Now, Hank was to embark on a new quest, one that would start in Florence, Italy. He was thrilled at his paid vacation that landed him in the midst of wine and pasta.
It also was where he hoped to meet a young man named Hussein.
10
A FLORENTINE ENCOUNTER
After a sound sleep, preceded by a bottle of Chianti and a sizable wedge of pecorino cheese, Hank left his room at the Hotel Lungarno on Borgo San Jacopo. He was invigorated, not just because of the crisp morning air, typical for March, but because of the adventure he was about to undertake.
He crossed the renowned bridge, the Ponte Vecchio, wandered past the Duomo, the towering cathedral in the center of Florence, and up a narrow street leading to the famous Mercato Centrale, Florence’s central market. It was there he noticed a crowd gathering in the Piazza San Lorenzo, directly ahead of him. It appeared to be a group of African street vendors, and precisely the place Simon had told him to start looking for their Chosen One.
Hank searched the crowd, singling out several of the street vendors, inquiring as to the whereabouts of a young Libyan named Hussein Tarishi. After his fifth inquiry, he found someone who fortunately spoke English. Equally as fortunate, the vendor was able to give him an exact description of Hussein, and easy directions to where he might find him. Hank found his way to the small café behind the Central Market on Via Taddea, and as the street vendor had accurately predicted, Hussein was there, enjoying his morning espresso.
Hussein, even from his sitting position, appeared to be lanky, with a relaxed face portraying a touch of innocence. Innocent, although he was now several years older than when Simon first discovered him. Hank guessed he was in his late twenties. His physical features defied the colorful rhetoric that Simon had heard over a decade ago. Hank had difficulty imagining that level of oratory coming from this gentle soul.
Hank, before having set eyes on Hussein, decided he would first observe him from a distance over the course of a few days. Then, when he felt the time was right, he would introduce himself. To avoid staring in the café, Hank sat off to the side as he enjoyed his first real Italian coffee and cornetto, the Italian version of a croissant.
In the space of an hour, Hussein left the café and wandered back toward the Central Market, with Hank following not far behind. He watched as Hussein approached the steps on the north side of the Basilica di San Lorenzo, just as Simon described. Minutes later, standing tall on the top step, Hussein gathered a sizeable crowd. Hank counted about forty in the group all looking quite similar but in different sizes, shapes, and shades.
In the moments that followed, Hank finally witnessed the seductive language Simon promised. It is as if Hussein is standing on his own pulpit, and perhaps he is, Hank thought.
Anxious to hear what Hussein was saying, and obviously not versed in Italian, Hank managed to overhear one of the onlookers who was fluent in English. Hank asked him if he would give a loose translation of what the man on the top step was saying. The onlooker was happy to oblige. The equally curious observer informed him that the issue of the day was how to cope with the Carabinieri that continued to hassle the street vendors.
After an hour of Hussein parceling out helpful tips, the crowd began to disperse.
Once again, Hank wended his way through the crowd to follow Hussein, staying at a safe distance and out of view. This became his modus operandi for the next several days, until he decided the time was right to approach Hussein directly.
It wasn’t difficult for Hank to go unnoticed in the busy streets of Florence and he quite enjoyed his undercover role. Actually, during his bobbing and weaving in an attempt to be unobserved, he witnessed one of the supposed raids Hussein had described earlier in his speech. Upon seeing the Carabinieri, the vendors scooped up their goods in their white sheets and ran to the nearest street, dashed around the corner, and hid in the doorways of various palazzos and shops. Minutes later, after the Carabinieri drove by or walked away, the vendors would set up shop in the former location, open for business with a smile.
Hank looked on as one daring African placed his wares, specifically his counterfeit Gucci bags, next to a large tent sign. The sign, written in English, warned tourists not to buy counterfeit goods or they would be heavily fined. At first, he wondered whether it was unintentional or simply a farce, however, after observing it on several other occasions, Hank concluded it was the latter.
On the second day, Hank returned to San Lorenzo and saw Hussein again on the steps, but this time he wasn’t standing before a crowd. He was perched on the top step, sitting cross-legged, with an assembled group seated below him. It appeared he was conducting some sort of training session. Unable to find an interpreter, Hank focused on Hussein’s body language and the tone of his speech. He found that he was as impressed as he had been the previous day.
Then, on the third day, at the small café on Via Taddea, Hank took the opportunity to make his introduction.
—
Hussein was sitting alone at his usual table in the corner, when Hank approached.
Squinting, Hank mumbled, “Mi scusi che non parlo l’italiano.” He had been studying his Say It in Italian; Phrase Book for Travelers on his flight over, and Paolo had taught him the value of using various Italian facial expressions and hand gestures; a way of communicating in its own right. Hank didn’t want Hussein to assume he knew anything about him, so he thought the evasive approach was best.
Hussein looked up, and in perfect English with a pleasant Italian accent, said, “It’s not a problem. May I help you?”
It worked like a charm.
Hank proceeded to compliment Hussein on his command of the English language and apologized for the interruption. “I noticed you here the day before, and I saw you again in the Piazza San Lorenzo speaking to the crowd. While I didn’t understand what you were saying to the men you had assembled, I was extremely impressed with your delivery.”
Hank then asked if he could join him at his table, and Hussein invited him to sit down.
“Thank you. I’m on vacation and visiting Florence for the first time, and I didn’t know a soul, until now.” He smiled.
Hussein took the cue and asked, “Where do you come from?”
Hank was more than pleased to respond to the question. He said he lived in Chicago and shared a little about the Windy City.
“I read about your Chicago, and one time I saw some photos of the city. It looks like a nice place to live. What kind of work do you do?” Hussein queried.
Hank, happy to give him just enough detail to stimulate his interest, described the Chestnut Foundation. Hussein seemed most interested in the community organizing aspects, asking a series of questions. Hank was forthcoming with his answers.
During the short time they spent together conversing, Hank felt comfortable enough to ask, “Would you like to join me for lunch later in the day?”
“I’d be delighted,” Hussein responded, and then suggested a time and place to meet.
—
At 1:00 p.m., they met at the Antico Ristorante il Sasso di Dante, a small restaurant across from the Piazza del Duomo that Hussein had recommended.
At first, they engaged in small talk about Florence, graduating to Hussein’s own community organizing activities. He explained to Hank that when he first came to Florence, the street vendors were loosely assembled factions, usually by country of origin, competing against one another, which often led to violence.
“I fought hard to organize the street vendors into one cohesive group that can work together. I knew this was the only way the vendors could become more profitable.” He was also quite proud of the fact that his efforts contributed to holding down the violence and made it easier for them to deal with the Carabinieri. “Specifically, I taught them how to work the tourist, by one vendor selling high and the other vendor selling low, ultimately striking a middle number, which produced a profit.”
Hussein explained how he assigned a team leader for each group
of twenty-five vendors. Currently, his group consisted of 250 vendors, and it was growing. He went on to describe how, at the end of each day, each vendor would turn in the money he had earned to his respective leader. Then the group leaders would meet with him in the evening and deposit their day’s take. At the end of each week, he would pay out the vendors’ salaries in equal shares, minus his ten percent cut.
“Out of the ten percent, I pay myself five and the rest goes into a reserve, as an aid fund in case of medical and or legal needs the street vendors may incur.” He admitted that out of his percentage he paid a meager portion to the Carabinieri. Hussein told Hank that the raids he had witnessed were just a pretense to make it look like the Carabinieri were doing its job. “As long as I’m able to keep the violence down, everyone stays happy. Naturally, the vendors are satisfied with the structure since their earnings had increased and a collective aid fund provided a safety net.”
Hank was impressed with all Hussein had accomplished, and it was obvious that Hussein himself was pleased.
At the close of an enjoyable and informative lunch, Hank gave Hussein a book and asked him if he would read it. “I would be very interested in knowing your thoughts, both about the subject matter and about its author.”
Hussein happily agreed. He promised to read the book that night, and then they could discuss it in the morning, at the café on Via Taddea over their morning espresso.
—
The next day Hank waited in the café for Hussein with great anticipation, continuously checking his watch. As he confirmed the hour for the tenth time, he looked up to see Hussein approaching, with his face aglow and a smile that stretched from ear to ear.
Before the customary greeting, buongiorno, Hussein immediately began to sing the praises of the book Hank had given him. It was music to Hank’s ears as Hussein quoted various passages verbatim. It was clear Hussein was mesmerized.
If Hank didn’t know better, he would have sworn he was listening to Saul himself. Saul Alinsky’s book, Rules for Radicals, was Hank’s bible, and told him everything he needed to know about how to organize the have-nots to achieve real political power. He believed it was a must-read for all to understand radicalism and how to achieve its goals.
As if his speechifying weren’t enough, Hussein also had a photographic memory and was a remarkably quick study. “Alinsky has provided the basis and the structure for true community organizing. I was unaware of many things, and I desperately want to know more!” Hussein exclaimed.
Hank thought it was beautiful—Hussein had found his voice—Hank had found his man.
—
Within days, Hussein was reciting Alinsky’s message in several languages to the crowds, as they gathered on the steps of the Basilica di San Lorenzo. Sometimes he spoke in Arabic, his native tongue, to the Sudanese and Moroccans; other times, it was in French to the Senegalese or English to the Kenyans. Always he would switch back to Italian in an effort to help the other street vendors improve their facility for the local language.
Hank assumed Hussein had learned Italian in his own country, recalling Simon had mentioned that Libya was an Italian colony from 1912 to 1939. In fact, when he spoke in Arabic, his words tended to flow with the hint of an Italian accent, and when he spoke to Hank in English the accent was ever-present. Whatever language Hussein was weaving in and out of, Hank sat back in sheer amazement and admiration.
Within days, Hussein and Hank had established a routine as Hussein carried out his daily schedule. Hank would eavesdrop on his morning oratory, and when he was unable to find an interpreter or understand his words, he focused on his gestures and the faces of his audience. Then Hank and Hussein would meet for lunch at one of the various restaurants and cafés lining the Borgo San Lorenzo near the church. While they consumed pasta or a pizza, Hussein would reconstruct the general idea of his message for that day. Hank, now with permission, would follow Hussein around during the afternoons observing him performing various duties. For the most part, they would wrap up the day continuing their conversations over dinner.
After several days of following this routine, Hank added something new to the mix.
Hank and Hussein would end their evenings squaring off over a game of chess. Hank, the chess master, prided himself on his ability to strategize and ultimately win. However, with Hussein, he had lost more games than he had won. It was a first for him. While Hussein alleged that he had only played once or maybe twice, Hank wasn’t so sure, but he did admire his shrewdness. Checkmate evidently was not a new word in Hussein’s vocabulary.
After several more encounters, they were becoming fast friends.
Each day Hank discovered facts more interesting than the last about Hussein, which certainly gave him more insight into this amazing man. Hussein, unaware that Hank had any prior knowledge, described his home in Libya, and the loss of his family in the bombing that took place in 1986. Hank learned that before arriving in Florence, Hussein was a senior attending the University of Garyounis in Benghazi, majoring in political science.
“I’m guessing you are in your late twenties, which would mean that you were quite young as a senior in college,” Hank said.
“Yes I was sixteen, and considered a genius. My government called me a child prodigy.” After a slight pause, he added, “That explains the rest of my story.” He continued to describe his home life and the extreme poverty he and his family endured. “However, my intelligence was recognized by the government, and Colonel Qaddafi wanted—or rather insisted—that I work for the government in exchange for a full scholarship to the university. I despise my government!” he exclaimed. “The government restricts many human rights—freedom of speech, freedom of assembly, and freedom of the press. Worse, the government controls the court system.” With his facial expression softening slightly, he said, “Still, the one thing I loved most was to learn, to capture all the knowledge I could, and accepting Qaddafi’s offer was my only opportunity to get a formal education and take care of my family.”
Hank took notice when Hussein lowered his head slightly, looking down, and in a hushed voice said, “The real reason I accepted the offer was because it included a home for my family.” Slightly more emotional, he recalled that after the bombing there were many newspapers reporting the entire Tarishi family had died in the attack. “It was a devastating moment, but it provided me the only opportunity to leave my country, never to return.” He sighed.
Looking up at Hank, he described how he fled Libya as a stowaway on a boat heading for Sicily. He explained that was where he first learned Italian, not in the schools of Benghazi but in the streets of Palermo. Over the years, he managed to wend his way along the coast of Italy, picking up odd jobs until he finally reached Florence, where he decided to stay.
Suddenly, Hussein changed his demeanor and the subject, as he started to talk about his passion for social reform.
As he continued to express his views, it was not only the words, but also the power of his oratory, which confirmed in Hank’s mind—he had found the Chosen One.
—
Several weeks had passed, and Hank was scheduled to fly back to Chicago the next day. La Fratellanza had made plans to assemble, and were anxiously waiting to hear what Hank had discovered about Hussein Tarishi.
It was to be their last evening together and Hank knew it would be his final opportunity to make an impassioned plea and to raise the ultimate question: Would Hussein be interested in going to the United States to work for him at the Chestnut Foundation?
First, he needed to lay the groundwork.
Hank invited Hussein to join him for dinner at their favorite Antico Ristorante il Sasso di Dante near the Duomo. While they waited for their antipasti, he reminded Hussein of their discussions when he indicated an interest in a career in politics.
“I remember when you explained how some people who hold a political office use their political power to support efforts to effect social change,” Hussein said. “It is a position I had neve
r considered for myself, but I find the idea intriguing.”
“Yes, but before entering a political career it is best first to involve yourself directly with those activities that effect social change,” Hank advised.
Hank then went on to describe some of his organization’s “effective” organizing activities, as he liked to call them, as a means to increase their power base. By way of example, he explained, one of the neighborhoods outside Chicago had become infested with drug dealers. So he arranged for the pastors in seven of the churches in the neighborhood to preach a sermon, all on the same Sunday. Each pastor was instructed to admonish the actions of the drug dealers and urge the congregation members to band together in a fight to rid their neighborhood of these undesirables. Hank had also arranged for members of his organization to attend the sermons and then take to the pulpit. Speaking on behalf of the Chestnut Foundation, these members informed the parishioners that they would support their efforts and would provide the support to neutralize the drug dealers. Some of the Chestnut Foundation members were former convicts, well versed in the ways of the street and in enacting their own sort of justice. It was quite “effective,” but these were details, Hank thought best not to mention. But he did say that the drug dealers relocated, leaving the neighborhood once again safe.
“So, the members of the community were beholden to the Chestnut Foundation and provided an abundance of volunteers for many of your organizing drives,” Hussein surmised.
“Exactly!” Hank exclaimed, still amazed at Hussein’s quick grasp of the issues.
Brotherhood Beyond the Yard (The Simon Trilogy) Page 9
