Clash of Civilizations Over an Elevator in Piazza Vittorio by Amara Lakhous Read Free Book Online

make a mistake because Roberto, Mario, Francesco, Massimo, Giulio, and Romano are all first names, not last names. I must do all I can to spare my son Roberto these serious problems. A good father should look out for his children’s future.
    I don’t know where he is now, but I’m sure of one thing: Signor Amedeo is not an immigrant or a criminal! I’m positive he is innocent. He isn’t stained with the blood of that young man who never smiled. I’ve known him ever since I unloaded trucks in Piazza Vittorio, before we started the cooperative. I also know his wife, Signora Stefania, she’s a friend of my wife. He helped me find the house where I live, even though the owner had refused to rent to immigrants. He even persuaded me to send my wife to school to learn Italian. I really hope that Roberto turns out to be like Signor Amedeo. Now I just have to decide whether to send him to the Italian nursery school or the Islamic school, where he would learn the Koran and the Bengali language.
     

THIRD WAIL
     
    T uesday February 24, 10:39 P.M.
    This morning Iqbal asked me if I knew the difference between a tolerant person and a racist. I answered that a racist is in conflict with others because he doesn’t believe they’re on his level, while a tolerant person treats others with respect. At that point he came closer to me, and, in order not to be heard by anyone, as if he were about to reveal a secret, he whispered, “Racists don’t smile!”
    I thought all day about racists who refuse to smile and I realized that Iqbal has made an important discovery. The racist’s problem is not with others but with himself. I would go further: he doesn’t smile at his fellow-man because he doesn’t know how to smile at himself. The Arab proverb that says “He who has nothing gives nothing” is very true.
     
    Monday June 26, 10:05 P.M.
    Tonight, near Piazza Venezia, I ran into Iqbal. He told me that he’s suffering from an ulcer, then he looked at me sadly and said, “Amir Allah Iqbal will kill me!” His tone of voice persuaded me to take him seriously. At first I thought Amir Allah Iqbal was a person who was threatening him and wanted to kill him, and I asked him to explain, so that I could understand. We sat down in a café.
    “Did you make a report to the police?”
    “I’ve made many reports, but they threw me out.”
    Luckily my fears didn’t last long. Iqbal pulled out his residency permit and told me the story of the mix-up of name and surname. He lingered for a long time on the problem of the similarity of names and told me a story about a man in Bangladesh who was hanged by mistake because his name corresponded exactly to that of a dangerous criminal. He looked at me, holding back tears: “You know me, Signor Amedeo, my name is Iqbal Amir Allah and I have nothing to do with Amir Allah Iqbal! You’re the only Italian witness who can save me from future accusations.” His words struck me. I promised that I would help him, right away. Tomorrow morning I’ll call Bettarini, who was so helpful in resolving the problem of the pigeons of Piazza Santa Maria Maggiore and preventing a lot of trouble for Parviz.
     
    Thursday January 30, 11:19 P.M.
    This morning I went with Iqbal to the police station. Inspector Bettarini managed to take care of everything in a few minutes. Iqbal’s joy was uncontainable. After saying goodbye to the Inspector, he insisted on inviting me to have tea in a café nearby. He’s decided to name his next child Roberto, to make the job of the police easier when they have to distinguish his first and last name, and so protect his son from the same problem of the confusion of names. Iqbal is proud of the fact that his son will be the first child in the history of Bangladesh to have the name Roberto. Then he added, “I know that for you Italians our names are hard to pronounce, but this way I feel certain that all Italians will smile at my son!” I didn’t want to interrupt. I let him finish