Chapter 44
I hated the days that followed after his leaving, in which I stayed alone in that desolate hotel room, waiting for something to happen. With nothing to occupy my time except for the few preparations for my travel, I was entirely aware of the absence of him, and there was an incessant longing in my chest. I tried to distract myself, leaving the room over and over to find things to do in the city and look for places to photograph, but everything was cold and dead in the bitter wind, and the loneliness of the room was almost preferable.
The suite was one of the last places I'd seen him, and it was agonizing to think that only a few days earlier I had been dancing with him in that very room, hearing his voice, feeling his arms around me. It took all my strength not to jump on a place and fly to Boston to meet him. The minutes stretched out long and teasingly before me as I waited in agony for the day when I was to leave for Africa. There was nothing to do in the hotel anymore but sit and miss him, and I missed him so much it felt like my chest was always sore and my eyes were always wet.
Finally, the day came when I would leave and meet Monica at the N.G. Headquarters to leave. I knelt on the cold floor of the hotel room as I put my things one by one into my suitcase. I somberly folded my Il Volo T-shirt and put it in, stacked up the Il Volo CDs, rolled up the tour schedule, and looked around the room, one of the last places Ignazio had been. It was as if I felt the ghost of him in the room, and I clung onto the knowledge that at one point, he had been in this room with me. I finally gathered the strength to get up, gather up my things, and, after a moment's hesitation, turn off the light. I stepped into the hallway, still staring forlornly into the dark room, and then slowly closed the door, locking myself out and his ghost in.
Monica was a spirited, eager, professional woman who was very pleased to have me along on her project. She was tall, caramel-colored, and very beautiful, and I liked her immediately. She greeted me warmly and as we went to the airport together she told me all about the project and Malawi, the first place we would be staying in. Hearing her speak so passionately about the project excited me, and I listened intently and energetically as she spoke. I dreamed about what it would be like to be there, and for a while I played contently with the idea in my mind.
Eventually, though, I reverted to my somber anguish as the plane took off and we were leaving D.C. I looked out the window sadly, and felt the pull on my heart toward Ignazio, who was already long gone. We had both come to D.C. to depart from each other, and now I was taking my leave.
"Tamzin?" Monica asked, and I straightened and turned my head to her. "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine."
"You can tell me what it is, Tamzin."
Her face was inviting and motherly, and I sighed and leaned my head against the window.
"I'm so excited for this job, Monica! I've been dreaming of it for so long! But…I had to leave someone I love behind, and it hurts."
"Was it a boyfriend?"
I nodded.
"His name was…is Ignazio. He's the one who contacted National Geographic for me."
"Did he?" she said, her voice understanding and comforting, "That's great of him."
I nodded, and then sat up straight. "His name is Ignazio Boschetto, and I was the photographer for the group he's in, Il Volo."
"How was that?"
I smiled and turned toward her, thinking of where to begin.
Several hours later, we landed in Malawi, and with my first look outside of the airport I was enthralled. It was beautiful, with mountains and high plateaus. Monica explained to me that the country was in its rainy season, offering lush vegetation in the higher places while the low-lying areas were covered with savannas and wildlife. I couldn't wait to run off and see the famous Lake Malawi and the beaches, and I gazed around us as we got into a car waiting for us and drove to the community we'd be staying in. When we arrived, I climbed slowly from the car, entranced by the little community of thatched huts on the flat earth, with rolling hills far off in the background. The sky was a bright blue with fluffy white clouds, and I could see crops around me and people working in them. It was warm, but not uncomfortable at all. It felt pretty nice, especially in my lightweight white shirt and khakis, with my red high-tops bright against the dirt.
I slung my camera over my shoulder and followed Monica among the little houses, eventually meeting up with people she knew. She led me to a small hut, and I went inside alone and took my things with me. There was an actual bed inside, instead of a mattress, with sheets and pillows and a mosquito net over it, and there was a little table with a chair where I could sit and review my photos. I traced my fingers along the rounded wooden wall and admired the thatching of the roof.
My mind racing as I took in the atmosphere of the little hut, I unpacked my suitcase, setting things up on the table and laying out some of my belongings on the bed. I took out the Il Volo CDs and paused for a moment to look at them, tracing the outline of Ignazio with my finger.
Then I heard some kids laughing outside, and I broke from my reverie and moved to the doorway, looking out past the community at the hills. My heart rate began to pick up, and I grabbed my camera and raced from the hut. I jogged through the community, searching excitedly for Monica, passing African men and women who smiled and nodded at me. At least I found her sitting with some American journalists on a log in the center of the community, and I sprinted up to her.
"Monica!" I called eagerly, my heart racing in my chest. "What happens now!?"
She raised a hand to shield her eyes from the bright sun and smiled up at me, reaching into her pocket to dig out something. She tossed the thing to me, and I caught the glinting car keys and then looked up at her, a slow smile alighting my face.
"Go," she said.
"Really!? By myself!?"
"Yes! You are authorized to go alone on any of the reserves, and I'd like it if you ventured far. Just be careful; there's a lot of big game here."
"Thank you!" I called as I turned and dashed away, racing through the community to the car.
As I drove off-road through the savannah, my eager laughter eventually ceased and was replaced by a gnawing, aching fear. I quieted and listened to the rumble of the car's engine as I drove and worried. I soon reached a dirt trail leading through an expanse of crops to a majestic plateau standing tall to meet the clouds. I slowed the car and stopped, slinging my camera over my shoulder and leaning forward to peer up at it.
I could feel my heart thudding in my chest, and I sat still, listening to the quiet, poised to leap from the car but remaining motionless. I was terrified. This was my first shoot as a National Geographic photographer, and I was scared it would turn out to be bad. What if this shoot revealed that my dreaming was misguided, and this wasn't really what I wanted? But then I was also terrified it'd be good; because that meant seeing that this could work and that Ignazio was someone of the past.
I pulled my camera hard into my chest and imagined him standing before me in the hallway of the N.G. Headquarters, telling me, "You're going to love it! I know you will." in that gentle, sorrowful voice.
I took a deep breath, taking in the cool Malawi air. Then I vaulted from the car and took off sprinting toward the plateau before I could think anymore. As I ran, my red high-tops slapping against the ground and my hair flying out behind me, my heart began to race again with excitement and I laughed, feeling the promise of an amazing adventure in the air.
Over the next few days that I spent in Malawi, I had intense fluctuating emotions. The landscape sessions were amazing and exhilarating, and just as exciting as I thought they'd be. Running through the wilderness was so invigorating and familiar to me, and I loved every second of it. It was just as much fun as when I had been racing through the landscapes of the varying tour stops with Il Volo, seeing what the world had to offer me, but now I had all the time in the world to explore. I knew as I took my photos and presented them to Monica that I was doing what I was meant to be doing. I was always meant to be a photographer, and there was nothing stopping me here from doing what I wanted to do, going where I wanted to go. I was exuberant and ambitious, and when I got going nothing could stop me from my romping. I wandered alone through the country, climbing the mountains, wandering through the crops, wading in the river and walking on the perfect white beaches with my high-tops in my hand. Each day I drove far from the huts and disappeared, always returning in the evening for a wash under the showers before going to sleep in my hut.
The hut was nice, but I didn't like it because inside was where things slowed down. Whenever I stopped the rompings and the exhilaration calmed, I was left with the silent agony of the absence of Ignazio. The emptiness of being alone overwhelmed me when I returned from a shoot and when I drove home, fully aware that Ignazio would not be waiting for me in the community. I could not show him my photos anymore. I couldn't see him or talk to him or touch him, and it was as if he had just disappeared off the face of the earth. My only proof that he had ever existed were the CDs, the tour schedule, my diamond necklace, and the handwritten good-bye note. I remembered the sound of his voice, the dimples in his cheeks and the playful shine in his eyes, the way he teased and laughed and sang. I reminisced about how his lips felt against mine, what it felt like to have his arm around me, how much fun it was to dance with him. These joyful memories left me in despair, and I felt the longing for him whenever I slowed down. I couldn't help but think of him when I drove, when rain held me up, when I sat down to eat, when I took a shower, and especially when I lay down to sleep and knew he wasn't in a nearby room. Going to sleep was the worst, because there was nothing to do but imagine him over and over, and think about what he was doing now. I knew he went to Indianapolis from the tour schedule I held onto, and I imagined the boys in concert, meeting fans, playing around with Barbara and Michele, lounging in the hotel rooms, and jamming with the band. I missed them so much, and every once in a while I couldn't stop the tears or the urge to just say his name and feel the sweetness of it in my mouth.
Over and over I longed to be with the boys instead of where I was, but then I reminded myself that this was where I was supposed to be.
I kept the good-bye note beside the bed and read it again and again, the last thing I had received from him. He said in it that he tried to comfort himself with the idea that he once was happy without me, but it wasn't a comfort because now he knew me. I realized how right he was, and I too couldn't bear the idea of not having known him.
Carrying both times of agonized despair and exhilarated triumph, the days in Malawi passed, and soon I found myself in the country of Mozambique, walking on the beaches, wandering along dirt streets, running through plains and looking up at mountains.
My fluctuating emotions continued, but as I worked, I began to feel as if I wasn't in so much of a transition anymore. I began to feel like less of a misplaced Il Volo associate and more of a National Geographic employee. I had been working for over a week now with National Geographic, and I felt as if I completely knew what I was doing. Monica mostly let me do whatever I wanted and helped fuel my excitement when I returned to her with my photos.
One evening as I sat in the midst of the Mozambique community watching some children play, I became aware of my changing identity. I was becoming Tamzin, National Geographic's photographer instead of Tamzin, Il Volo's photographer. This unnerved me, and I remembered when Ignazio had insisted that I was so much more than Il Volo's photographer. I smiled sadly, and wondered if I'd ever feel like more than a photographer for National Geographic, if I'd ever have relationships like I did with the people involved with Il Volo.
Monica was my friend, though. She was cheerful and understanding, and she loved that I was just as passionate about working for her as she was to be working on her project. She was also aware of my sudden moodiness when things calmed down, and knew I was thinking about Ignazio because I had told her a lot about him.
We were sharing a larger hut in Mozambique, and one day as I was sitting on my mattress thinking as I played with my camera strap, she came in and sat beside me.
"A supplies plane is coming in tomorrow. Maybe they'll bring a letter from him."
"Really!?" I asked, sitting up straight and smiling.
"Yes. And I'm about to send one of my journalists back to Headquarters with the research we've gathered, and with your photos. You can write a letter to be taken to the U.S. and mailed."
She left to talk with a journalist in a different hut, and as I took out some paper and a pen, it slowly began to rain outside. It was Mozambique's rainy season too, and I listened to it as I began my letter, my mind racing with things to say to him.
Dear Ignazio,
I miss you.
I stared forlornly at the words. I missed him, but it was so much deeper than just that! How could I convey the agony that filled me at his absence, the pain of losing something so precious, missing out on someone you love. I was afraid that before long it would change from missing him to not knowing him at all, clinging onto and loving the idea of him while the real Ignazio grew and changed.
I stared at the words, shaking my head slowly, and then started to cry. As the rain poured over the thatched hut and drowned out my gasping, I wrote the same phrase again. And again. And again, as if writing that I missed him over and over would help him to understand how much I missed him. When I had filled the page, I stopped and wiped my eyes, and then turned over the sheet. I started to tell him about everything that had been going on, from the last moment I had seen him at the airport, to life in Malawi, to the present in Mozambique. I filled several sheets of paper, wanting him to know every detail in an effort to keep him aware of me.
Finally, I had nothing else to write except more I-miss-you's, so I ended the letter and tucked all the pages into an envelope, wishingly kissing it before I placed it on Monica's pillow and buried my face in my own.
The next evening Monica gave me the letter from Ignazio, and at the sight of his handwriting my heart swelled with simultaneous joy and longing. I clasped it to my chest and ran through the darkness to the hut, turning on a flashlight and sitting on the bed to read it, smiling at the familiar script.
Hi my dear,
I hope you're enjoying yourself in Africa. I hope you're safe and having fun romping through the countries. I'll bet that there's not an inch of land you haven't photographed! I hope to see your pictures soon! I called National Geographic a few times begging for a sneak peek, and even they told me to be patient! I miss you so much, Tamzin. I can't even fully express how much I miss you, my dear, but I haven't stopped thinking about you and scrolling through my pictures of you and the old pictures you've taken. In my head I keep going back to that airport over and over, that last time I saw you, and hoping I'll be able to see you again someday. And I'm not the only one missing you, either! You should see Gianluca and Piero! Piero has no one to tease anymore, and Gianluca is especially quiet. Michele and Barbara miss you too, and it's a lot less lively without you around. We all wish you were still here, but we keep in mind you're living your dream now and we're doing the best we can without our photographer. I hope to hear soon about how your first assignment is going, if you can stop exploring for a few moments to write! Anyway, I thought you might want to hear about the happenings of Il Volo since you left, our travel to Boston and Indianapolis…
He spent several pages describing what went on in their touring since I left, and I loved reading it, even if most of it was just the usual touring details. The writing was cheerful and playful, just like him, and I could clearly imagine him saying everything he wrote. I kept smiling until the very end, when I had to face that the letter was over. I read it again and again, but then decided I had to return to reality.
I sat quietly for a moment holding the letter to my chest before I got up and left the hut, going to sit beside Monica in front of the fire in the midst of the community.
"Good?" she asked, smiling as she read some papers by the light of the flames.
"Good," I said.
I pulled my knees to my chest and watched the flames flickering, reliving fond memories of Il Volo in my mind and smiling. After several minutes, I looked around me at the huts, at the Mozambique landscape, at the clear African night sky filled with thousands of flickering stars, and at the other people sitting around the fire and eating and talking and singing.
I liked being here. I liked this job, and I liked this experience.
There was no less anguish at the absence of Ignazio, but I realized suddenly that I was settling in.
"Monica?" I said, and she looked up at me from the papers she was reading. "I think Ignazio was right…I don't think I'm going back."
It was strange to hear myself finally say it. Monica smiled and nodded her head, and I smiled too, looking up again at the stars twinkling overhead.
