A Reluctant Hero

by Chandra Arulpragasam

Italy in 1967 still had a heavy American military presence, dating back to World War II. I had been in Italy for less than a year and did not speak the language well. I must have been about 38-years old, but had a nagging backache, which I attributed to the violent physical sports of my youth. I had tried many cures, including visits to London hospitals; but to no avail.

I had heard of the thermal baths in Ischia (an island near Capri) that were supposed to be good for backaches. I decided to go there, since it involved only a two-and-a- half-hour boat ride from Naples. In Ischia, having booked myself into a small pensione, I bought a one-week pass to the major thermal bath on the island. It was a large complex with a big garden, several pools at varying heat-levels, enclosures for mud baths (the volcanic mud was said to be good for aches) and cubicles for massage. The main clients were elderly Germans, who kept coming to the terme every year at spring-time. I happened to be the only dark-skinned person there!

On my first morning, when I was going to the hot springs, a man in camouflage uniform leapt out of the bushes to salute me: I recoiled in surprise. He seemed to be an ex-military man with a clipped moustache, balding and a bit of a belly; he turned out to be the gardener. At the baths, I swam in the biggest pool and soaked in the thermal springs. I was then offered a soak in the volcanic mud, or just a plain massage. I opted for the latter. The masseur was highly amused at my insisting on a tiny towel to cover my nakedness.

I had been only a few months in Italy: I could understand Italian well but could hardly speak, responding only with a ‘si’’ or ‘no’ to any questions asked of me. The masseur (Gianni) kept on chatting to me in Italian, asking me many personal questions. All his questions were about my physical activities. He first asked me whether I flew planes – and how many planes I had shot down, going rat-a-tat-tat, to imitate a machine gun. When I answered that I had not shot down any planes, he seemed genuinely disappointed! He then asked me how many enemies I had killed in hand-to-hand combat. When I answered in the negative, he seemed even more disappointed. I too was disappointed that I had to answer ‘no’ to all his questions: for he was only trying to make conversation. His next question was whether I was a boxer – like Muhammad Ali. By this time, I realized that I was not living up to his expectations, so I said: “‘Sort of – but that was long ago”: I had boxed a bit in my youth. ‘Giorgio’, he called to the masseur next-door: ‘This guy is a famous boxer!’ Giorgio burst into my booth to admire this famous boxer, while I clutched desperately at my skimpy towel!

Gianni resumed his questioning, asking me whether I was an actor in films. Since I was answering ‘no’ to all his questions, I desperately wanted to say ‘yes’ to something: so I responded weakly, ‘Si’. ‘Stefano’, he shouted to the next cubicle, ‘This guy is a famous actor in films’. I coyly clutched at my tiny towel as Stefano burst into my cubicle. The latter asked: ‘Were you like zero, zero, sette – like 007, like James Bond’? This line of questioning was leading me into greater lies, but I nodded weakly. With a sly wink, he then asked me: ‘So you must have had many women, like 007’? Unable to speak the language and unwilling to disappoint him, I responded with a nonchalant shrug of my shoulders, which he took to mean ‘quite a few’. He called excitedly to Roberto next door, telling him breathlessly that I had slept with many, many women! Roberto asked ‘then you must be a good lover, no?’ I was cornered: with seeming modesty, I answered ‘Si’. They believed what they wanted to believe vicariously of me, what they wanted me vicariously to be: a boxer like Muhamed Ali, a film-star like James Bond, making love to many women, just like James Bond! I was beginning to believe my own yarns myself!

All this made me famous! Everyone treated me with new respect. When I came to the baths next morning, even the old soldier saluted me with new gusto! So for one week at the baths I was a hero, walking on clouds. I was brought back to earth only when I had to return to my cheap pensione!

After I returned to Rome, I often wondered about my stay in Ischia. Why had they asked me only about armed activities and only about my physical prowess? It all made sense only when I learned that there was an American air force base in Naples. They had hardly seen a dark-skinned person in their remote Ischia. They had actually mistaken me for an Afro-American airman from the American base in Naples. I had fitted their imagined stereotype of an Afro-American airman: and I had fuelled their fancy fantasies. I had been their hero – although for one week only!

A Would-be Italian Lover

I met Ruggeiro (Roger) when he parked his caravan (trailer) next to mine at a lake (Lago di Bracciano), about one hour’s drive from Rome. It was a fresh-water lake (reputedly 800 feet deep) formed in the basin of a volcano, long years ago. Ruggeiro was full of fun, seldom serious, with an impish grin on his face and a wild sense of humour: he was known for his racy stories and sense of fun. Ruggiero had a wife, but no children. He must have been about 38-years old (around 1975). He wore a skimpy bathing slip, had sparkling blue eyes which contrasted well with his tanned skin, while a curl on his forehead hid a receding hairline.

We would usually meet at the lake on weekends. What brought us together was that we both had sail-boats. Mine was an all-purpose boat which could also be sailed, while his was a professional sail-boat. Likewise, whereas I could sail only tentatively, he was a serious sailor. This did not deter him from trying his pranks on me. When I would set out hesitantly and with trepidation (I had never taken sailing lessons), he would ride the waves triumphantly, ramming my boat repeatedly and laughing uproariously – only to pass me a bottle of grappa (intoxicating drink from Italy). After I had taken a frightened gulp, he would bump my boat again – to get his bottle back for another drink. He would bump me repeatedly, either to give me the bottle or to take it back. This ‘game’ would go on and on, till we had finished the bottle! Needless to say, when we finally reached the shore, I could hardly get out of my boat and stagger home!

In summer, the Italians would usually take their families to the seaside. One early summer’s day, I asked Ruggeiro whether he would be going to the beach. He responded with a knowing wink that he would be sending his wife to the beach with her sister and mother. I asked him whether he would be going too. ‘No, no’, he replied with a sly grin, ‘I will be staying in Rome: I will wait for the girls from Europe to come flocking for Italian lovers: they will leave their knickers behind in the Alps’, rubbing his palms together with glee! I noted that he had removed his wedding ring in anticipation; but its removal had left a thin, white, exposed band on his otherwise tanned skin. When asked whether this would not give him away, he replied with a wink and grin: ‘There’s nothing that a bit of shoe polish cannot accomplish!’

Babes in the Wood

At a long weekend around 1980, the few Sri Lankan families in Rome decided to have a picnic. We decided to go to the Pineta d’Ostia with its forest of pine trees, covering many square miles before reaching the sea in Ostia. It was a lonely spot in those days: my kids and I used to pack our bikes in our old station wagon and go to these woods to cycle for miles in these beautiful pine forests, which had good tarred roads, despite its loneliness. We had chosen an idyllic spot for our picnic, a clearing in the woods surrounded by trees and greenery. Our picnic lunch was a relaxed affair, lasting the whole morning and extending well into the afternoon. Much good food was eaten and much wine drunk.

The kids were playing in the clearing near us. But when we were clearing up to leave, we realized with consternation that two of our children had wandered off: Anjali, our daughter (aged five years) and a friend’s child, Gitanjali (Jayasundera) aged six. Searching in the vicinity with no results, we sent out systematic search-parties – but with no success. Becoming really worried, we thought of going to the police; but dismissed the idea because there was no police station close by. Hence, we merely intensified our search, sending out search parties in all directions.

Fortunately for us, the two children had been picked up by a police car that was cruising by in these woods. They were taken to the nearest police station, where they were questioned by the kind and concerned police men. They enquired where the children’s parents were. The children, thinking that this was all a joke made up a story that they did not know our whereabouts. The police then asked them how long they had been lost. The children fantasized that they had been roaming the forests for three whole days. The policemen asked them how they had survived for so long – to which the kids replied that they had survived by eating grass! This was too much for the policemen! They put the children in the squad car and went around the forests searching for their parents. Luckily they found us – though in deep distress. They gave us a good scolding for our carelessness, but smilingly admonished us not to send out our children to eat grass!

Migrants’ Tales

The first wave of migrants from Sri Lanka comprised professionals (doctors and engineers) who migrated to English-speaking countries where their (English) professional skills were recognized and valued. The second wave consisted of unemployed labour going into the non-English speaking countries – Italy, France and Germany – for manual or semi-skilled jobs, where language skills did not matter much. Usually the latter type of migration is spear-headed by the adventurers, often the ‘ne’er do wells’ who have nothing to lose; to the contrary, those with secure jobs would be afraid of undertaking such a risk at all!

Our story is about an adventurer who took the risk of migrating to Italy in the early days. He obtained a job as cook and major-domo to a rich bachelor. He had never cooked in his life. In those days (1975), Sri Lankan men never cooked at all: he was able to bungle through with the help of his indulgent employer. A month passed by – and he was still holding his job. He was keen to boast to the folks at home how well he had done in Italy. So he told friend to take a photograph. But before the photo, he arranged the pose and moved the furniture accordingly! He lay on his employer’s bed; he pulled the TV behind the bed, so that it would show in the photo. No one in his village owned a TV in those days. He pulled the two phones in the house beside his bed. Dressed in his employer’s best shirt, suit and shoes, and seeming to give important instructions over the phone, a cigarette dangling from his lips, he asked his friend to take the photograph. Needless to say, when the photo made the rounds in the village, not only was his reputation redeemed, but all the young men were jumping up and down to go to Italy!

Finally, a sad story comes to mind. By this time (around 1985), immigration to Italy had increased to a flood. Middlemen and brokers had entered the fray, promising everything from a passage to Italy to a forged visa, in return for an enormous fee. Desperately poor rural families mortgaged or sold their homes in order to finance their passage to Italy. This story is about one set of migrants who were able to find the large sums of money demanded by their agent. They were told to find their way to Hambantota where they were clandestinely loaded into a boat at night. They sailed for many days from Lanka’s shores, crossing many fishing vessels and ocean liners on their way, while some of the passengers were violently seasick.

After sailing for about a week, they at last sighted land-lights in the distance; they were told that they had reached Italy. They would land secretly at night on a thinly wooded shore; they were told to lie low for the night and to work their way to the nearest town in the morning. When morning came, they crept into the closest town in twos and threes, as instructed…… Only to find that they had landed in Hambantota – the very town from which they had departed! They had literally been taken for a ride! To add to their dismay, they had to face the shame of their village, the blame of their families and the demands of their creditors!