The Rome Zoo: An Extract

The man’s name is Chahine Gharbi, born 18 April 1970, of Algerian nationality. This is what he wrote in the reception register, five minutes earlier. Here, he’ll be known simply as number 324, by reference to the room he’ll be occupying from 28 December to 16 January, breakfast included, and this new identity suits him just fine.

There he is, standing in that room, in the grey dawn light. He has not yet removed his coat. He’s facing a man who’s wearing the hotel’s uniform: the man brings his wrists together, like a prisoner’s but with thumbs interlaced, and his long fingers unfurl gently as his hands rise up, his fingers fan out and fold back in against the sky of room 324 – two great black wings with pale palms that climb, hover and float back down in the grey dawn.

The Algerian admires the noble wingspan of the hands, but he doesn’t seem to grasp the meaning of this charade, nor see the enormous structure that is visible through the umbrella pines outside, and which the bellboy revealed when drawing back the curtains. It must be said that he’s tired, that he hasn’t asked for any of this. But the bellboy persists, he starts clawing the air, baring predatory teeth and rolling the whites of his eyes – a tiger, or maybe a lion, Chahine thinks, it’s hard to say, and now a monkey: the man is swinging his long arms, moving back and forth in room number 324, and while this does have the effect of being even more dramatic, it is also equally and entirely uncalled for. Chahine is relieved when the door closes behind the hotel employee, who has nevertheless done his best. These foreign languages really are such a drag, thinks the bellboy as he returns to his post, which is exactly what Chahine is thinking as he sits down on the bed.

These foreign languages really are such a drag, thinks the bellboy as he returns to his post, which is exactly what Chahine is thinking as he sits down on the bed.

He still hasn’t removed his coat. Next to him is a suitcase he is reluctant to open, and a telephone which could do with recharging sooner rather than later. His gaze drifts around the room which feels so familiar, because it’s identical to so many others, in other places. A room that’s a little larger than it needs to be, just enough to give an impression of luxury. An armchair upholstered in a fabric that’s almost certainly red and gold, a picture swallowed up in the half-light, the details of which Chahine struggles to make out.

Outside, the umbrella pines trace their silhouettes against the lines of the great metallic structure. It stands tens of metres tall, the half-sphere, a monument composed of air and steel, of almost equilateral triangles growing ever smaller as they ascend towards its apex. A minor miracle of geometry, even more beautiful now as the first rays of sunshine caress the tubes, causing ridge-lines to glow, giving the half-sphere a new depth. Quietly the dome assumes its position in the surroundings, amongst trees that are gradually colouring up against the deepening blue of the sky. But Chahine is not admiring the spectacle. He has fallen asleep, fully dressed, palms upturned to the ceiling, mouth open. There’s no reason to rush. Let’s leave him to sleep, he has had a long journey.

*

As the twentieth century dawns , there is no metal sphere to be seen, no umbrella pines, nor is there any hotel. Just an unmarked area on the edge of the city, wild grasses and a few ill-defined and poorly cultivated plots. A farmer and his ox turn over the fertile soil, under the eye of a small group of dignitaries in patent leather shoes, gathered around a man who is sizing up the area.

Karl Hagenbeck is sporting a large beard in the style of Abraham Lincoln, but white, which underlines his natural authority as an animal tamer and dealer. This is a man who brings in vessels loaded with tigers and cannibals from the most inaccessible of lands, a man who bears the scent of Africa, who behind him has a continent of growling wild beasts, of infinite expanses of savannah and hostile jungle. And Rome is entranced, with only its yellowing statues as reminders of the epic battles between man and beast – marble lions and broken-winged eagles, an entire mythology in the process of crum­bling away. Rome, too, wants the sound of roaring as evening falls, wants fangs and knives, the muffled, feverish sound of drums, and the flickering of a campfire on black skin. It’s all the more pressing now things are not going so well in Africa, for the Italians. They’re annoyed at the sight of their neighbours carving up the world between them, while they themselves are still busy building a country. But first things first. While they wait for the return of their empire, they will at least have a zoo.

*