LITMIR.BIZ

       Seven

      The Libertas Language Centre was on a side street off the road running south away from the centre and parallel with the Brutalist concrete bulk of Termini station. Here, at only two or three minutes’ walk from the station’s buzz, it was already far enough away from the bars and shops to attract very few tourists. Just beyond the school, there was an improvised stall selling pornographic magazines and videos for the remnants of the pre-digital generation. Staff smoked and idled outside a Chinese wholesaler of knick-knacks and costume jewellery, and there was a knot of middle-aged men chatting intently outside a cut-price Indian takeaway. The language centre served as a focus, especially on hot afternoons in summer, for various nationalities who loitered on the footpath and against the railings on the raised walkway leading further away from the station. Some had improvised a marketplace underneath its slope where, on tarpaulins and rugs, they laid out second-hand clothes, shoes, kitchenware and dated household goods and furnishings.

      Olivia Modena had already stacked up her books, the unmarked homework, and the register. The money a non-profit cooperative paid her for the few hours a week she taught Italian to immigrants was hardly worth the effort but she wasn’t there for that. She was there because she needed the experience, but also because she enjoyed making a difference. She enjoyed seeing the barriers between herself and the others coming down as their trust in her grew. She took pleasure too from seeing some of those same barriers crumbling between people who would never have had occasion to meet in other circumstances.

      For some the dream of making something with their lives was still fresh and real, and their vigour and optimism could be uplifting, especially on mornings when the weight of her own existence sometimes dragged her down. Even when you liked what you did and couldn’t imagine doing anything else, getting up every morning, criss-crossing the city and juggling work commitments was draining.

      For others it was not so easy. She saw the hope dwindling in their eyes as the obstacles they encountered day after day began to sap their energy and their belief. Work with anything like a decent contract was not easy to come by. For those who worked in agriculture, the gangmaster was king. A call could come in at the last minute and they would be expected at an often ungodly hour to get to the appointed meeting place on the outskirts of the city from where they would be picked up and driven to a remote destination. If they didn’t want to accept the going rate it was too late then to turn back. Take it or leave it – there’s a queue of workers outside the door. Add to that the back-breaking work under a searing sun for twelve hours or more, and maybe the promise of more of the same the next day. Maybe.

      When they weren’t working, they were killing time, getting by, and other exploitative figures sought to draw them into criminal and other informal money-making ventures. Drugs, prostitution, the running of prostitution. Protection. Punishments. Contracts. There was always an outlet in a city with a hunger for sex and chemical oblivion that never wavered, and weed and coke were the best earners.

      In front of her, in the cramped and stuffy improvised classroom, her adult pupils were either still grappling with, or else putting the finishing touches to, a grammar test. She was ready to go but knew she would probably end up hanging around outside to chat. In fact, today she wanted to chat.

      One of the brightest of her students deposited his paper on the mounting pile of completed tests on her desk. As he did so, she raised her hands to indicate to the others that there were ten minutes left and she followed him outside. She knew a little of his story – that he was Nigerian, a Muslim, had come up from Sicily, like so many, that he was without papers but that he had plans.

      “So, Jibril,” she said, once they were out of earshot, “are you coming to the intercultural picnic on Saturday?”

      Jibril shook his head and smiled. A short distance away, Olivia glimpsed the various groups of non-students and occasional or former students who also chose to congregate outside the centre. It was handily near the centre but the police didn’t bother them much here.

      “I am sorry, Olivia,” he continued, placing his hand on his heart, “but on Saturday I must attend to other matters in my community.”

      “All work and no play,” Olivia quipped, “makes Jibril a dull boy!”

      He smiled again. “Next time. Next time, I promise. Farò del mio meglio.”

      “Bravissimo! You see? You will soon be fluent! And I will do my best,” she replied, echoing the promise he had made in near-perfect Italian, “to convince you. And why don’t you bring some of your friends?” she added, indicating the tight-knit group itching now for Jibril to terminate his extracurricular discussion.

      “If you change your mind, let me know. You have my number, don’t you?”

      He nodded.

      “I will try,” he said. “Arrivederci, Olivia.”

      “Arrivederci, Jibril.”

      She watched him walk away and glanced back through the window at the rest of the class as they continued to do battle with their past perfects, subjunctives, and indirect object pronouns. As friends, she and Jibril had already shared enjoyable chats over coffee, but whether there might be more, as yet remained to be seen. She watched too as one of his companions put an arm around his shoulder and squeezed it tightly as the group walked away; the direction, if not the actual destination, known to Olivia and always the same. She picked up his test paper and toyed with the idea of making an early start on the corrections. This one would be easy. The neat, clear hand. Scarcely an error. Even the accents were in place. Jibril was good. No. He was very good. And why did he have to be so charming? He was definitely going to be one to watch.