La Superba: читать книгу онлайн полностью и бесплатно

“Really, you’re my only friend here,” he said. “It’s quite an honor for a white man, me saying that, you should know that. Since you asked, I’ll give you a dishonest answer.”

He took a sip of his beer.

“I came here to write a book and not to earn money. I came here to gather inspiration and to enrich my life with new experiences, like being robbed and beaten by my own housemates, and I didn’t come here to survive. I got bored with my work in Casablanca. It was the same old. I came here to look for a new challenge. Like not even being able to get the most basic job with a name like mine. Here I’m a pariah. But it’s fascinating sharing a two-room apartment with nine or eleven or thirteen others, plus the rats. It makes me resourceful. It makes me creative. It keeps me on my toes.”

“I’m sorry, Rashid. I understand what you want to say. But why don’t you go back?”

“You don’t understand a thing, Ilja. I’ve already explained it to you. The first time we met. Don’t you remember?”

“Yes.”

“You’re lying. But I’ll explain it to you one more time. If you’ll order me another beer.”

I 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.”