform the police, so as not to put Valentino’s life in danger. I’m ready to spend all the money I have to get Valentino back. I’m lonely without Valentino, I can’t live without him.
My grand dream has been destroyed. I wanted Valentino to become a famous actor, like Inspector Rex, who tracks down criminals and arrests them. That young Dutch boy Johan asked me to be in a film he wants to make in Piazza Vittorio. I said I would accept on one condition: that Valentino should be in the film. At first he hesitated, then he said yes. I was preparing Valentino for the future, after the bashing I got from my only son. Before leaving home forever and joining those friends of his in the social-service cooperatives, Alberto said to me, “You’re a jailer in this house, and I want to live without bars. This house is a market, you are a merchant, and I am a client. I want to live far away from consumer society!” I still don’t understand: what do I have to do with prisons and markets? I begged him to stay, but he was indifferent to my tears. My first dream was for him to become a great movie actor like Marcello Mastroianni or Alberto Sordi, but I failed to get him into the Olympus of stars. I never give up, though; I won’t accept defeat or consider something a fait accompli. That’s why I decided to teach Valentino to perform difficult tricks. I went a long way with him and I was just about to reap the fruits of my hard work.
Clash of Civilizations for an Elevator in Piazza Vittorio Page 4
