Cover image: The Rome Zoo by Pascal Janovjak, translated by Stephanie Smee
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.
*
Now here’s a man who can deliver them Africa on its knees, ankles and wrists bound, along with Asia, the Amazon and both poles. The Jardin Zoologique d’Acclimatation in Paris will pale by comparison with Hagenbeck on board – that’s what they told Ernesto Nathan, the mayor, and Ernesto Nathan has no reason to doubt that assessment upon seeing the tall German man smile as he scans the vast construction site, the battalions of labourers now busy digging, packing down, levelling, against a procession of Percheron draught horses hauling loads of earth. Nathan himself is not smiling. He is wondering how much all of this is going to cost him, because he is already busy building law courts, an Olympic stadium and a monument, of ample dimensions, to Vittorio Emanuele which will be visible from a great distance, like the Eiffel Tower. Now all of this is an expensive exercise, he confides to Hagenbeck, and Hagenbeck contents himself with a smile, gracefully stepping over the puddles of water which the other man is forced to skirt.
Hagenbeck contents himself with a smile, gracefully stepping over the puddles of water which the other man is forced to skirt.
Without pausing too long to consider the financial details, the German sets out his unwavering vision for this zoological garden of the modern age, much like the one he has already built in Hamburg. It is not enough to plant trees and map out promenades. The entire area must be landscaped, the terracing reconstructed, hills fashioned, which will provide the theatre for animal life. Moats, imperceptible to the onlooker, will be excavated, and then Inuits can be positioned in the foreground, Deer behind them and Polar Bears right towards the back – or Nubians, Antelopes and Tigers, as you wish. Most importantly, there’ll be no walls, no bars: visitors will be able to take in all these species with a single, admiring glance, it will be a vision of perfect co-existence, an illusion of utmost freedom. Nathan well appreciates the beauty of this vision, even if there has never been any question of exhibiting Inuits here – the only ones, in his view, deserving of a capital letter. No matter, says Hagenbeck, we can install seals in their place, the important thing is to afford a modicum of respect to the notion of climatic coherence. We’ll put the amphitheatre over there at the back, two thousand seats, where we’ll exhibit the trained animals, and then, over there, the main restaurant where people will be able to have a Wiener schnitzel.
Hagenbeck is smiling because never has he had so much space at his disposal, nor such a budget: while the little mayor of Rome counts his pennies, he, Karl Hagenbeck, is re-creating Paradise on Earth.
This is an extract from The Rome Zoo by Pascal Janovjak, translated by Stephanie Smee (Black Inc.). The Rome Zoo is available now at your local independent bookseller.
