At the end of the school day, Laura came to pick her up. Martina didn't yet know the way home by heart. She hadn't fully settled in, even though there were Italian faces all around—especially in the Piassa area. There were already a few cafés, artisan shops, and even an Italian bookstore. You'd see ordinary people, but also Italian officers and officials—though they rarely mingled with the locals or sat in the main square for a coffee.
Laura told her there was a dance night every Saturday, hosted by a club that only Italians attended, where many romances began. Her friend urged her to go already that Saturday, saying it'd be a good chance to meet some nice Italian guys. Martina's grandmother, in fact, was pressuring her to find a "boyfriend" as soon as possible. At 26, being unmarried seemed odd—especially in Southern Italy. And then came the usual snide remarks: "What's up with your granddaughter? She's not… that, is she?" followed by stupid little laughs. Martina still wondered what that even meant. Gay? Infertile? Something else she couldn't quite think of? Whatever the answer, the whole thing felt ridiculous to her.
Even though ordinary Ethiopians had no issues with honest Italians—those who didn't bother the locals and just did their jobs—the country had never considered itself part of Italy. In reality, Ethiopia had never surrendered. Even though Mussolini had proclaimed the birth of the Italian Empire in 1936 after the occupation of Addis Ababa, Ethiopians never gave in. The local resistance fought the Italians for years. The country may have been under military occupation for a time, but in spirit and in active struggle, it never gave up.
Martina didn't talk much on the walk, even though she had a million questions. Eventually, she asked a simple one:
"Was it a bother to come pick me up?"
"Don't worry! I just closed up shop for a few minutes. It's my pleasure," Laura replied, linking arms with her. "You'll probably be bored at the store. If you want, there's a bookstore nearby. They have all the newspapers and maybe a few books you can use for your classes."
"Good idea. Do they really have everything here?"
"Everything. But please, don't pick Cuore, I'm begging you! Remember how boring it was when we had to read it in school?"
They both burst out laughing, linking arms tighter. For the first time, they made that kind of joke freely, without worrying whether passersby understood Italian.
Laura dropped Martina off in front of the bookstore, telling her she'd be back in an hour, after finishing up the day's accounting at the tailoring shop. Martina agreed and walked in.
The bookstore wasn't much more than a large shop with sky-blue walls. Still, it was lovely, clean, and smelled of incense. You could tell it was well-kept and refined. She greeted the shopkeeper but got no reply. Martina felt a bit stung, but tried not to dwell on it—some people are just shy around strangers, right?
She headed for the shelves, scanning what was available. It wasn't too different from what you'd find in Italy: Manzoni's classics, Pinocchio, I Malavoglia, and of course, the inevitable Cuore. Martina sighed, remembering the joke she'd just shared with Laura.
Further down, she found schoolbooks—grammar, arithmetic, geography. Nothing exciting.
Then, on a lower shelf, she spotted a stack of Il Giornale di Addis Abeba. She picked one up and flipped through it quickly—just the usual propaganda.
"New Roads for the Empire," "Wage Increases for New Italian Workers in Ethiopia…"
— Hopefully teachers get a raise too, she thought, suppressing a bitter smile.
Resigned to sixty minutes of boredom, she sat down and stared blankly ahead—until a new customer announced his arrival with his voice.
"Good evening!" he said cheerfully. For the first time, the shopkeeper let her voice be heard, replying with a soft:
"Good evening to you. How is your father?"
Martina didn't pay it much attention—until she looked up and was stunned by a breathtaking vision. The boy, whose voice was unmistakably young, wasn't the Italian son of some bureaucrat. He was Ethiopian. One of those stunningly beautiful ones.
Even back in Italy, people talked about how beautiful Ethiopian people were—especially the Amhara. Their straight, delicate noses, amber skin, large dark eyes, and small, full lips were traits many Italian men found appealing. That explained why many had secret relationships with local women.
But hardly anyone ever mentioned how handsome the Ethiopian men were.
She had seen a few on the streets, thought they were attractive, but hadn't really given it much thought. She had just arrived in Addis Ababa and was still overwhelmed.
But the beauty of that boy—perhaps a bit too young—seemed to bring order to everything.
His outfit was immaculate. The elegant khaki suit blended with his skin, giving him a golden glow. His hands were well-kept, nails trimmed, and a silver ring on his thumb. Pure perfection.
Martina wanted to say something but didn't know what. She wasn't even sure if she should speak to him. Nerves took over, and she blurted out something silly:
"At least the shopkeeper finally greeted someone! I swear she didn't even say hi to me, but to you…"
She was cut off by the boy's hearty laugh.
"You mean… how could she ignore everyone but me, an Ethiopian?"
"No, no! That's not what I meant!" she said, covering her face in embarrassment.
"She greets me because the foundation of this place—the bricks—my family sold them. And…" he added in a whisper,
"They still owe us some money."
"Ah, now I get it," Martina replied with a smile.
"It's not a big deal. I guess you don't know much about this place yet. There are good Italians here, and we have strong friendships with some collaborators. But not everyone. Ordinary, poor Ethiopians aren't allowed in the Italian clubs."
He picked up a children's book titled I Am Matteo and I Love Italy.
"I learned Italian from Catholic missionary priests with books like these. They've been coming here for years trying to convert us. But we're committed Orthodox Christians. One of my uncles is an archbishop."
He pulled out a large wooden Ethiopian cross from under his shirt.
Martina didn't know what to say. Too much information—and too much beauty—all at once. She felt a little lost, even guilty. He seemed so young. She was nearly thirty, and he couldn't have been more than twenty.
"I'm Martina Ricci, a teacher at the Italian school. I arrived a few days ago. I still don't know much about the place. But Miss Laura is helping me."
"Of course—Laura Esposito, the seamstress. I know her well. She made me a black suit. Very talented."
He placed his hand over his heart in greeting.
"My name is Addisu Luel, son of Luel Tekle. If you ever need anything, just ask for me."
He looked at Martina for a few moments—seconds that felt eternal and intense. She was a beautiful woman, with those long black hair that reached her waist—an ideal of beauty in Ethiopia too.
He had a silly thought: how stunning she would look with a white netela veil on her head. Childish, maybe, but it came naturally.
A long brown dress to her ankles, and a beautiful, natural smile.
He'd never been particularly interested in girls—especially not Italian ones. He knew there was no future there. But Martina was extraordinary. She was innocent, pure-hearted, radiant.
Many Italians tried to get close to his family—but for financial reasons, not real friendship. They knew that and played along. But Martina was something else entirely. She was the lotus flower blooming bravely in the mud.
Addisu said a simple "Goodbye."
"Goodbye," Martina replied. She couldn't say anything more.
She stood frozen, heart pounding even more as the scent of incense mixed with coffee lingered in the air behind him. He didn't look back. His brown lace-up shoes carried him away with the grace of someone who knows his worth—who walks with confidence and light.
And yet…
"Miss Martina works with my father," Addisu told the shopkeeper on his way out. "Let her choose any book she wants. Deduct it from the 500 birr you still owe us."
The shopkeeper agreed, smiling. Addisu knew how to deal with people like her.
Martina looked at the clock on the wall—almost seven. Laura would be back in a few minutes. She grabbed the first book she saw, not even reading the title, and walked to the counter. The shopkeeper wrapped it and put it in a bag.
"No charge. Mr. Luel said it's a gift from his father."
Martina was speechless.
Why would that Ethiopian boy do something like that? What did it mean?
Maybe nothing. Maybe it was just a warm Ethiopian welcome, a gesture of kindness.
Or maybe…?
She nodded politely just as she saw Laura walking through the door.
She couldn't wait to get home and tell her best friend—the companion of her life's journey—about that surreal encounter. She had only just arrived in Ethiopia, but already, the impossible had happened.