He escorted me
to a chair in a very African fashion, as if I was about to drive away, and was
he was graciously accompanying me to my car.
We fell into a familiar pattern and spoke in the ritual fashion of
reporter and government official for nearly a half hour. I felt quite naked without a pen and pad, but
then remembered that I had been summoned here on a personal whim, and not on an
official impulse. Charles spoke a great
deal about the political strength of the government, and then, surprisingly,
its weaknesses, being careful to never mention the president during the course
of his analyses.
He did this without
emotion, as if we were two doctors in consultation discussing a patient’s
infection which could, if not properly treated, lead to death. He was careful not to be too gloomy in his
prognosis. But it was apparent from my
questions that he viewed both possibilities – continued life or death – as
equally possible. He was not a
prophet. He did not know if one day he
would be the ruler’s successor (a persistent rumor) or dangle stripped and
beaten from a tree. But he
smiled his ubiquitous Ono smile throughout, as expansive as his upland home
with its wandering marabouts with their bags of amulets, spells,
incantations, for everything from cancer to a tooth ache. Here he was, this Christian functionary,
praying toward Mecca.
Then he did
something that was unexpected even for the intimate tone which he had set for
this meeting: he took both my hands and pulled them toward him, as if to close
them over his heart.
Again, it was an
African gesture, but in this room, as a Westerner and African spoke technically
of politics and war, it was not appropriate.
As gently as I could, I extracted my hands. But this did not detract from the unruly
emotions that were governing him. Large
tears formed in his eyes (although they did not fall). And he pressed his own hands to his chest, as
if to substitute them for mine.
“But you are
Sicilian,” he said, and then quickly, to correct himself. “… I mean of Sicilian
ancestry. Mr. Servi. You must understand
us. Your ancestors were Muslims. Palermo
was called ‘The City of A Thousand Mosques,’ and I do not think such a number
was oriental hyperbole. Your ancestors worshiped God in those magnificent mosques.
And then the country was conquered and colonized, just like ours. Just as our nation was created by an external
power – so was Sicily. And now we are forced to govern what others
created. Did you know that our colonial
power divided the country into districts, to promote fractiousness which was
there already, and make it worse? It is
the tried and true strategy of the conqueror, is it not? We must rule people of diverse religions,
languages, customs, all as a legacy of what this power imposed onto us.”
I explained to him, politely, that
the political legacy of Sicily
and his country were not co-equal, but he shook he head emphatically while I
spoke, and when I concluded he took my hand once again, not to press it to his
heart, but only to squeeze it for emphasis from some secret origin.
“You must come
north then, with me. I see that you do
not understand. With your perceptive
dissertation, I imagined you would. But
sometimes the mind and heart move on different tracks. It takes experience to bring them
together. The Qu’ran says ‘Our hearts
are covered…’ So you must come with me. I am leaving tomorrow to speak at a school
near the northern border. Due to the
war,” and here he used that banned word, “it is forbidden for reporters to
travel there, but I can secure permission, and of course insure your
safety. I will protect you as a father
does a son,” and he pumped my hand repeatedly.
I said yes, I suppose, although I have no conscious remembrance of doing
so.
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