Ifriqiya

By Julian Gallo

In this final novel of an informal quartet, begun with The Other Side of The Orange Grove, If The Full Moon Loves You, Why Worry About The Stars?, and Maqam, Diego Nicari, a travel writer, makes a sojourn to Tunis in order to research his family history. Knowing his great-grandparents and grandfather once lived among the Sicilian diaspora in La Goulette, he hopes to find out as much information as possible for a book he's writing about the Nicari family. While wandering through La Goulette, he encounters a disabled boy, Oussama, who offers to play music for him. A misunderstanding lands the boy in trouble with an abusive policeman and Diego rushes to his defense. Diego can't help feeling guilty over instigating the situation and wants to make amends. A friendship develops between them. As the details of Oussama's life slowly unfolds, the more heartbroken Diego becomes, distracting him from his original plan. Meanwhile, an ambitious child protective services employee threatens Diego's plans and a mysterious photograph of Diego's great-grandfather emerges which casts a shadow of mystery over his true origins.   

• Language: English
• Publisher: Empty Canvas
• Release date: Aug 30, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386466437

Julian Gallo

Julian Gallo lives and works in New York City. His poetry has appeared in over 40 journals throughout the Unites States, Canada and Europe. He is the author of 9 poetry books, "Standing on Lorimer Street Awaiting Crucifixion" (Alpha Beat Press 1996), "The Terror of Your Cunt is the Beauty of Your Face" (Black Spring Press 1999), "Street Gospel Mystical Intellectual Survival Codes" (Budget Press 2000), "Scrape That Violin More Darkly Then Hover Like Smoke in the Air" (Black Spring Press 2001), "Existential Labyrinths" (Black Spring Press 2003), "My Arrival is Marked by Illuminating Stains" (Beat Corrida, 2007), "Window Shopping For a New Crown of Thorns" (Beat Corrida, 2007), "A Symphony of Olives" (Propaganda Press 2009) and "Divertimiento" (Propaganda Press 2009). He is also the author of 6 novels, "November Rust (Beat Corrida, 2007), "Naderia" (Beat Corrida, 2011), "Be Still and Know That I Am" (Beat Corrida, 2011), "Mediterraneo" (Beat Corrida, 2012), "Europa" (Beat Corrida, 2013), the short story collection "Rapid Eye Movements" (Beat Corrida 2014) and "Rhombus Denied" (Beat Corrida, 2015)

Book preview

EMPTY CANVAS

2018

Brooklyn, New York

Ifriqiya

Julian Gallo

©2018 Julian Gallo

Other Books by Julian Gallo

Fiction

November Rust 

Nadería 

Be Still and Know That I Am

Mediterráneo

Europa

Rapid Eye Movements: Stories

Rhombus Denied

Breathe

Shadows

Sleepwalking Through The Garden of Earthly Delights

Bedtime Stories

Hopscotch In A Parallel Universe

Joshua Springs

The Penguin and The Bird

The Autumn Tree

The Other Side of The Orange Grove

If The Full Moon Loves You, Why Worry About The Stars?

Maqām

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Cover Photo: Creative Commons

This is a work of fiction.  All names and places are strictly from the imagination of the author or are used fictitiously.

www.juliangallo66.blogspot.com

www.facebook.com/Julian.Gallo.Author

Tunis

Early 2011

In the presence of the moon, no one sees the stars

Amit Kalantri

Ifriqiya  — إفريقية‎‎ —  was the area during medieval history that comprises what is today Tunisia, Tripolitania (western Libya) and the Constantinois (eastern Algeria); all part of what was previously included in the Africa Province of the Roman Empire. There are many theories as to the origin of the continent’s name. One theory, established by Massey in 1881, was the Egyptian term Ka referred to every person’s energy, a non-fleshly double that defined your being (much the same as the Christian term, soul). The ‘opening of the Ka’ then referred to the mother’s womb or the child’s birthplace and was held as a very special and honored concept. The Egyptian word ‘af-rui-ka’ literally means ‘to turn towards the opening of the Ka’, and recognizes Africa as the birthplace of their earliest ancestors.

1

Tunis-Carthage International Airport is not as crowded as he thought it would be. Diego Nicari’s flight from Paris was only half-full but that didn’t necessarily indicate that an ‘international’ airport would be as desolate as this one appears to be. Perhaps it’s because of all the unrest. A quick glance around the terminal at the numerous armed men in their blue uniforms only serves to confirm this notion. He doesn’t bother going to the baggage claim. He only brought a small duffle bag with a few items of clothing, his laptop, and a few papers printed off an ancestry website he’d been working with for some time now. He makes his way through the terminal in search of the exit but is sidetracked by the smell of strong coffee. 

There are only about a half dozen people in the coffee shop, most of whom look like him, Mediterranean types with thick, dark curly hair. This always amuses him and he first took notice of this the very first time he traveled to North Africa when writing one of his first travelogues. If you take a photo of any one of them and replaced their names with an Italian, Greek, Turkish or Spanish name most would never be able to tell the difference. ‘Stessa faccia, stessa razza’ his grandmother used to say — same face, same race.    It’s also a lot cooler than he expected. He lights a cigarette, drops his duffle bag to the ground, observes the cars and taxis arrive one after the other picking up the waiting passengers, many of whom are happily relieved of the burden of dragging their luggage around. The overcast sky has darkened considerably and it looks like rain. He moves under the canopy in the event the sky should suddenly open up. He finishes his much needed smoke, then walks over to the taxi stand.   Hotel La Maison Blanche, he tells the driver. 

Somewhere along the A9, the driver turns up the music on the radio — a sad, rueful tune which appeals to Diego a great deal.

What is this? he asks the driver in French.

A malouf, the driver says. Very old. Wonderful singer. Soufia Sedik. You know her?"

No, but it sounds like it’s from Spain.

Indeed. Malouf originated in al-Andalus. Where are you from?

New York.

You know malouf? The driver asks, switching to English.

New York is a very culturally diverse city. We have a little of everything.

From the Trans-African Highway he admires the beautiful Tunis Nippon Garden and over in the distance, Lake Tunis. Beyond the lake, La Goulette. Have you ever been to La Goulette? he asks.

Of course, many times. Lots of tourists there. It’s where the cruise ships come in.

My grandfather was born there.

You are Tunisian?

Sicilian-American.

Ah, the driver says with a smile. Le Petit Sicilie. They are trying to fix it up now, a lot of work to restore the old buildings. Used to be a lot of Italians there. Your grandfather was one of them?

My great-grandfather built a lot of homes there.

A long time ago.

Very.

When they reach the city Diego notices the explosion of graffiti on the walls, all of which allude to the recent events: Freedom!, written in both Arabic and English; a portrait of Che Guevara; a stencil of the face of President Ben Ali with an Arabic slogan which he can’t understand; street art depicting masked men carrying the Tunisian flag; Revolution! written in English with a raised fist; a Banksy-esque stencil of a little girl holding up her hand, again with an Arabic slogan that he can’t read. He was concerned about his brother, an American journalist who recently traveled to the area to cover the events, who unfortunately left the day before. It would have been nice to finally spend some time with him. He’s about to ask the driver what all the graffiti means then thinks better of it. If he learned anything from his years of travel, probing into a host country’s political affairs isn’t the most prudent thing to do.

The hotel is not far from the waterfront and his room offers a wonderful view of Lake Tunis and beyond. He drops his duffel bag to the floor, tries out the bed. A little firm but it’ll do. He’s about to light a cigarette when he notices the no smoking sign on the door. He doesn’t feel like getting up and going downstairs. He’s too lazy to unpack his bag. Fuck it, he’ll do it later. Right now all he wants to do is sleep.

2

Baba! the boy calls out.

He watches his father slumped in the chair, a tendril of drool leaking from the corner of his slack mouth. He shakes his father’s leg.

Baba! Louder this time but he still doesn’t hear him.

Oussama sees the bits of crumpled tin foil at his father’s feet, remnants of white crumbs still left in one of them. He wants to cry but he knows crying will do no good, will not change the situation. Instead, he hoists his body up on his skateboard and propels himself into the kitchen, smacking bits of empty food cartons and crumpled newspapers out of the way while doing so.

He pauses before the refrigerator, reaches for the bottom of the door and pulls. The light makes him squint but it doesn’t hide the fact that there’s no food. He closes the door, tries to hold it together. He’s a man now — already twelve years old — and men don’t cry. That’s what his father always told him. Women cry. Mama used to cry all the time, especially when she was sick. It was all right that he cried when she died, though. Baba told him it was okay to cry when they lose someone close to them, like a good friend, and especially a parent.

He rolls back into the living room, watches his father, makes sure he’s still breathing. Baba!

Still no answer.

There’s a quiver to his sigh.

Outside, the ominous clouds which had crept over the city about an hour earlier opened up. A torrent of rain cascades off the roof of the house, pouring from the gutters into the courtyard. He remains still, listens, looks at his father slumped in his chair, the tendril of drool now collecting in a little pool on his shoulder.

The boy’s stomach growls. It’s the loudest sound in the room.

Don’t cry, he tells himself. Don’t cry. 

3

Diego awakens, listens to the wind blowing heavy sheets of rain against the window.

He slept only two hours.

He sits up and looks around the room and for a moment forgets where he is. 

Hellish rain.

He yanks a pair of clean underwear, lounge pants and a t-shirt out of the duffle bag, hops into the shower. Refreshed, he sits on the edge of the bed watching the torrent of rain, hoping it will let up by morning. Now if he can only get back to sleep.

Unable to sleep, he decides to unpack and put his clothes away. He turns on the desk lamp and gathers all his papers, passport, and particularly is notebook, which he never travels without. In it is vital information he needs for this particular trip. It’s the first time in a long while he’s traveling for his own sake. No deadlines, no pressure. The time is his own. He has two weeks.   He’s about to light a cigarette then remembers the no smoking sign affixed to the door, along with a threat of a fine if in violation as well as a ‘cleaning fee’. He wishes his room had a balcony.

He’s lost track of time, his body clock utterly disrupted. Long flights always do this to him. He’s not even sure if he’ll be able to get back to sleep but he knows if he doesn’t, he may lose a day and he doesn’t want that. He turns off the desk lamp and goes back to bed, closes his eyes and listens to the rain. Perhaps that will help.

4

By morning the clouds had lifted and there is a cool breeze coming in off the marina. Oussama glides back and forth along the promenade, this time with his riq perched on the end of his skateboard. The cruise ship hasn’t arrived yet and there’s no one around. He pauses to adjust the leather pouch around his neck then continues forth, hoping that he’ll earn enough dinars to buy some food. 

When he left the house this morning, his father was still asleep but at least he got a reaction from him. Only a grunt and a dismissive wave of the hand, but it was something. At least he’s alive. He told his father that he was going out for a little while but he received no other response. He always goes down to the marina to play for the tourists who come off the cruise ships. He has much better luck in the summer when the beaches are full and there are more tourists around. Those who arrive during the summer often give him good money, sometimes enough so he won’t have to do it everyday but he does so anyway. They need the money. Baba hasn’t worked since his mother died.

He shields his eyes from the sun, gazes towards the horizon. No sign of a ship yet. He moves on, working his way through the neighborhood, street by street. He earns a little money here and there, mostly from the locals who recognize him, see him rolling around the neighborhood every day — the shopkeepers, the street vendors, the occasional tourist walking around — but still not enough to satisfy him. People generally leave him alone, try to help him. They feel sorry for this disabled boy who is forced to go begging on the streets every day. Every so often a proprietor from one of the neighborhood cafés will give him some left over food, which he will either eat or balance on his skateboard to take home later in order to share with his father. He’s become a fixture around La Goulette for some time now.

It’s only the police he worries about, who often harass him and chase him away. They can’t have a street kid bothering the tourists after all. It doesn’t look good. If there’s one, that means there are others, and they are a respectable people, not slum dwellers. Some will even go so far as extorting the majority of what little he earned for the day. The locals are aware of this, don’t like it, but they dare not lodge a complaint out of fear of being next.

He continues to move about the neighborhood, looking for anyone to play for. What other choice does he have? 

5

Diego absorbs the view of Lake Tunis from the TGM’s window as it glides along the causeway towards La Goulette. He has no idea what to expect when he arrives but judging from the guide book he assumes it’s safe enough to explore alone. The tram rides along the track a mere few meters away from the water, next to a jetty of piled stones along the shoreline. It looks man made, as if to keep the lake from one day encroaching upon the tracks. In the distance, a mountain looms over the horizon and to the right of that, a small cluster of high rise buildings.

Le Bac — the tram comes to a stop in a beautifully landscaped station, trees planted along the platform and behind them, more foliage and flora, a lush green and purple. The few passengers waiting at the station board the tram; an older woman in a headscarf and a young couple who look as if they could be from