« Ja» answers the officer, bluntly.
I take my passport out of my man bag and give it to him. He carefully looks at the picture, then turns up his eyes to meet mine and looks at the picture again, finally he asks if I am Francesco Speri.
I nod. I actually don’t really look much like I did 5 years and 12 kilos ago.
The look on his face becomes suddenly serious.
« Können Sie mir folgen?» he says in a martial tone.
Surprised by his request to follow him, I ask, maybe a little unkindly, why. The customs officer insists relentless and I am forced to follow him.
We cross a long dark corridor, many doors on its sides, all closed: it looks like a gloomy ancient hospital, of those you only find now in little villages. With a sign of the hand, he invites me to get into the last room on the right: here a small man, standing on his military boots dictates something to another man, who is in turn busy typing on an ancient machine. Despite his height, the first man must be a major, a coronel, some big shot. With a half-smile under his black moustache, he shows me where to sit gripping with his fat hand onto the back of an uncomfortable wooden chair. This “bossy” then loudly starts arguing with the man who took me here; the third officer stops typing and joins the conversation, but they immediately shut him up. For the first time since when I left, I think about professor Barbarino, who is the actual reason of my trip: he insisted I should have learnt Turkish to come here digging with him. I always answered that I am not an archaeologist but an historian and that in order to dig archaeological sites, speaking is not required; for all the rest it sufficed that he could be able to speak with the authorities.
Anxiety takes over, while the minutes slowly go by. The officers are literally screaming now and I suppose they are talking about me: from time to time they point towards me with a slight movement of the head. I look around: a brownish wallpaper has been poorly glued to the white tiles. On the wall behind the general (I have upgraded him in the meanwhile: he seems to be the one in charge) hangs a huge painting of someone wearing a high officer uniform.
« Haben Sie verstanden?»
[How could I understand, if you only speak in this Anatolian western mountain lost dialect!]
They explain someone from the Italian embassy is on their way; I ask them why, but no one deems worthy responding. This “general” smiles a lot and talks very little: I don’t trust him instinctively!
The officer who took me here asks, or better orders me, to follow him again. On my way out I realise that probably the painting on the wall pictures the same younger general; after all men with moustache all look alike to me.
We walk back the same corridor up until a room that seems even gloomier: no bars, but still looking like a prison cell, probably because there are no windows or, mainly, due to the officer standing right on the door, as to block it with his body size.
A never-ending hour goes by, locked up in that room: I don’t know what could happen to me. Suddenly I hear the sound of heels approaching from afar, it stops, undefined voices can be heard, and the heels keep coming closer…
«Good morning, my name is Francesco Speri» I say standing up.
A girl around 35 comes in, short, with long hair: «Good morning, my name is Chiara Rigoni, I am the interpreter from the embassy».
I shake her hand a long time, as if I wanted to grasp onto it as to a lifeline: «I don’t understand what happened! They have been talking a lot between themselves, I don’t know about what, and then they locked me up here and…»
The officer, who is now bending on the door side in a nonchalant way, interrupts me talking in Turkish to the newcomer.
«They clarify that you weren’t locked up; you were here waiting for me. In any case I’m going to talk to lieutenant Karim» says this girl, Chiara, going out.
Is she Italian or Turkish? Her pale skin and blond hair, even if not completely natural, do not let you opt for the Turkish option, but her ways, too formal, have nothing to do with the Italians. Anyways, black moustache is a lieutenant!
In the meanwhile, the officer got back to standing in the middle of the way: they might have not lock me up, but I still feel like suffocating. A sudden doubt: «Excuse-me, you understand Italian, then?»
He denies a monotonous way, hence confirming my suspect. I stood up to ask him that question, but with a despotic gesture he “suggests” going back to my place; I don’t see the point in arguing, so I crouch back down.
The long wait, afraid of what might happen if I stand up, gives me a sudden image of one of the many Sundays spent looking at the match from the bench of my team when I was a kid: I wanted but feared at the same time, the moment I would be called in.
I never was strong as a football player and in a country like Italy, I must admit, it is almost heresy: a man, as such, must be able to play. I tried as a forward, since anyone who plays soccer only has one purpose: strike a goal. I soon realised that I rarely achieved it and sooner than me the coach, who put me in midfield. With the new coach (bleachers are not only volatile in first league) I was immediately moved to defence, where I learnt one only move: throw myself into a slide to the floor when the forward came; generally, I missed the ball and, luckily, also the opponent’s legs. It was the only thing I could do, so that they moved me even more to the back: goalkeeper. I could not go further, unless I became a ball boy: humiliation from which I escaped, leaving the team beforehand. But for at least one year I got to be goalkeeper, or better, assistant goalkeeper. Nowadays in first league goal posts you find many youngsters, surrounded by top-models, but at the time nobody wanted to take that place (you could not score from there) and only the “goofiest” of the team was sent there. Well, lucky me, I was his assistant!
I stand up from the Turkish customs “bleachers” only when I hear the stamping of the heels again…
«Everything’s fine: I will accompany you now to request a temporary document for your stay here. You will get your passport back on Monday» says the interpreter.
«What’s wrong?»
«Just a background check» she tries to calm me, making me more anxious. «Lieutenant Karim needs to wait permission to release form the Ministry, which will only open on Monday. In the meanwhile, we must speed to the embassy: they close in an hour.»
I follow her grey striped suit outside that terrible place. Taxis in Turkey are yellow, as in most parts of the world, but this one is of an unexpected pastel pink colour. The girl is nice but distant; while she distractedly looks outside the window, I get her to be on first name terms with me for the rest of the trip. In few words she tells me her parents are Italian, but she was born and raised in Turkey: she learned Italian from them. They own an ice-cream parlour in a small village near Ankara, but never adapted to speaking Turkish.
«I’d like to visit Italy: Venice, Padua, Iesolo, Oderzo…»
We might have some other nice cities, in Tuscany and the rest of the peninsula, but I sense that her parents are Venetians and I won’t argue. In Germany too all ice-cream parlours belong to Venetians: that region seems to be for the cone, what Campania is for the pizza.
At the embassy they give me a piece of paper. It should grant me to circulate freely, but seeing how the trip started…
«I don’t
