Alexis, who grew up in Rwanda-Urundi, is the son of an Italian Jew and a beautiful mulatto woman. As a young adult, he now ponders over the complexity of his roots: African-European and Judeo-Christian (his mother was raised a Catholic). The author guides the reader through a progression of exciting and complicated episodes involving Alexis. With his American wife he will vacation in Israel, and that stay will be a turning point in his life. The past catches up with him, exploding with the images of one man’s life kaleidoscope: the memories of his African years, colliding with the more recent images of Milan, the smells, the colors and the primeval beauty of the black continent, mingling with those of Italy, as well as with the violent feelings Israel stirs in him. In that dense and haunting atmosphere he will meet young Israelis, a Palestinian and Hans, a German professor, the nephew of a Nazi soldier who died during WWII. A new frienship will bind the young protagonist to the German professor, a friendship that could evolve into something larger, that could change the life of the two characters. Will Alexis finally reconcile himself with the conflicting parts of his identity? Will he feel more African or more European; more Catholic or more Jewish; or will his new environment help him find peace within himself, in spite of the country’s current dangers? The ‘mystery’ will unravel in the last chapter of this largely autobiographical novel.

Excerpt:

A little surprised at first that I should want to go alone to Tel Aviv, Serena acquiesces, insisting however that I travel on a sherut and not by bus, on account of the terror attacks.
Towards the end of the ride my heart started to pound like mad and I was sweating profusely. “Stop this nonsense!” I scolded myself, “you’re not running to a date.” But then I thought, “What am I getting into? I’ve just met this guy; true, he looks like a gentle and understanding person, but he’s only an acquaintance. Don’t expect anything more, you’d burn your wings.”
Yet, the moment I meet with Peter in the lobby of his hotel, a modest but pleasant enough place located two streets away from the waterfront, my tongue begins to twist. It sounds as if the words spilling out of my mouth end up in a mushy garble.
He probably accounts that to a certain shyness on my part and greets me with a wide,
almost affectionate smile, pumping my hand vigorously.
“I’ve learned to love this city, beyond its commercial and trendy façade,” he says.
“In spite of it being relatively young in age – before 1909, there was nothing but sand and brush here – it harbors a remarkable number of treasures; with a bit of patience and a curious mind, you will discover them, like those Bauhaus and Art Déco buildings which are scattered all over the city. Do you know what Tel Aviv stands for, in Hebrew? ‘Hill of Spring’. And that it is a trove for architects worldwide? Not to mention all the museums – the one on the Jewish diaspora is exceptional -, the painting galleries, the arts and crafts boutiques, be they oriental or modernistic, whether you’re looking for original and striking jewels or for the latest Israeli fashion in clothing.
The spur of enthusiasm on his part surprises me, for I remember how poised and discreet he was the other evening at Shoshana’s, and even a little glum, when he was asked to recount that painful period of his childhood during the war.
“Would you like me to be your guide around the city?” He goes on, eyes sparkling. His joyous mood is contagious and I accept his offer gladly. It’s so very unexpected; how relieved I suddenly feel that someone else is taking over, after all those weeks spent in negative brooding, fighting within myself, it’s as if the compact mass of black clouds in my head has been swept away by a stream of crisp air. I ought to be watchful though, lest this invigorating breeze evolves into a whirlwind, not so much
on account of Peter, on whose life I really know so little, rather because I still don’t trust my own reactions. There is something unreal about this whole thing and a myriad images jostle through my mind as between the vacillating lines of a mirage, inasmuch as the temperature had already risen to a peak of 30 degrees at eleven this morning.
We stroll along the boardwalk, dominating the wide stretch of golden sand, scattered with breakwaters that set off the limits to a succession of beaches, each portion having its particular character, with here, a palette of half naked bodies, soaking up the sun — healthy looking young guys and girls, many of them having a day off from their military duties —, next to the one occupied by a small crowd of gay jocks, sporting their well-oiled muscles, some wearing just a g-string, there, a patchwork of bikinis and one-piece swimsuits — this is the larger stretch, patronized by families and people of all ages —, and a little further, a checkered pattern of fully-clad orthodox Jews, taking in the light sea air.
God — is it at all fortuitous if I have invoked Him, when in the Bible, sodomites are promised to burn in Hell? —, what a difference with my last trip, five, or is it seven years ago, when homosexuals used to hug the walls not to attract attention. I hear that there was a Gay Pride parade in the city not long ago and that Jerusalem will have its own next year.
At the other end, lies Kikar Atarim, with its string of swanking hotels, its marina, its swimming pools, its posh restaurants and gaudy ice-cream parlors. Then there’s the
continual bustle of Dizengoff Square, whatever the hour, and the flee markets, where
East and West mingle, in a flurry of accents, in an orgy of colors and smells. Peter also introduced me to the homes of the poet Bialik, of Ben Gourion, who announced to the world the creation of the State of Israel. We then visited the Helena Rubinstein Pavillion, Jacob’s Garden, with its rockery and flowerbeds, the Bible House, the Alphabet Museum and the Square of the Kings of Israel, where people flock by the thousands during political gatherings, or else to celebrate the victories of the Maccabi team.
In spite of the sweltering summer heat, this city never rests. Its exuberant and motley youth seems to be caught in a perpetual merry-go-round, and, contrary to the opinion that some people overseas have about the Israelis’ supposed racism, I have never seen such a concentration of mixed couples and such a rainbow of skin hues, not to mention that nowhere on this planet, save perhaps in New York City, are you thrust
into a similar Babel of languages. So much for clichés.
Peter suggests that we go back to Tel Aviv proper and have dinner together. I can always get a ride back to Ashkelon, he says, for there are sheruts until late at night. But before we go to his hotel, in order to refresh ourselves and rest a little, he offers to show me a last sight. A couple of streets away, stands the Shalom Tower, one of city’s oldest, if not the oldest, skyscrapers.
I’m bewildered by my sudden surge of energy and ask myself how it was at all possible, in my present state, and with the debilitating heat surrounding us, that I could manage to visit all these places, for I don’t even feel tired. It seems as though my body is split into two different, disconnected parts: whereas my clothes are soaked in perspiration, and I feel hot and sticky, my limbs appear to respond to some external power, over which my mind has no control.
We’ve reached the top of the Shalom Tower, which is the observation deck. Symphonies in blues and whites: the sea, the city and the sky, the air is crystalline, while the wind blows, mighty as the breath of a dragon. I want to scream, so overwhelming is the spectacle; my heart races at a maddening beat and, all at once, I wish the world would halt. Is it the beauty of what lies before me, its immensity, the frustration of not
being a bird at this very instant, that I’m suddenly hyperventilating and feel so terribly constricted, a prisoner behind the fence that separates me from the precipice? Leaving Peter to his momentary contemplation, I whisper “Wait for me here, I’ll go all around the building.” I walk away from him, brush past several other tourists and locate a narrow space entrenched between two metallic columns. It is small but wide enough for a person of my build to climb over the guardrail and wedge himself sideways in it. I make sure no one comes near me, at least during the few seconds I will need in order to hurl myself into the void. With a little effort, I am able to reach the guardrail, but as I am about to override it, the left side of my shorts gets hooked onto a sharp edge. Rage mixed with a growing sense of panic takes hold of me, and the more I try to wrench myself out of the nail-like object, the fiercer my shorts cling to it, in spite of its widening tear.
A woman’s voice booms out: “Somebody, quick!” “There’s a guy who wants to jump off.”
Eyes half-closed, with fear now replaced by shame, I feel two strong arms clasp around my waist, forcing me to get down. It’s the security guard I saw a little earlier. A revolver tucked in the holster clutched onto his belt, he looks daggers at me,then, all the while he tightens his grip around my fists, hurting me with intent, he lets out a couple of Hebrew swear words: “Balagan (damn it!) … Meshugga (nuts)”. In a louder and hoarser voice he adds, this time in English and rolling his r’s in the guttural Israeli fashion: “Who do you think you are, James Bond? I have no time for such stupid games, ok!”
I’m red as a beet, for I sense that my savior despises me and is ready to spill out more abuse, but, alerted by the commotion caused by my failed suicide attempt, Peter rejoins me. He looks aghast and his hands begin to tremble.
The security guard beckons to him and asks: “Do you know him?”
“Yes … yes!” utters my companion.
“Do you want me to call Emergencies?” the guard bawls, “’cause this guy ought to be locked up.”
Peter glances at me in search of some guidance. I stare back with imploring eyes, shaking my head like a mechanical puppet, at the end of its tether.
“We won’t need it, thank you. I shall take care of him.” he says. Then, recovering his composure, he takes me away energetically and asks in a improvised and scolding tone, aware that we are still very much the focus of attention, so as to put an end to the
affair and clear the way: “Of course, you’ve forgotten to take your medecine again, huh. Worse than a child. Come on, let’s go home.”
When we reach the groundfloor, stepping further down the street, Peter says, now almost in a whisper, midway between pity and sternness:
“In front of that security guard, I had to appear furious and patronizing, otherwise
we would never have seen the end of it. Sorry about that.” Now that we’re far from the
scene, he pursues in a normal tone of voice, “I don’t want to be inquisitive, but there must be a long history of pain and frustration behind that desperate gesture of yours. Feel free to open up, but only if you wish to. In the meantime, we both need to refresh ourselves, don’t you agree?”
Ten minutes later, once we arrive in his hotel room, Peter asks whether I shouldn’t call my wife, suggesting that she come to fetch me, for he isn’t comfortable with the idea of me returning to Ashkelon alone.
“Oh no!” I exclaim, somewhat hysterically, “she mustn’t know what has happened, at least not just now. In fact, it would be best if I didn’t go back to Ashkelon this evening. To see her would only make things worse. I’ll reserve a room in this hotel, if you don’t mind.”
Peter gives me a puzzled look, then says, after a short silence:
“If I heard the receptionist correctly this morning, they were expecting a group of Christian pilgrims today and consequently the place would be fully booked.”My companion frowns and purses his lips in a reflective pout. “It just crosses my mind,
how about staying here with me tonight, the bed is wide enough for the two of us. That
is if it’s ok with you. I usually sleep like a log, so you won’t disturbe me at all.”
My eyes tingle, just short of tears. For a second Peter remains agape, asking himself
whether he hasn’t blundered. But I reassure him:
“You’ve been so solicitous towards me, in spite of what you’ve just witnessed. How can I thank you?”
“Don’t mention it,” he says, on a more jovial tone, “I feel so clammy, I can’t wait to go under the shower, and so do you, I’m sure. You really ought to call your wife though,” he insists, “she’ll get terribly worried. And since she’s met me already, she won’t think you were kidnapped.” he concludes with a grin.
In response I smile, nodding my head.
“That’s better!” says Peter, relieved, “Later on I shall take you to a little family bistro where you will be able to choose between Central European dishes and an excellent Moroccan couscous, the sole North African specialty of the house.”

Albert Russo