Chapter 12 – The blue house

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Everything moved in slow motion. The over excited tourists, the trees, the rocks, the city and its peaks, in the distance. A strong wind arose and whistled at Sayowa’s ears. She was walking in direction of Stefano. Oli, at her side, raised his hand and yelled something. He was calling out to the Italian man who turned his head. He was isolated from the crowd, fifty metres ahead: a small man, his face buried under a large straw hat and sun glasses. His neck stiffened. He must have heard his name, not knowing where the call was coming from.
He noticed Oli, also raised his hand and replied by a few words which got lost in a gust.
In the corner of Sayowa’s vision, she saw the face of the blond lady, and then Inyambo’s. The shores of the Zambezi River outlined in front of her. She stopped walking. Muyambango harvesting wheat, the man in red and the infinite road crossing the park, the desert, the bus, George’s smile. Emma. And Oli.
– Sayowa, are you coming?
– Yes, yes.
But she did not move. She was not ready, she needed a few extra seconds.
– Hi Oli, what are you doing here? Enjoying the view?
Stefano had joined them. He spoke with a high voice in a moderate accent.
Sayowa turned her eyes towards him. He was talking with Oli, she was not hearing a single word of their conversation. He was way shorter that what she had imagined. Slightly shorter than Oli, but wider shoulders and a prominent stomach. His skin was very tanned. It could hardly be said that he was “white”, “brown” was closer to the truth. Under his hat, she could make out a round head. A few tufts of thin white hair on his chin and neck appeared and disappeared depending on how the sun rays hit them. His forearms and his ankles, surprisingly muscular for a seventy year old man, were covered with a silk ivory fur which must have kept him warm. That hairiness was superfluous in those summer months, but was certainly very accommodating during the winter. In the end, only his knobbed elbows and knees gave evidence of his age.
– So kid, you still didn’t tell me what you’re doing on this mountain.
– It’s Sayowa, she wanted to see you.
– Sayowa?
He turned his head towards the little girl, took off his hat and his sun glasses.
Sayowa did not expect those big brown eyes which seemed to be probing her soul. Dark rings under his eyes, thick silver eyebrows, long horizontal wrinkles on his forehead: all of those traits underlined his gaze. On top of his skull, the remains of what used to be thin and white hair.
He took a low voice, soft and addressed the small stranger:
– Hi. I like your shirt. You see? We are the same colour.
His t-shirt had the same sky-blue tint than Sayowa’s. It was worn out, light stains scattered all over, the collar like an accordion. Hers on the contrary, thanks to Emma’s cares the day before, was as new.
He took a pair of reading glasses out of the pocket of his beige linen shorts, adjusted them on his nose. The power of his stare decreased slightly behind the glass.
– Tell me, what can I do for you?
Sayowa looked at him straight in the eyes. She had to say something, but nothing came. The simple fact of her being there seemed absurd. How could she explain?
– I... you know my grandfather.
She took out, for the last time, the folded notebook page from her pocket. She handed it to the old man. He made a wave with his eyebrows, the wrinkles of his forehead changed shape. He unfolded the page and read the note Inyambo had written, five days earlier.

My dear friend, this is my granddaughter, Sayowa.
In my old days, I wish you could do for her what you did for me, so many years ago.
I hope you will find it in your heart to forgive me for neglecting our friendship. But I am not worried because, as you one day said, your heart is larger than the heart of an elephant.

Inyambo

As he was reading, a tear formed in the corner of his eye.
– Yeah, the heart of an elephant…
His voice broke up.
– It was that time, we were talking with Inyambino… meh, it’s a stupid story.
He had a small laugh. Or maybe a sob.
He raised his eyes upon his friend’s granddaughter, in a whisper he said:
– Sayowa…

Stefano’s house was blue: the render on the walls, the doors, the window shutters, even the tiles, mistaken for the sky. It was a calm place, outside of time, set on the side of a rocky mountain. It was of respectable size, but far more modest than some of the palaces which could be found on the coast. Built on a sort of small cap, in a corner of the hill, one felt alone in the world there.
Walking around the flat plot surrounding it, the road could not be seen. There was a more than one hundred and eighty degrees view over the Atlantic Ocean, high enough for the waves to always seem minuscule, even when the sea was agitated. The chant of the water could hardly be heard, it wrapped the place with a pleasant and discreet melody.
In the garden grew, with no specific structure, wild grass, fruit trees, aromatic plant, scattered flowers. An entire population of insects enjoyed themselves in a never-ending cacophony.
Sayowa and Stefano were on the terrace: a varnished wooden floor, sheltered by a metallic frame which a climbing plant covered with a tapestry of green. The little girl was busy over a modern cooker in a corner. The old Italian man sat in a big armchair, even older that him. He looked minuscule, sunk into the soft cushion. On a large outside table, a plastic pitcher and two small glasses.

Earlier, on top of Table Mountain, he had paid a cableway ticket for Sayowa and Oli, saving them from the walk down. After he saluted the young man, who left with his small purple car, he drove his new protégé to his place, in an old dusty car. He had showed her around the blue house, the inside first, which he said he had done his best to “decorate Italian style”. Sayowa did not know what that meant, so she had not been able to judge. Then they had gone around the garden. That was when Sayowa discovered the serene beauty of the residence.
“I fell for it the first time I saw it”, he had said. “I told myself it was the perfect place for my retirement.”
Sayowa had then told him about her journey, to the last detail. He had let her speak with no interruption, showing his emotions only by waving his eyebrows and the folds on his forehead.
Finally, he had brought out a jug of iced tea and suggested that they made themselves “a nice platter of pasta”. Sayowa had offered to cook, following his instructions, “too learn”. He had gladly accepted and had sat in the armchair, mumbling a “humpf” of relief.

– Yep, there, take that pot, below, you fill it with water from the tap and set it to boil on the plate. You see, Italian cuisine is easy.
He observed her manipulating the large cast iron pot and the ceramic cooking plates for a while.
– Sayowa, tell me about good old Inyambo, what is he up to?
– Well, he doesn’t go out of the house that much, he is always tired.
– Oh yeah, you never knew him like I did. Young Inyambo was something. You look a lot like him by the way.
– Really?
– Oh yes! Same eyes. And you’ll end up tall like a giraffe too, I can tell. Did you add salt to the water?
– Salt?
– Yeah salt. Always add salt to water when you make pasta. What do they teach you at school?
– I can put the salt from Swakopmund!
– Oh yeah, right, show me what you gathered during your trip.
She ran inside the house and came back out with her chitenge, which she put on the table. She opened it as Stefano stood up groaning. Scattered wheat grains had attached to the fibbers of the fabric, the bloc of salt had crumbled into a thousand mineral particle which shinned all over the surface of the cloth. Only the bottle of olive oil did not suffer. Stefano had a playful sniggered when he discovered the mess. He took the bottle of olive oil with a shaking hand.
– Is that Emma’s oil?
– Yes, she gave it to me yesterday.
– She is a good girl. I’m lucky she’s here. I can’t survive without quality olive oil. When I was in Swakop, I had it imported from Italy! It cost me an arm and a leg every time! Okay, go and put salt in the water, but don’t put it all right, just a bit.
He scanned the list of ingredients, which he had kept.
– What’s missing? Yeast, tomatoes and mozzarella?
– We have tomatoes in the village, my brother grows them. I mean, I hope there are still some. For the rest, I don’t know what it is.
– Okay, yeast, that’s fine...
– Kuku told me you are an expert in pizza and mozzarella.
– Well, all Italians are, one way or another.
She came closer to him, put her elbow on the table asked:
– So now, tell me. What is mozzarella?
– It’s cheese.
– That’s all?
– Yes. Why, what did you expect?
– I don’t know. I thought it was something special.
– Nop, it’s cheese. Your brother, he has cows?
– Yes.
– They make milk?
– Yes.
– There you go.
Sayowa found that answer... how to put it... disappointing. Inyambo had sent her across the country, with no safety net for... cheese? She fixed her grandfather’s friend, intrigued.
– How do you know Kuku?
– I’ll tell you what, I’m gonna show you how to cook pasta al dente. You’ll have to keep an eye on the timer. Then I’ll tell you the whole story.

They savoured a large dish of penne, seasoned with a dash of Emma’s olive oil and a few leaves of basil which Stefano went to collect in the garden. “No need for anything else” he assured. Still, Sayowa added a good quantity of salt.
He then settled comfortably in his armchair and started his story:
“When I was younger, that was sometime in the sixties, I was working for an Italian company. I used to travel a lot for business (he pronounced it bi-zi-nes). You could say I’ve seen the world! Europe of course, Meddle East, Asia and you guessed it, Africa.
“Anyway, where I met your grandfather was in Somalia. I was something like twenty five years old, so Inyambo was a bit more. It was... let me think... yes, it was that hotel. Sayowa, you should have seen that hotel, it was something! At the time, for business, we stayed in nice hotels. But hey, I feel better here than in all that luxury.
“I think it was at the bar of that hotel. The bastardo offered me a drink, we talked, we kind of clicked, bim bam boom, a week later we were hiking the two of us in the Great Rift Valley in Ethiopia. The Inyambino, he didn’t know you could travel for pleasure! I’m the one who taught him! Two full weeks we spent in bush.
“We met again a few years later. I had a business trip in Johannesburg, that time he is the one who brought me along to see the Victoria Falls. Or Mosi-oa-Tunya as he prefers. Ah the emancipation of Africa, that is important for him. He doesn’t like that Victoria lady!
“And well, life carried on, I settled in Italy, got married, had kids, divorced, all the fun stuff. After all that, I needed to escape. The first person who came to mind was Inyambo. That’s why I went to Namibia and opened the guest house in Swakop. But I didn’t see much of Inyambo around that time. He also got married. And he was busy with his political stuff. Anyway, it was not the same. The last time I saw him, your mother a baby.
“So I focused on my hotel. But you saw it, “Torino” is not really in theme in Swakop. So I sold to a German man who was very happy and I was able to retire. I hesitated to go back to Italy, but there was nothing for me there. In the end I found the perfect compromise: Cape Town. You feel like you are on the Mediterranean Sea! Except for the sea itself which is a bit agitated, but I mean, no complains!
“So that’s the story, in a nutshell. Overall, with Inyambo, we didn’t meet that many times, but I don’t know... we had some good fun together. And we talked also. I don’t know how many times we set the world aright just the two of us.
“And now he sends his granddaughter on the front line all across Africa to find me. You know, I said you look like him. Well not just physically. What you did there, it’s pure Inyambo! Crazy enough to do it and smart enough to make it out.”
Sayowa was hanging on every word. A lid was lifting off a part of her grandfather’s past which she had never heard of. As she was listening to Stefano, she understood that, more than the story itself, it was the way he was telling it which unveiled the nature of the relationship between the two men. Full of nostalgia, but also regrets.
When Stefano concluded, there were several minutes of silence. The sun was disappearing behind the mountain, painting the sea with orange reflections. The evening’s cool air redoubled the activity of the garden’s insects.
Stefano was looking far away, absentmindedly. Finally he said:
– What I still don’t understand, is why he sent you like that, on your own. I mean excuse me Sayowa, but you are pretty young to have been through what you have been through. Way too young in my mind. What went through his mind? Do you know?
She grimaced, she did not know.
– You still live on that small island, between the Zambezi and the Chobe?
– Yes, have you been there?
– Once, in a breeze. That’s where I’ve seen your mom, as a baby. Well you know what, we’re going to go and ask him! He must be worried to death that you’re still not home. You don’t have a phone over there, do you?
– No.
– Of course, that would be too easy. Okay, I think this is a two days trip. What day is today? Wednesday? All right, so tomorrow we leave early, we spend the night in Windhoek, we get to your place Friday evening and we pull your grandfather’s ears. What do you think?
– I’m down!
He raised his hand, she slammed it: “high five!”

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Thomas Botte19 décembre 2019