Ilja Pfeijffer - La Superba

“Once upon a time, in the not-so-distant past, they’d built facilities to accommodate Africans like me. A grass plot with a barbed wire fence around it. Two barracks, hundreds of tents, and a soup kitchen. Piss in the woods and wash in the sea. You could probably piss in the sea, too. In any case, there was no active policy of checking what we were doing. But that reception center was full, so they let us roam the island. We slept on the streets. Three times a day we were allowed to fetch water and some food, but a Mercedes and an income weren’t provided, though they were just what we had all come for. Food and drink was something we had in Africa. And it was better. And there was more of it. And at least we had a roof over our heads there. But without papers you were forbidden from becoming rich and the papers didn’t arrive. I spoke to fellow Senegalese who had been on Lampedusa for a year. A year. Do you know how long a year lasts, Ilja? Do you know how long a year lasts if you can’t remember how long it has been since you set off?

“There were frequent uprisings. There were just too many angry, frustrated black men sitting on a rock. I saw other men setting fire to a shop because you had to pay with real money there. I didn’t join in but I understood. I understood only too well.”

“But you’re in Genoa now.”

Djiby found this very funny. “You have such great observation skills, Ilja.” He roared with laughter. “Give me another beer.”

“But I meant…”

“How did I get here?”

“Yes, that’s what I wanted to ask.”

“Ha ha ha, Ilja. Don’t you read the papers? That was because of that excellent joke that…What’s his name? The last one? The last Italian prime minister.”

“Berlusconi.”

Djiby roared again. “Yes, exactly. Handsome man, that. With his bunga bunga. He could have been an African. Berlusconi. I’ll never forget that name. He came to Lampedusa in his private helicopter to solve the problem. He liked that, solving problems. Especially when there were TV cameras pointing at him. And when they were pointing at him, when his hair was all combed and they’d finished his makeup, he said he’d give us all a temporary residence permit.”

“I read about that.”

“It was brilliant. In fact, he was telling the rest of Europe, if you don’t help us by sending army ships to the Sicilian Channel to stop those dehydrated, starving black men and send them back to Libya, I’ll give them a permit so that they can come to you.”

“And he knew…”

“He knew they all wanted to go to France. The Senegalese in any case. We spoke French and most of us have a second cousin or a friend in Paris. Berlusconi chartered a few ferries to Genoa that would drop us off handily at the ferry dock that just so happened to be near the international train station on Palazzo Principe, where we could get the intercity to the French border at Ventimiglia. The French wouldn’t be able to stop us since we had residence permits for the European Union and Berlusconi had solved the problem.”

“So why didn’t you go to Paris?”

“I don’t know anyone there. When we sailed into the port of Genoa at sunrise, I was standing on deck. Pink light fell on the pink city. I held my breath. It was such a beautiful sight. Do you know what they call Genoa?”

“La Superba.”

“Exactly. And that morning, as the ship maneuvered in the harbor and I saw the play of light on the houses, the towers, the city, I fell in love. I don’t know any better way of saying it. You know, Ilja, there’s no history in Africa. And from the boat, I saw nothing but history. In Africa there is no other beauty than the overwhelming beauty of the golden light on green trees growing from red earth. Everything people have built there is hideous. And that morning on the boat’s deck, I saw a living landscape of centuries-old buildings sandwiched between the blue bay and the hazy blue mountains, a manmade jungle in improbably warm pastel tints, and for the first time in my life I saw how a city could be beautiful. Now I was in Europe at last. My eyes filled with tears.”

17.

“But my infatuation didn’t last long. Or let’s say: my love will last forever; I’ll cherish that moment on deck until I die. I love Genoa. But the city doesn’t love me. It spat me out like a rat. That’s not a very good expression because you don’t normally want to swallow rats, but you get my meaning.”

“Don’t worry, Djiby. I’ll puzzle over the metaphors. That’s my job.”

He laughed. “Horses for courses. We both came to this city because of a dream, you from the north and me from the south, and we make a perfect combination. While it’s my job to carry heavy things and survive, it’s your job to think what the best comparison is for that. And you earn a hundred times more than me for that.”

“Do you consider that a laughing matter?”

“Hilarious.” He let out a belly laugh. “Are you also going to have me speak beautiful Italian without any mistakes?”

“I’ll go one better, you’ll speak my mother tongue.”

He doubled over at this. “Can I apply for a residence permit for your country, then, too?”

“I’ll make sure you pass the language test with flying colors in any case.”

“On paper then.”

“But on paper is the only way that counts.”

“Ha ha ha. You’re quite right about that, Ilja. Paper is the only thing that counts. Anyone who exists on paper has the right to exist. If you don’t have any papers, or you have the wrong papers, or not that one specific piece of paper, you’re not a legitimate person. Your existence is illegal. Do you know how that feels when someone forbids your existence? You don’t know. You’ve never experienced that. They’ve made my existence a punishable offense. I can go to prison if they find out I’m alive. The only advantage is that I’m barely alive. Anyone who looks as black as me is not licensed to see the daylight. He wears the camouflage of the night and won’t laugh so that his shining teeth don’t betray him.”

“But you have a residence permit, don’t you?”

“On to that already, are we? Do you want me to show you my ID? I’ve got it with me, you know. Do you want to take my fingerprints? Here, put some of that ink from your pen on my thumb, I’ll press it into your notebook. Fuck you.”

“Sorry, Djiby.”

“It’s alright. By now I know that your lot think like that. I know how things work in Europe by now. And this is your country. What right do I have to talk about it? You have laws and you’re proud of them. We don’t have any laws in Africa and we’re not proud that we don’t have them, but at least you don’t have to have an ID card to exist.

“And yes, I do have that card. The temporary permit I got from Berlusconi. Valid for one year. See. It’s written here. I have just over six months left. My existence isn’t a punishable offense for the next six months. And then what?

“But the real problem is something else. My life in the Promised Land has now been legally permitted for almost six months, and I have just a little more than the same again before I can be arrested for existing. I thought just getting here would be enough to automatically get rich. That’s what everyone told me. Once I was in Europe, I could go to the counter where they’d give me my pay and I could choose which Mercedes I wanted. I’d be able to send home a thousand francs a month for my family and friends, and then I’d still have thousands of euros left to buy a watch and sunglasses that would reflect the sun proudly when I returned to my home country for a well earned holiday.

“In the meantime, I share a run-down two-room apartment with eleven compatriots for a hundred euros per person a month, while the rats are allowed to eat there for free and I have to stay on the right side of my landlord because he lets me carry heavy things from time to time for ten euros. But instead of paying me, he always thinks of some debt or other — gas, electricity, water, service costs — which are deducted from my wages. And he’s a good person. I should be grateful to him.