It's 29 June 2000 and I'm watching the European Cup. It's Italy
v.
Holland in the semi-final. My eyes are staring at the TV, but my heart's contemplating other horizons.
Over there, people have been clinging to a scrap of land, the island of Niodior, for centuries. Stuck to the gum of the Atlantic like bits of leftover food, they wait resignedly for the next big wave that will either carry them off or leave them their lives. This thought hits me every time I retrace my path and my memory glimpses the minaret of the mosque, rigid in its certainties, and the coconut palms, shaking their hair in a nonchalant pagan dance whose origin is forgotten. Is it one of those ancient funeral dances that sanctifies the reunion of our dead with our ancestors? Or the oft-repeated one that celebrates marriages at the end of the harvest, after the rainy season? Or even that third kind of dance sparked by storms, during which, they say, the coconut palms imitate the shudder of young girls given in marriage to men they don't love? The fourth is the most mysterious, the dream tango, and everyone has their own version that follows the rhythm of their breathing.
It's nearly ten years since I left the shade of the coconut palms. Pounding the asphalt, my imprisoned feet recall their former liberty, the caress of warm sand, being nipped by crabs and the little thorn pricks that remind you there's life even in the body's forgotten extremities. I tread European ground, my feet sculpted and marked by African earth. One step after another, it's the same movement all humans make, all over the planet. Yet I know my western walk has nothing in common with the one that took me through the alleys, over the beaches, paths and fields of my native land. People walk everywhere, but never towards the same horizon. In Africa, I followed in destiny's wake, between chance and infinite hopefulness. In Europe, I walk down the long tunnel of efficiency that leads to well-defined goals. Here, chance plays no part; every step leads to an anticipated result and hope is measured by appetite for the fight. In the Technicolor world, you walk differently, towards an internalized destiny you set yourself regardless, without ever realising, for you're pressed into the modern mob, caught up in the social steamroller ready to crush all those who dare pull over onto the hard shoulder. So, under the grey European sky, or in unexpected sunlight, I walk on, counting my steps, each one bringing me closer to my dream. But how many kilometres, how many work-filled days and sleepless nights still separate me from that so-called success that my people, on the other hand, took for granted from the moment I told them I was leaving for France? I walk on, my steps weighed down by their dreams, my head filled with my own. I walk on and have no idea where I'll end up. I don't know which mast the flag of victory is hoisted on, nor which waters could wash away the stain of failure. Hey, you, don't nod off; my head's boiling over! Pass me the wood! This fire needs stoking. Writing's my witch's cauldron; at night I brew up dreams too tough to cook.
The noise of the television shakes me from my reverie. Every time the commentators shout Maldini's name, a face fills the screen. Thousands of kilometres from my sitting room, on the other side of the earth, in Senegal, on that island barely big enough to accommodate a stadium, I picture a young man glued to a battered old TV set, watching the same match as me. I feel him next to me. Our eyes meet on the same images. Hearts thudding, gasps, outbursts of joy or despair, all our emotions are synchronised while the match plays, because we're right behind the same man: Paolo Maldini.
So, over there, at the ends of the earth, I see a young man on a mat or an old bench stamping his feet in front of an ancient TV, which, despite its sputtering, commands as big an audience as a cinema screen. The owner of the only TV in the area generously sets it up in his yard and all the neighbours flock unannounced. The place is open to everyone; the sex, age and number of spectators vary according to the programme. This afternoon, 29 June 2000, the weather's good, the sky's a perfect blue and the TV isn't crackling, even if the owner had to bang it with his fist to get it going. The eyes trained on it have all the freshness of innocence. Boys in the flower of youth, their bodies formed by long years of running after balls made of rags, then unhoped-for footballs, jostle and press together, liquid energy streaming down their smooth foreheads. Alert to every move, they yell out their predictions.
One of the young men is silent, concentrated on the images. He leans towards the screen; his gaze weaves among the heads. Jaw clenched, only the odd jerky movement betrays the passion inside him. At Maldini's first tackle, his foot spontaneously strikes the bum of the boy squatting in front of him, hoofing him into the air. The victim turns round in a fury but, seeing the guilty party's face utterly engrossed, doesn't count on an apology and finds a place a little further off. You don't step on a blind man's balls twice, the saying goes: once is enough for him to pick up his merchandise as soon as he hears the sound of footsteps. The boy should shift his arse anyway, because the match was only just beginning and there'd be many more exciting moments. Already it's enough to make you commit hara-kiri: a red card for Zambrota, the Italian number 17. That's too much for the young man. As frustrated as Dino Zoff, the Italian coach, he straightens up and mutters something the ref wouldn't have liked. You get it: he supports the Italians and from now on you're not allowed to support any other team, out of respect. Fate really is against them: a yellow card for Francesco Toldo, the Italian keeper, who just grabbed hold of the Dutch number 9. The young man stands up, clutching his head in his hands, waiting for the inevitable punishment which soon follows: penalty against Italy.
Do something, God! Should I stop shouting? No, but you've no idea! It's not important? Of course it's important! Yes, I know, it's not Hiroshima. If that was all, I couldn't care less, but don't you see they might score a goal that will break Madické's heart! Who's Madické? Who's Madické? You think I've got time to tell you that? A penalty's not a coffee break; it rips out as fast as a footballer's fart! So are you going to do something or what? What about all my prayers, what about Ramadan? You think I do all that for nothing?
Toldo, the Italian goalie, saves it. Madické gives a violent kick, but this time no one's in the way. Phew! We've avoided the worst. His chest heaves with a long sigh, he relaxes, and his face lights up with a smile I know won't last. The match goes on.
Every time the Italians make a mistake, he puts his hands together in prayer. Just before half-time, Maldini argues with the ref's decision and is rewarded with a yellow card. Madické's smile's wiped off his face; he knows a second yellow card is the same as a red and his idol will be sent off. He squeezes his head in his hands with worry: he doesn't want to see his hero relegated to the sidelines. He'd like to talk to him, tell him the tactics he's devising, right there on his bench. Short of playing alongside him, he'd like to lend Maldini his legs, so he'd have a spare pair. But there, on that bench, his feet burrowing in the white, burning sand, how many dream kilometres separate him from the traces of mud Maldini will leave in the dressing rooms at half-time?
Transforming his despair into dialogue, he screams words that catch in the tops of the Niodior palms, never to reach Maldini's ears. I'm his devoted messenger: Madické and I have the same mother. People who only love by halves will tell you he's my half-brother, but to me he's my little brother and that's that.
So tell Maldini his yellow or red cards are too much to bear, they're crushing my heart. Tell him to save his skin, stay in one piece, not land a ball in the face, not let the opposition mow him down. Tell him I groan every time he cops it. Tell him his hot breath is searing my lungs. Tell him I feel his injuries and bear the scars. Tell him above all that I saw him, in Niodior, chasing the bubble of a dream over the warm sand. Because one day, on waste ground, my brother turned into Maldini. So tell Maldini about his wrestler's body, his dark eyes, his frizzy hair, his gorgeous smile and white teeth. That Maldini is my little brother, swallowed up in his dream.
The ref blows the half-time whistle, the young spectators make for the tree opposite the house, partly to stretch their legs but also to argue more loudly without disturbing their host. Only Madické stays by the house. He wouldn't miss the second half for the world. Nothing but ads on the TV now. Even in these regions, where drinking water's still a luxury, Coca-Cola brazenly comes to swell its sales figures. Have no fear, Coca-Cola will make the Sahel wheat grow! The TV attracts a group of scrawny seven- to ten-year-olds, their only playthings the sticks of wood and tins they've picked up in the street, who burst out laughing at the ad's suggestive scene: a boy approaches a group of girls who seem to be ignoring him. He offers a Coke to the prettiest one and beckons to her; the girl, after a refreshing gulp, generously offers him her waist. He puts his arm around her and they leave together, smiling. The boys guffaw. One asks another: “What's he going to do to her?”
The others snigger. The apparent leader of the gang answers, digging him with his elbow: “You stupid or what? He's going to screw her.”
Encouraged by the leader, another boy goes on: “They're having a dance at the back of my house. I saw my big brother and his friends bring cases of Coca-Cola. Wahey! The girls are going to get what's coming to them!”
The laughter breaks out louder than ever. Now it's Miko's turn to whet their appetites. An enormous ice-cream cone, colours glistening, fills the screen, then a chubby little boy appears, greedily licking a huge ice cream. Envious purrs replace the inanity of a moment ago: a chorus of “Mmm! Oooh! That's good! Mmm!” These kids know ice cream only through images. For them it's a virtual food, eaten only
over there,
on the other side of the Atlantic, in the paradise where that plump kid had the good sense to be born. But they're crazy for that ice cream; for its sake they've memorised the advertising schedule. They chant the word “Miko,” repeat it the way believers intone their holy book. They look forward to this ice cream as Muslims look forward to the paradise of Muhammad, and come here to await it like Christians awaiting the return of Christ. They've found icons for this Miko cone; they've made rough sculptures out of bits of wood, painted them with red and yellow crayons to represent mouthwatering ice creams. And it's these sticks of wood they sniff now as they savour the ad. I dream of a Miko swimming pool, built in the name of pleasure, not turnover. They dream of devouring this ice cream as Madické dreams of shaking Maldini's hand.
The ads draw to an end. The older boys, who were arguing about the match under the tree, gather in front of the television again and shoo away the younger boys, who are too noisy. Elders are respected around here. An old fisherman, still strong, dressed in rags, makes himself comfortable right in front of Madické, who identifies him by the smell of fish penetrating his nostrils. Greetings are polite but brief. That smell is fetid but respect shuts you up. Madické keeps quiet. He knows that in these parts the decades you've accumulated are aces that trump everything. He'll have to put up with this putrefying fossil for the whole of the second half. So he concentrates and imagines he's over there, where the match is being played, far from the old fisherman.
The stadium reappears. The players aren't out of the dressing rooms yet, but the commentators are warming up, and Maldini's name keeps being mentioned. What are they saying about him? Madické wonders. He strains to hear; it's not easy with his neighbours commentating the match like seasoned experts. He leans in nearer to the flickering screen, cups his ear in his hand as if better to isolate himself from the group, and listens again. The commentators' voices are slightly more audible, but the language they use flies past his ears without really going in. It's so annoying! And that smell, too, getting stronger and stronger . . . Only Maldini's name reaches him clearly at odd intervals. But what the hell are they saying about him?
And yet he's often heard, even seen, that language. Yes, he's seen it, here in his country: that language wears trousers, suits, ties, shoes with laces; or skirts, suits, sunglasses and high heels. He does recognise the language that flows in Senegalese offices, but he doesn't understand it and that irritates him. The second half begins.
The first free kick goes to the Italians. Madické's delighted. They've pulled themselves together, he thinks, and that reassures him. But his optimism's soon frustrated. The Dutch value their honour. They defend their goal like a nun defends her fanny. The Italians have to deal with it. This sublimated war on the turf demands nerves of steel, and it's not easy holding out for ninety minutes. Especially in these last moments of the match when every move counts. Madické sweats; it's hot, and, besides, that stink of fish is beginning to turn his stomach.
The ref whistles an end to the ninety minutes; the adversaries will have to wait for extra time to fight on. Although their thirst for glory keeps them on their feet, their ravaged faces beg for rest. Like a protective mother, a sister moved to tears or a devoted wife, I'd like to offer them a drink, sponge their faces, bandage their cuts and give them a hug. I'd like to tell them their frustrating match is like life: the best goals are always yet to come; it's just that waiting for them is painful.
Covered in mud and streaming with sweat, the players huddle together, their shoulders slumped, crushed by so much fruitless effort.
Rest before extra time. The group of young spectators who've stayed in front of the television becomes animated. The match is upsetting their forecasts. The nervous ones are keen to assert their point of view, waving their hands about. The advertising jingles ring out. The kids from before rush over. The old fisherman picks a quarrel to kill time; with a teasing smile, he taps Madické on the shoulder and, stroking his beard, says: “What's happening? Maldini, eh? Eh? Not up to it today, huh? Your opponents are looking pretty solid.”