At the Genoa Beach

Listen, I said, the sea view here is really beautiful. It’s pretty well unlike anything I’ve ever seen. The waves aren’t high, it’s true. But then there are short green trees all along the edge of the beach, with flowers of various colors hanging from their branches. They take good care of the beach here. You’ve come in spring. If you come back in the summer, you’ll see something else. Everything will look different. You’ll see beautifully sculpted female bodies sunbathing on the golden sand. The small beach-bars will be packed with customers thirstily downing beer, as though Doomsday’s arrived and they’ll never get to drink again.

You want to see such scenes in our country as well, you say. No. No. That’s impossible. We need too much time for our women’s bodies to become slender and for children and drunkards to stop breaking branches off small trees. You’re right: their physique is just like ours. Didn’t the Arabs come to Genoa a long time ago? It’s an ancient but beautiful city. Did you look at that huge church we passed the other day? Great architecture, isn’t it? I’ve seen other churches in Europe, but the Genoese one looks beautiful and different.

Do they pray?

Yes, they’re religious, but there are some atheists and fatalists as well.

Don’t be surprised. It’s seven in the morning; that’s why you can see so many cars. They work like ants. Yesterday you may have seen them drinking in bars, but they still manage to wake up early. What matters is that they work in order to be able to eat, drink, wear nice clothes, and talk about soccer results. You said they don’t read. That isn’t important; they don’t pay any attention to what’s going on. They voted for the prime minister even though they’re all against him on buses and in cafés. They are a people that like to eat, drink, and wear nice clothes. And they make wonderful shoes.

Italy isn’t Morocco, you have to understand. When all is said and done, this country doesn’t resemble yours. They go to bed late, but still manage to wake up early.

When it’s time for elections on Sunday, some Italians go to the polls, but others choose to stay at home, with either their dog or their sleep-mate in bed beside them. That’s why the election results can be so unexpected. They sleep a lot. They’ve no excuse. They work all week long. It doesn’t matter who wins the elections as long as everything stays the same and American air bases still exist. Do you realize that, after Moroccans, the largest foreign community in Italy is the Americans, followed by Filipinos? By the way, when you go back to your country, tell them that when an Italian gets drunk and starts fighting his friend, he’ll say, “Shove off, you dirty Moroccan.” What a surprise! A Moroccan woman who used to work in Saudi Arabia once told me that when Saudi women fight, they insult each other by saying, “Beat it, daughter of a Moroccan!” Isn’t that cute?

But none of it’s surprising. You’ve seen for yourself naked Moroccan girls on the streets in Milan, Genoa, and Rome. It’s the same in other cities, too. In a just a few months they can make a lot of money, then they go back to Morocco to buy houses, shops, and unemployed men. Don’t act surprised if I tell you that even married Moroccan women behave that way with the complete acquiescence of their husbands.

That’s a disgrace you say. I agree, it’s a disgrace for people in Morocco, but not here. After all, what could such women do if they stayed in Morocco? They have to prostitute themselves for a piece of bread. Sometimes they even have to pay the unemployed man who protects them; if they don’t, he slashes their faces with a razor. Here, they don’t slash women’s faces; they either slash their bodies or kill them. However, they don’t rob them of the fruit of their labors. The profession has its own morality.

That girl who’s trying to use the underpass to get to the other side of the highway is really pretty, you tell me. She is indeed, but when she grows up, she may turn ugly and mean. Who knows? Maybe she’ll practice the same profession, or become a great scientist. She’s young and pretty. She’s trying to use the underpass by those short trees with dangling blossoms. When she’s older and those trees lose their blossoms or die, she may have to use that same underpass on a cold rainy day like this.

Are you afraid of death? You’re stupid. People here aren’t scared of death. That’s why they eat and drink a lot. They say that since life is short, flowers die, and rivers dry up only to fill up again later, they must eat, drink, and do all those other things. Go to Sicily, and you’ll see. There they go home at eight p.m. They have no idea how to argue and quarrel the same way we do over there. If there’s a misunderstanding between two people, you can be sure that one of them will be dead by the next morning. The other one will keep on eating and drinking till his turn comes. Then flowers will start growing on his tomb, and a woman will come with her lover to cry over him. Those flowers will fade, and others will grow.

Now there’s the girl disappearing behind those flowery trees. Who knows which direction she’s going to take now? That underpass has four exits; nobody can guess which one she’ll take. What matters is that, as far as you and I are concerned, she’s disappeared. For sure that doesn’t apply to other people. She will cause them problems just as they will her. Actually, she may even have a problem before she exits the underpass.

Yes!! What are you saying? Life itself is like an underpass! I’m not sure; I may agree or disagree. The underpass will sometimes be dark, and at others, properly lit. That’s okay, as long as you insist that life is an underpass. The girl has gone through that underpass the same way other people are doing right now. Look, they all go in, but no one has any idea where they’ll come out. It has four exits; Genoa has many entrances and exits. What’s important is knowing where to enter and exit.

Do you smell that strange odor?! It’s the wind blowing in from the sea. It always has a special smell to it. If you walk away from the beach a little, you won’t be able to smell it any more. Maybe the Genoans’ ancestors decided to build their houses here so they could savor that special smell. People have the right to choose where they feel at ease, even if it’s a basement or a tomb. . . .

You don’t need to tell me you agree. I am well aware that if you didn’t agree with me about many things, we would not be sticking together so much. You are feeling particularly happy, you say. Why not? Just looking at this calm sea and ancient castle right in front of you, and dreaming about the beer you’re going to be drinking in a minute or two at the “Gira La Terra” bar, that’s enough to make you feel even happier.

No one seems interested in that girl, you say. I see her sometimes; maybe she’s the girlfriend of someone who works here. Every morning she comes here, reads the newspaper, gets in her car and drives away without ordering anything. I’ve no idea what she does. She doesn’t say a lot; that’s what makes her really attractive; she prefers to remain silent. Occasionally she’ll say a few words to one of the workers, and flip through the newspaper or read it more carefully, but then she gets into her car and drives away. All over the world, women aren’t the same. I don’t know whether that girl’s from Genoa or not. What I do know is that she’s female and certainly doesn’t resemble any other woman.

Moroccan women are all the same, you all say. I don’t agree. No woman resembles any other; nor does any man. God created each person with a particular temperament.

The flowers are beautiful, you say?! Of course they are. People here love beautiful things, but they don’t know how to talk about them. Their poets do it for them. Speaking of flowers, I once went to a bar in Casablanca with a friend. A girl came over, kissed us and joined us for a drink. She was already kissing us even before she had a drink, but once she got really drunk, she wanted to kiss the other people who kept staring at us, not at her. The flower-seller came in, but no one bought a single flower. They’re not interested in flowers. Even so, my friend bought a very expensive one and gave it to the girl. She looked at it, smelled it, drank her beer, and put the flower on the bar. She was the kind of girl that any prisoner would crave. We left the bar and decided to head for a night club. The girl took the flower with her. She stared at it for a while and then was about to throw it away.

“What do you want me to do with this flower?” she asked my friend. “Shall I cook it for my nine brothers?”

Dropping the flower, she stomped on it as though it were the body of an enemy. She stomped on that beautiful flower, but here people don’t even dare cut them. They love flowers, the same way they love other things, like killing people, for example. That’s the way they are; they’ll kill someone in an instant, whereas we only kill slowly.

You understand me, you say. That’s great. We have to understand each other before we start fighting. Just look how crammed together their cars are. But they still don’t run over pedestrians, because the latter have a sense of self-preservation, except when they’re drunk. Some Moroccans don’t have any sense of self-preservation; they cross the road without bothering to use the underpass. Maybe there’s a reason for that, some instinctive urge. What’s life worth when compared with a large sum of money to pay for an apartment building with a garage, or shops that sell spices, rats’ tails, frogs, and just-culled orphan baby tortoises?

People die in Morocco just as they do here in Genoa. There’s no difference. People seem to forget that there’s something called death. The way they choose to marry, procreate, live, deceive, squabble, or settle down: none of that really matters.

You don’t like talking about death? That’s only natural. But you know more about it than I do. Oh, we shouldn’t be talking about it this early in the morning!! So when should we talk about it, bearing in mind that it’s with us at every single moment? Even while I’m talking to you now, many people have died and others have been born.

You’re watching those cars speeding. Don’t be surprised. Other people are doing exactly the same thing somewhere else. Still others are still asleep. It may be just past eight a.m., but no one knows where all those cars are going. They certainly aren’t hanging around here. Even some Moroccan women aren’t wasting their time here either. That’s their right and duty, as long as they don’t catch that incurable disease.

But wait a minute. Can there be a disease more foul than poverty itself? If it weren’t for poverty, they would never have to come to Italy. Those poor women, they’re decent and clean. Any Moroccan man needs to watch what he says about this subject. If he isn’t happy about the situation, then he should support his sister or his Hajja mother and stop them taking the trip to this Christian country. What will the girl who trampled on the flower do if she comes here? Will your government (sorry, our government) appoint her ambassador? Don’t get angry. It’s just my opinion. Be open-minded.

Yes, I’m an Italian citizen, but I’m still Moroccan. Otherwise, the Argentinians would be able to expatriate Carlos Menem and send him back to Syria. You can use that as a point of comparison. I’m sorry, don’t worry about me; my nerves may be on edge because I drank a lot yesterday. You too? In that case, you have the right to do whatever you like in this world. It’s worth living, because we were not created of our own will. What’s the use of existing without knowing how to live? You say there are obstacles in our path. I don’t disagree, but we have to use our minds a little in order to overcome such roadblocks.

You don’t seem to understand me. I say one thing, and you say something else. I’m talking about human relations, and you’re talking about the airport. Genoa airport is very close. You’ll travel and return to your country. The taxi won’t cost you very much. It’s a pretty airport that extends into the sea. When you get on the plane, you’ll be able to see Genoa; how beautiful it is, built around a lofty fortress just like Chaouen in your country. . . . There are lots of cities in Italy built close to mountains and valleys, and sometimes seaside beaches and rivers, as well. Wherever they feel good, they set up camp, even in Mittenwald (the Bavarian village). It’s built on a mountain, the way Genoa is in a valley, as you’ll see.

I can’t hear you very well. What are you saying? Oh, it’s a garbage truck. Look, it is about to pick up the trash dumpster, empty it, then put it back in place. When you go back to your country, please don’t tell anybody about it. Unemployed Moroccans are already spending the night in these dumpsters. After they’ve cleared them out, they use them to sleep in. But other people have discovered a different solution. They buy a broken-down car and use it to sleep in until they can find a place of their own; I won’t call it a home. Sometimes they even occupy the offices of bankrupt companies.

They come back to their country with gold chains around their necks, you tell me. That’s possible. They’ll do absolutely anything here. Some of them do nothing at all. Just look at that boy, for example, the one cleaning the car window. He’s from Morocco. His mother may well be working somewhere else. Many children are doing the same thing as this boy. Over there, paralytics rent children; here they rent window-cleaners. You’re wondering how they get here. I have no idea, but they do. I know they have to pay a lot of money to get a visa.

I arrived here years ago. I may go back or may not. That doesn’t matter. I’m alive. I feel I have to talk to you about these Moroccans here. You don’t know them. I’ve lived here for many long years and have no problems, but I feel sorry for them. Some get rich quickly. No one knows how, but things are clear enough. They trade, whether it’s drugs, humans, or something else. Only God or the Devil know what . . . as we all say, assuming that the Devil exists in human form. In the morning the child window-cleaners are all over the place; they’re rented out or sold like retail cigarettes. Their sisters or mothers do other things at night.

You’re yawning. Obviously you didn’t get enough sleep. I know you need a beer. The “Gira La Terra” bar’s open. Once you’ve had a drink, you’ll understand what I’ve been telling you better. The problem is that any conversation about what’s happening here is bound to go on for a while. I hope some Moroccan journalists will come here on a visit and see the dumpsters, the women, everything, for themselves.

We can cross to the other sidewalk now; we’ll use the underpass. Don’t bother; I’ll take care of the bill. We can finish our conversation about what goes on at the Genoa beach sometime later. When you get back there, tell them that he didn’t have enough time. He was taking care of me because I’m one of you. Tell them, too, that he’s still one of you, even though he’s become an Italian. He’s not the exact image of Mu’awiyah Ibn Hady, the first conqueror of Italy, when he destroyed the gates of Sicily.

Okay, let’s use the underpass. Are you listening to me?