When he walks into the café, he immediately catches my attention. He is thin, fragile. His worn, stained trousers, a dirty backpack and a small guitar make him look like one of the many homeless people in Berlin.
“Can you give me a cannolo?” he asks me in Italian, with a clearly southern accent. I hand it to him.
“Can I have another one?”
I had never met an Italian homeless man in Berlin before.
From behind the counter, while I prepare orders, I watch him: a long, unkempt beard, hands black with dirt. His face belongs to a man in his thirties, marked by exhaustion, but not completely extinguished.
When the café empties, I think: now I can finally talk to him. I turn around, but he is already gone.
From then on, he reappears at irregular intervals, every few weeks. He asks for something to eat and then disappears again.
One morning, under an unusually bright Berlin sun, I am speaking Italian with a friend outside the café when I see him approaching. He asks for a cigarette. I give him one. This time he seems less elusive, so I ask his name.
“My name is Alessandro.”
“Nice to meet you, I’m Carla.”
After some casual conversation, I ask if he would be willing to tell me his story, because I would like to write about him. I suggest we go out to eat something together. He agrees. When I ask for his phone number, he tells me his phone is charging at a friend’s place and that he will come back later with the number.
He actually does come back, at the end of the day.
“You remembered?”
“What do you think, I’m an idiot?” he replies.
We laugh. In that moment, he seems clear-headed, present.
I contact him a week later. He replies the next day. When I tell him I would like to invite him to dinner and suggest a few restaurants, he seems happy. He writes that he misses Sunday lunch with his family.
I ask if there is anything he does not eat.
“Tuna, capers… and I hate ketchup.”
We talk a bit more and set a meeting for Tuesday evening.
On Tuesday I write to him again, but he does not reply. Neither to messages nor to calls. He has disappeared again. I look for him for days, thinking something might have happened to him.
I also look him up on Facebook, trying to understand who he was before. I find several profiles: a well-groomed man, smiling, photos with a woman. He had a different life, I think.
I see him again weeks later, crouched in a corner. I realize that nothing has happened on the outside, but something has clearly happened inside him.
He speaks on the phone slowly, confused, swallowing his words.
“Ciao, ciao,” he says, and hangs up.
When I ask who he was talking to, he answers, “My mother,” while preparing a dose on a piece of aluminum foil and inhaling the smoke.
I imagine his mother on the other end of the phone, trying to speak to a son who can barely respond. My stomach tightens.
At that point, the idea of the article disappears from my mind. All that remains is a man alone. I bend down to look him in the eyes and ask if he wants to talk. He shakes his head.
I ask if I should leave. He nods. His face seems to be apologizing.
Yesterday I saw him again on a subway platform. He was even thinner, even more elusive. He had a black eye. He greeted me quickly and walked away, as if he had an urgent appointment.
He was walking fast, without looking around, as if he were running from something that never leaves him.
He does not seem in a hurry to arrive anywhere, only to get away.
