In the Sea There Are Crocodiles - Fabio Geda [54]
I went to the Afghan boy’s place but after three days—I’m not sure what had happened—it turned out he wasn’t happy about it, he was sorry and all that, but he couldn’t put me up anymore. He said I was an illegal, even though I’d gone to the Office for Foreign Minors of my own free will, and if the police found me in his house there was a risk he would lose his papers.
As was only right, I told him not to worry, I didn’t want to cause him any trouble. I’ve slept in parks for so long, I said, that a few more nights certainly won’t harm me.
But when Payam found out, he again said, No, I don’t want you to sleep in the park. Let me call a social worker.
The person he called was an Italian woman named Danila who had apparently, like us, tried to talk to the Office for Foreign Minors, but it really did seem that there wasn’t even a broom cupboard that had room for me, so she—Danila—had said to Payam, Bring him to my house.
When Payam and I met, he said, There’s a family that are going to put you up.
A family? I said. What do you mean, a family?
A father, a mother and children, that’s what.
I don’t want to go to a family.
Why?
I don’t know how to behave. I’m not going there.
Why? How should you behave? You just have to be nice.
I’m sure I’ll be a nuisance to them.
No. I assure you. I know them well.
Payam kept insisting I should accept Danila’s offer until he was hoarse, as anyone would do with a person he likes and feels responsible for. He wouldn’t even hear about leaving me alone at night, knowing I’d be sleeping on a bench. So in the end I gave in. More for his sake than mine.
The family lived outside Turin, in an isolated house beyond the hills. Getting out of the car—Danila had come to pick us up from the bus stop—I was greeted by three dogs, and as dogs are probably my favorite animals, I thought, This doesn’t look too bad at all.
The father was called Marco, and even though he’s a father, I can call him by his name, not like my father, who I have only called Father. And the children, Matteo and Francesco, I feel up to saying their names too. They aren’t names that cause me pain.
As soon as we entered the house they gave me these big slippers, shaped like rabbits, with ears and a nose and everything—maybe they did it as a joke—and after washing our hands we had dinner at the table, with forks and knives and glasses and napkins and all that, and I was so afraid of making a fool of myself that I copied every single gesture they made. I remember there was also an old woman with them at dinner that evening. She sat stiffly, with her wrists resting on the table, and so I did the same: I stiffened my back and placed my wrists on the table, and seeing that she wiped her mouth after every bite, I wiped my mouth after every bite, too. I remember that Danila had made a starter, a first course, and a second course. My God, I remember thinking, these people eat so much.
After dinner they showed me a room. There was a bed in the room, just one, and it was all mine. Danila came up, bringing me pajamas. Here you are, she said. But I didn’t know what pajamas were. I was used to sleeping in my clothes. I took off my socks and put them under the bed, and when Danila gave me those pajamas, I put them under the bed, too. Marco brought me a towel and a bathrobe. Matteo wanted to play me some of his favorite CDs. Francesco had dressed as an Indian—an American Indian—and called me to see his toys. They were all trying to tell me things, but I didn’t understand a word.
When I woke up in the morning, Danila and Marco had gone to work and the only other person in the house was Francesco, who was about to leave for school. I found out later that he was worried about my presence, and was wondering, What’s this guy up to? At the same time, I was afraid to leave my room, and only went down (my room was in the attic) when Francesco called to