Gika

"I rukha tisonigu…”

"I rukha tisonigu..."

"I rukha tisonigu..."

I was kept awake at night by this phrase running through my head over and over again. The meaning of these words eluded me, which was exactly why they kept returning to haunt my sleep. They had been uttered a few hours prior, just after my first interaction with Gika. Somewhat spontaneously, she had stood up from her seat and inspected my face, specifically my eyes, with her own head being uncomfortably close to mine, after which she spoke these words:

"I rukha tisonigu."

I had backed away, my eyes pointed toward the floor, to avoid any further contact.

"T-tu maraga ku!" She said, her body language indicating that she was apologizing.

"I’m sorry," I said, "I don’t understand what you’re saying."

That marked the end of our interactions that day. She returned to studying her book, and I joined her on the opposite side of the table. Of course, I had an insatiable curiosity about what it was she had wanted to tell me, but the awkwardness of the situation prevented any words from escaping my throat. In hindsight, it seems obvious that I should’ve just been a little braver and asked her in the moment so I could put this question to rest and push it out of my head, but at the time this seemed like a far too difficult task for minimal reward. An eternity of repetitious torture later, dawn finally came to free me. I got out of bed uncharacteristically early and tiptoed my way through my morning rituals so as not to wake my father, after which I set course for the old man’s house.

The morning streets were empty, lacking the bustling excitement that normally characterized Magranpoli. The silence was only broken by the quiet footsteps of the occasional passersby and, at one point, the mechanical flapping of an ornithopter’s wings, flying above. A memory of my past life began to surface. I remembered being small, a child, gawking with open eyes and mouth at Leonardo da Vinci’s sketches of flying machines, wondering what it would be like to travel on such a device. In that world, their existence was limited to children's hopes and imaginations. Reality only held boring airplanes. But here, a journey on the back of an ornithopter is not just possible; it’s mundane. And just like the airplanes of my old life, these ornithopters have become dreadfully ordinary to me. A seed of inspiration started to sprout. Perhaps I could recapture that magic. Perhaps I could remind people that flight was something special and whimsical, not to be taken for granted. With new energy, I rushed towards my destination and swung open the door of the old manor upon my arrival.

"Knock before ya enter."

As expected, the old man was already awake.

"I just had this amazing idea for a painting of an orni-"

"I never asked ya before, but yer last name is Saggia, am I right?"

"Yes, why are you-?"

"Did ya talk to anyone ‘bout Gika?"

"No, I didn’t have any reason to. Why are you asking?"

"I told ya before I don’t like liars!"

"I’m telling the truth!"

Gika stepped between the two of us, facing me for a moment before turning around and speaking to Paolo.

"Na rukha sanigu!" She said.

"What’re ya sayin’? Do ya believe him?"

Gika nodded.

"What happened?" I asked.

"Yer mom came in yesterday," Paolo said, "She flew in on her ornithopter ‘bout an hour or two after ya left. She said she was lookin’ for Gika, and that she was followin' rumors that she was last seen somewhere in this neighborhood. We thought ya might’ve said somethin’ to yer mom to tip her off to Gika’s location, either accidentally or on purpose. Anyway, she found her here and spent the whole night tryin’ to talk to Gika, but Gika wasn’t cooperating, so she just got frustrated. She left this mornin’. Ya missed her by ‘bout ten minutes."

"Why would my mother, an Uomo Universale, want to talk with Gika this desperately?"

"No idea, and Gika either ain’t able or ain’t willin’ to tell me anythin’. Or both, I guess."

I tried to get a read on Gika, but at this moment her face was as undecipherable as the language she spoke. I thought for a moment.

"Would you be willing to explain all of this if you could say it in your own language?" I asked.

She looked at me, the corners of her mouth rising slightly and excitement visibly filling her eyes.

"Soni ku." She answered, emphatically nodding her head to clarify the intended meaning.

I opened my notebook, filled with endless notes of past empires and wars, and flipped to a blank page. ‘Soni ku’, I wrote down, means ‘yes’. I showed it to Gika, who produced an affirmative hum in response.

"How do you say ‘no’?" I asked.

"Tisoni ku." She answered.

I wrote it down and we continued. She pointed to first herself, then me, and finally Paolo, who had disengaged from the conversation at this point and was collecting various materials necessary for painting.

"Tu, i, na." She said

"I, you, and he?" I guessed.

"Soni ku! Soni ku!" She cheered.

"Then what does ‘rukha’ mean?" I asked.

She stretched out her index and middle fingers and pointed to her eyes.

"Seeing?"

"Tisoni ku."

"Eyes?"

She put up her thumb and smiled.

"Then what about ‘Tisonigu’? What does that mean?"

She processed the question for a moment before sitting back in her chair and thinking. There were a number of times were she almost said something or readied her finger to point at something, but stopped herself and fell silent again. 

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAH!" 

Suddenly, she let out a frustrated scream, clearly unable to express what she wanted to say.

"It’s fine," I assured her, "we can come back to this later. We’ll try something easier for now."

"Tisoni ku!"

Her pupils shot around, desperate to find something that might help, before finally locking onto Paolo, or rather, the art supplies he was carrying. She pushed herself out of her chair and began frantically gathering pencils, paints, brushes, and a canvas. She dipped one of the finer brushes in a deep indigo pigment and moved her hand in position to make the first stroke before stopping and stepping back. She looked expectantly in Paolo’s direction.

"Ya want me to help ya?" He asked, "Forget it. I’m busy. Ask Gavino or somethin’."

She turned her gaze toward me.

"Before you start to paint, you have to sketch," I explained, "I’ll show you."

I took a canvas myself and began sketching. Gika carefully observed every detail, every minor hand movement, and every stroke before hesitantly drawing the first lines herself. She was a natural. Of course she was.