Chapter xxi
xxi
RACHELE PARKED HER CAR, AND WE WALKED DOWN Via Roma—a kind of pedestrian zone filled with shops and restaurants—to a square building on a corner that had yellow and green turtles painted on it like a wraparound mural. There was a small window that looked almost like it could be used to serve ice cream to people on the street, and beside it were a few steps that led up to a door.
As we got closer, I could hear someone reading a story in lilting Italian.
“The library is only open a few hours a week,” Rachele said. “And run entirely by volunteers—including my friend Michela, who is reading that story about a mouse looking for his underpants.” That explained why the kids were laughing.
“Do they have lots of activities there?” I asked.
“It’s a bit impromptu,” Rachele said. “Sometimes the volunteers will read with the kids or do art projects. And they have the largest collection of wordless picture books in the world—a collection sent here by the International Board on Books for Young People. Michela said the books have come from eighty different countries.”
We walked up the steps.
“There’s an American doctor who volunteers here sometimes,” Rachele said. “He’s working with a nonprofit, going out on their search-and-rescue ship to patrol the area around the island.”
I nodded, listening but focused on the fact that I’d see your photographs soon.
“Do you know where the photos are?” I asked in a quiet voice as she opened the door. Libraries always make me want to talk softly.
Rachele nodded. “You’ll see them pretty much immediately. The library’s not that big.”
I looked around and saw tall shelves of books, children and adults sitting together at tables. The walls had quotes on them—one attributed to Malala and another attributed to Francis de Croisset. And then my eyes landed on a wall of photographs and my breath caught. It was your work, unmistakably, and I couldn’t believe I was getting to see it for the first time—nearly ten years after you’d left this earth.
I walked closer. The first one was a cropped-in photo of a beautiful little girl in a bright green dress, looking down, so her face was hidden. She was hugging a doll that looked a little worse for wear—one of the doll’s painted-on eyes was nearly rubbed off, there was dirt smudged on its face, and its foot looked like it had been chewed, perhaps by a family pet. The girl clearly was not letting go of that doll, no matter what. Next to that photo was another of two young boys in silhouette. They were holding hands, racing toward a sunset. Then a girl, her hair braided down her back, kicking a scuffed soccer ball. A boy walking upside-down on his hands. Underneath them all was a caption that you’d written. It was in English and had also been translated into Italian. It said: I spent two weeks with children at the Lampedusa first-response center. Together we explored every inch of their surroundings. I took photographs, and they did too. We chose the ones to hang here, a record of their time in this place, a record of the life they’ve all led, a record of the beauty that is all around, everywhere we look for it. —Gabriel Samson, 2013
Next to those photographs was one of bright purple flowers growing against the fence. It looked like the caption was in Arabic and Italian.
I turned to Rachele. “What does it say?” I asked her. She translated: “ ‘I was so surprised when I saw these flowers. They were growing all by themselves. I thought they were beautiful.’ Hala Khaled, age nine.”
Then there was a photograph of an old woman’s hands. A pile of books. A Coca-Cola, the glass bottle dripping with condensation. A man and a little boy hugging. A neatly made bed. A table with what looked like bread and soup on it. And you, Gabe. There was a picture of you.
“What does that one say?” I asked, pointing to the caption next to your photo.
Rachele took a step closer. “It says: ‘Mr. Gabriel is beautiful. Not because of how he looks, but because of how he sees all of us. He makes us feel special, and that is beautiful.’ Bashir Hassan, age eleven.”
It was Bashir’s!
I walked closer to the photograph. I hadn’t looked at your face in so long, Gabe. Bashir said your beauty wasn’t in how you looked, but to me, it was there, too—how you looked and how you saw the world, both were beautiful. And, Gabe, in that photo you were luminous. I reached my fingers out to touch your face through the glass, your lips, your nose.
Behind us, someone cleared his throat and said something in careful, accented Italian.
I turned around.
“Dr. Armstrong,” Rachele said. “Hello. This woman is here from America. She wanted to see the photographs.”
I looked up at Dr. Armstrong then, and his eyes connected with mine. They were a golden hazel. There was a sadness there, but also a spark of something—hope? Curiosity? I found myself unable to look away. The American doctor Rachele had mentioned, the one working on the nonprofit’s search-and-rescue ship. He cleared his throat again.
“Dax Armstrong,” he said, stretching out his hand to shake mine. “Welcome to Lampedusa.”
I felt myself blush, though I didn’t know why. “I’m Lucy,” I said, sliding my hand into his. “Lucy Carter Maxwell.”
“I’ve been wondering about these photographs,” he said. “I look at them every time I volunteer at the library. Do you know the story? Why they’re here?”
I didn’t know what to say. I’ve had so much trouble explaining to people who you are to me. I know it shouldn’t matter, but I want them to know what you mean to me.
“I didn’t know anything about them until recently,” I said.
He looked at me, and I could see him notice how close I was standing to the photograph of you. Maybe he had seen my fingertips on the glass.
“The photographer was someone special to you?” he asked.
“Yes,” I answered. “He died a little less than a year after these photos were taken. I didn’t know they existed. And now well, there’s a retrospective. Ten years after his death, and we might include some of these photos. I’m supposed to send images back home.”
I didn’t know if I was making sense, but Dr. Armstrong seemed to be following me.
“Home is ?” he asked.
“Brooklyn,” I said. “And you?”
“Manhattan,” he said with a small smile. “I guess we’re neighbors.”
The pull toward him was so strong that I’d forgotten Rachele was standing next to us.
“My kids think Manhattan is practically another country,” I said.
He smiled, but I saw pain in his eyes. Real, raw.
“I should leave you to take your pictures,” he said. “To send back home.”
“Thanks,” I said. “It was nice to meet you.”
My hair had fallen into my face, and I tucked it behind my ear. It was still hard to look away from his eyes.
“Um, listen,” he said. “I don’t usually happen upon many New Yorkers on Lampedusa. If you want, I could show you around after I finish up here? Or we could grab something to eat? Maybe you could tell me more about your photographer.”
I didn’t even have to think about it. “I’d … I’d like that, Dr. Armstrong,” I said.
“Dax, please,” he answered. “Lucy?”
I can’t explain why, but when he said my name, it felt familiar, like he had been saying it for years.
“Lucy,” I confirmed.
“Lucy,” he said again. “The girl with kaleidoscope eyes.”
“Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.” The song that had defined my high school years, the song people sang to me in the hallways and at parties. I used to roll my eyes, but really I loved it. Loved the attention, loved the song.
“I’ll make you cellophane flowers,” I said. “Yellow and green.”
He laughed. “I’ll find you some rocking horse people, some marshmallow pies.”
“Sounds great,” I said. “Where can I find you for these rocking horse people and marshmallow pies?”
He handed me his phone and I put in my contact info.
“I’ll find you on WhatsApp,” he said.
Then a little boy pulled at his sweater, and Dax turned toward him speaking, again, in careful Italian.
“I’ll just take some quick photographs,” I said to Rachele. “And then maybe you can show me some more of the island.”
“Of course,” Rachele said.
As we turned to leave, Dax was sitting with the little boy, an open book in front of them. The two of them were pointing to different items on the page, and the boy was identifying them in Italian, while Dax was identifying them in English.
“They’re giving each other language lessons,” Rachele said with a laugh.
Dax must’ve heard her, because he looked up and smiled at us one last time before I walked out the door.
I have to admit, my mind was drifting during Rachele’s tour. While she talked about the geology, vegetation, and history of the island, I found myself wondering what Dax’s story was, where that sadness in his eyes had come from. As she brought me back to my hotel, I asked Rachele if it might be possible to buy cellophane somewhere nearby. I had promised flowers, and I wanted to deliver.