Red Gold, a Short Story by Lucia Galli

Coughs, muted cries. Shadows shift in the darkness, black against black.

A flash of white. Wide sclerae, bared teeth.

You turn face up in the cot, damp shirt tugging at your shoulders, wrapping around your chest like a lover’s arms. You’ve taken to sleeping clothed, wet heat better than a dry hump in the dark.

A whisper of air over your skin. Warm, clammy, salty.

The sea, still calling your name.

Angrily.

Hungrily.

No moon. No stars either. The sky’s the gaping mouth of a giant, time lost in the depths of its throat. The witching hour—too late in the night, too early in the day.

You yawn and pass a hand over your face, thumb and index finger digging out the last of the sleep, dreams flicked away with the crust. This is no la-la land.

The camp bed creaks as you pull yourself up with a groan. You tug at your pants, hitching them up.

A faded T-shirt, a pair of torn joggers and worn-out flip-flops. That what’s left of you after the sea took the rest: clothes, money. Abdou, too.

You still hear him sometimes.

Off you go, ghost among ghosts.

Slap-shluff. Slap-shluff.

Your flip-flops smack and scrape, cracked heels clapping, always clapping. Desert trails then, deserted lanes now. A different kind of emptiness, of void.

Your toe kicks a clump of tarmac, sending it skittering.

Click-clack.

The sound of pebbles skimming on the lake’s surface, of beads clattering on the Oware board. Memories from another time, another place. Another life.

The rumble of a motor, the scrunch of rock under wheels.

They are here.

You step aside and into the ragged line of the desperate bordering the road. You sense them, these other denizens of the Gran Ghetto of Rignano, as they jostle and shove. There’s a stink in the air. The animal stench of fear.

A truck stops, brakes screeching preternaturally in the predawn quiet. Three men climb down.

Seul compte celui qu'on appelle le “caporale.” C'est lui qui décide qui travaille et qui meurt de faim. 

Abdou’s warning taunts you, as your gaze flicks between the newcomers’ faces. Who’s who? They all blur together, these Italians, with their long noses and hairy chests, loud voices and even louder tempers.

“Tu, tu, tu.” The shortest of the three comes forward, jabbing his stubby finger at the crowd ahead of him like a god handing down judgment. He prowls along the line, until he stops in front of you. His mouth twitches as he sizes you up.

“E 'stu uagnone? È nu' bbècch' sciùte?”

There’s a question there, one you sense you must know the answer to. Except, you don’t. You shake your head. “Er, no capisce,” you stammer, adding, “Je ne comprends pas.”

“Sì, è arrivato da poco.”

The answer, given in a lilting Italian, comes from your left side. A Maghrebi.

You give him a nod in thanks. The caporale’s eyes travel up and down your frame, and you straighten, pumping your biceps, puffing your chest. The caporale cocks an eyebrow at your posturing.

“Oi! Teneime nu tore,” he says, placing his fists at his temples, index fingers pointed upward, chin lowered. He feints a headbutt, and you jerk back. He laughs then, a chain-smoker’s cackle, wheezy, raspy. His face reddens, veins bulging.

After the coughing fit sputters out, the caporale hawks loudly and spits. A lump of phlegm lands at your feet.

You scoot backward, and his hand shoots out, fisting your shirt and pulling you closer. You scrabble, but his grip is firm, his knuckles hard against your chest. He stares at you, bloodshot eyes, searching, probing.

“A tore, addò va'?” he asks softly, then seeing the blank look on your face, he mouths, slowly, deliberately, “Tu.” He smirks and slaps you lightly on the cheek.

Your eyes trail him as he moves down the line, singling others out. Seven men (eight with you) and a woman.

The caporale claps his hands once, the sound cracking like a whip, and motions to the open back of the truck.

Ten minutes later, you are bouncing on the bumpy road, nine black heads bobbing up and down like net buoys in a storm.

The day has broken, heat mirages blurring the fields upon fields of tomatoes, their greens and reds bright against the blackness of the earth and the shimmering of the sea.

L'or rouge des Pouilles, Abdou had called it. Leur or est rouge de notre sang.

The truck comes to a stop outside a farm, one of the many peppering the area. You jump down from the cargo bed as the caporale strides toward a man standing at the gate. They shake hands, their voices too low, their words too fast, for you to understand. The caporale then hollers, and you fall in step with the others.

“Tre euro a' ore.” He lifts three fingers, then taps his wristwatch and raises his index. He stares them down. “Non t'aggradane? Va' vattinne.” He waves toward the road.

You don’t understand their tongue, their dialect, but in that Babel that is the Ghetto, hands speak a universal language.

Ten hours. Three euros per hour. Thirty a day. Take it or sod off.

You take it.

The sun is already beating down on your shaved head, your bare neck, and it’s not even 6 a.m. yet. The caporale lingers at the edge of the field, a king lording over his subjects. The Maghrebi stands next to him, hearing much, saying little. His eyes dart to you. A word to the caporale, and then he’s moving.

“Mahmoud.” A tap on his chest. “Suis-moi.” He doesn’t break step as he points to the piles of large plastic containers. Africans cluster around them like ants around a sugar cube. Mahmoud speaks fast, his Berber and Arabic-filled French, the refrain of a song you can’t quite name. Jabs, tosses, sweeps: his hands fill in the gaps in your vocabulary.

Three hundred kilos per crate. One crate per hour.

Ten hours a day. Three euros per hour. Thirty euros a day.

You nod, but your stomach sinks. The ride there alone cost you five euros.

You set to work then, back bent, fingers grabbing, twisting, pulling. Mahmoud hovers, his body casting a shadow over your crouched form as you shuffle on. Grabbing. Twisting. Pulling.

You lose track of the time, minutes trickling down like single drops of sweat, each one dripping from your brow to your nose to the parched earth. Pluck, pluck.

A fanged thirst rips at your throat, its hold the death-grip of a spotted hyena.

Still you go on: grabbing (heavy plumpness in your hand), twisting (a faint crackle in your ears), pulling (earthy smell in your nostrils), every tomato a temptation that spells danger, that spells life.

You look around you. Mahmoud has moved farther into the field, and you keep your eyes on him as you lift the fruit to your lips. You bite into it, and warm juice bathes your tongue in sweetness. Your eyelids flutter in pleasure…

That’s when the kick lands on your back.

Thud.

“Che cazzo fai?” Angry words spat in an angry language.

You raise your hands, muttering, “Scusa, scusa…pardon, je suis désolé.” Sorry, yes. To have been caught, more than anything.

Mahmoud comes running, tone soothing, placating.

The Italian swears, paces, shouts, but he’s no longer standing over you. He hisses something to Mahmoud, but the tension is gone. You keep your head down as Mahmoud lectures you, lips paying service to his preaching: “Oui,” “Bien sûr,” “Jamais plus.”

You dare to lift your gaze up and see Mahmoud’s proud mouth, the Italian’s weak chin. Slaver and slave, but who’s who you can’t say.

The sun strolls across the sky, trailing seagulls in its wake. The birds land among the vines, wobbling on their webbed feet. Your hand digs through the dirt, grabbing a fistful of gravel and flinging it their way.

They take off screeching, red-tipped beaks mocking you.

You squat down, balancing on your raised heels as you study the crates. You have filled ten and are halfway through the eleventh. The shadows are getting longer, but the heat is still fierce. You are starving. Mahmoud had called for a break several hours ago, but you didn’t stop. You had no water to drink, no food to eat, no time to waste. You kept working, the others’ scrutiny weighing on you. You could almost taste their envy – at your strength, your stamina, your youth.

You grunt as you stand up, knuckles rubbing against the tight muscles at your back. It’s close to sunset, you have half an hour, maybe less. You crouch at the head of another line of vines, and a small smile tugs at your lips at the thought that this will be the last of the day.

Grabbing. Twisting. Pulling. Your hands and your feet move of their own accord, your mind far, far away.

“Mais quel taureau tu es! Nu tore’…” A male voice, deep and slightly nasal. You hunch your shoulders up against your ears. You’re tired of French. Tired of Italian. Weary of the oppressors’ tongues. “The bastard named you right…bull.’” Same words, now in Bambara. Right sound, wrong tone.

You swivel around to face the speaker. You’d have known him anywhere: another son of Mali. Gaunt. Features drawn. But it’s his eyes that give you pause.

They have a stillness about them, the kind you see in a corpse. Or a killer. The look of death, either dealt or received.

“Peace be upon you, brother,” you start, palms open in welcome, but he cuts you off.

“I’m no brother of yours,” he snarls. “I’m getting those.” He jerks his chin toward the crates. “Now, be a good boy and fuck off.”

He shifts as he speaks. You see he favors one leg, but it’s his hands that make you uneasy, hidden as they are from view, buried in the waistband of his sweatpants.

“What…” you falter as two more men approach—Senegalese, maybe, or Gambian. “Brother, please,” you press on. “I want no problems. But you can’t take them all.” You step closer, placing a hand on his elbow.

He shoves you back, arm raised to strike. Metal glints red under the setting sun. A shank.

You stumble, adrenaline flooding your limbs, feet ready to take flight. Run, run!

You’ve always run.

From the poverty of the Sahel, the tortures of Libya, the hungry currents of the Mediterranean, the segregation of Rignano and its shantytown.

Run and live, or stay and die. Simple as that. Or is it?

Lutte! Abdou screams in your heart, and you do.

You throw yourself at him – this brother who is no brother – wrap your arms around his waist, lift, and slam him to the ground. Fists rise and pound, rise and pound. Against his cheekbones, his shoulders, his ribs.

More beast than man, you are. Until…

A ripping sound, a tug in the gut.

Numbness.

It’s over before it even begins, this life of yours.

What follows is a cacophony of rasping breaths (yours), frantic chatter (theirs), the sound of feet tapping away, away (whose?).

Silence now, broken only by a shriek. A seagull. A woman, maybe.

A ringing in your ears muffles the world, your slowing pulse the only sound rippling through.

Thump-thump.

Thump.

Thump-thump.

Your nose is squashed against the ground, knees bent at an awkward angle. You want to crawl onto your back, but can’t.

Warm wetness underneath you, dry coldness within you. You blink, dust stinging your eyes, and for an instant, you’re back in the desert, back in Africa.

Perhaps your soul never left.

Here dies a son of sun and sand, who sailed the sea to sow strange soil.

You mouth your thoughts, fingers twitching words in air, as you watch your blood feeding the earth, watering the tomato vines.

L'or rouge des Pouilles.

Leur or est rouge de notre sang.

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Lucia Galli holds a DPhil from the University of Oxford and is currently an independent scholar. Aside from academic research, she writes short stories and flash fiction. She was a top-ten finalist in the New Writers 100-Word Competition (2025), received an honorable mention in the WOW! Women Writing Summer Contest (2025) and was shortlisted for the Tadpole 100-Word Contest (November 2025).