Who Will Pray for the Pipes? PDF

1 Who Will Pray for the Pipes? Signor Giovannino Speranza, self-appointed mayor of the diminishing village of Prometto, population 212, knew from his sixty-two years of experience in this world that, in dealing with plumbers, one must never show even a hint of weakness. A plumber was the circling vu...

1 Who Will Pray for the Pipes? Signor Giovannino Speranza, self-appointed mayor of the diminishing village of Prometto, population 212, knew from his sixty-two years of experience in this world that, in dealing with plumbers, one must never show even a hint of weakness. A plumber was the circling vulture of home repair, smug in his knowledge that pipes were the very circulatory system of polite society, and that his poor dope of a client, whoever they might be, was undoubtedly in over their head, and therefore as putty in his unscrupulous hands. These scoundrels were also organised. They had got together, perhaps on a plumbers’ getaway weekend, and decided that their services ought to cost a minimum of a hundred and fifteen euros an hour. If one still thought in lire, as Signor Speranza did, that came to two hundred and twenty-two thousand, six hundred and seventy, a number which, if one could even fathom it, was patently criminal. This knowledge of the depravity of plumbers, and all their known associates, was why, on this particular July morning, Signor Speranza was taking great care to maintain the upper hand. He was standing in the bathtub eating his breakfast, which, of course, was a power move, while a junior plumbing inspector from the Regional Water Commission prepared to cut a meticulous hole in the plaster under the bathroom sink. ‘Are you sure you would not be more comfortable at the table, signore?’ the young man had asked timidly, upon regarding the circumstances under which he would be expected to work. ‘I always eat breakfast in the bath,’ Signor Speranza lied, not breaking eye contact and producing a salt cellar from behind the bottle of Ultra Dolce di Garnier. Go ahead, he thought, twitching his black moustache from side to side. Tell me that I don’t. The young man coughed, and dropped his gaze, and Signor Speranza gave a small snort of triumph. The Speranzas’ hotel, a ten-room establishment with a coin-operated Jacuzzi and a rooftop terrace, where they lived and which they had inherited from Signor Speranza’s wife’s parents, was not the first place in the village the inspector had visited; indeed, it was the last. He had already made the rounds, he and his little clipboard, to a random sampling of homes and businesses throughout the rocks and cliffs of Prometto. His visit had been a long time coming. In fact, Signor Speranza had been putting it off for two years now, through a co-ordinated system of avoidance. Whenever the Water Commission’s number had shown up on the caller ID at Speranza and Son’s, the vacuum cleaner maintenance and repair business Signor Speranza had inherited from his father, and whose premises doubled as his mayoral office, he would shout for his assistant, Smilzo. Smilzo would then race to plug in the Hoover WindTunnel 2 floor model and hold the nozzle up to the receiver. ‘SORRY, I CAN’T HEAR YOU!’ Signor Speranza would shout. ‘BAD CONNECTION!’ This method of postponement had worked like a charm until some diligent civil servant had finally followed up in writing. The date had been set. The inspector was to come and examine the pipes. Any pipes discovered to be in disrepair were to be fixed at the expense of the municipality. For small municipalities that could not afford the cost of repairs and who did not qualify for a payment plan, the water would be cut off, and the Commission would assist with the resettlement of displaced individuals. Signor Speranza had lingered over this last line, and in particular those two words, displaced individuals, with a queasy feeling in his stomach. Then he had laid the letter aside, and in its place opened the large volume he kept on his desk for just such emergencies, titled The Complete Compendium of Catholic Saints and Blessed or Beatified Persons. He had opened to the Ps, running his finger down the appropriate column, and found what he was looking for – St Vincent Ferrer, patron saint of plumbing. He’d closed the book with a satisfied snap and begun immediately. Ciao, Vincenzo, he had prayed, clasping his hands – with the exception of the rosary, he liked to keep things casual. It’s Signor Speranza. I’m sorry to bother you, but could you take a look at Prometto’s pipes? I know it’s a pain in the ass, but there is no money here. Now, from his perch in the bath, Signor Speranza glared at the junior inspector. Just look at him, he thought, shovelling the last of the scrambled eggs into his mouth. The young man was crouched alongside the washbasin, carefully affixing a square of blue painter’s tape to the area he meant to cut open. When he had finished, he leant back to examine his handiwork, and, finding it infinitesimally crooked, patiently peeled it off and began again. ‘Why don’t you just smash it?’ Signor Speranza asked, when he couldn’t stand it any longer. The junior inspector was aghast. ‘Oh, no, signore. You must never smash plaster. That makes it very difficult to repair.’ Signor Speranza rolled his eyes to the ceiling. The entire village was facing the wrecking ball, dependent on the report of this giant toddler with his clip-on tie and his sensible four-cylinder car, but yes, by all means, let us be careful with the plaster. Signor Speranza balanced his clean plate on the edge of the bath and fidgeted. He had not been in this particular bathroom for some time, as there had been no guests on this floor of the hotel for at least two years. He had chosen this spot for the junior inspector to work because it was out of the way, but, as he looked around, he frowned. A memory stirred. A leak? Had there been a leak? And if there had been, how had they fixed it? He studied the checked linoleum, which was unique to the third floor, and got a sudden flash of it, swollen around the base of the sink: an enormous, water-filled bubble. His hands went clammy. ‘You know,’ he said, clearing his throat, ‘I wonder if you might prefer to see the pipes in the kitchen? It’s cooler there.’ The junior inspector looked up, surprised. ‘I have already taped, signore.’ ‘Yes,’ sighed Signor Speranza. ‘I‘ve seen you do that.’ They both gazed bleakly at the blue-taped square. ‘Well … ’ said the junior inspector into the awkward silence. He bent over his bag, and at that precise moment Signor Speranza glimpsed, gleaming round his adversary’s neck, a silver medallion imprinted with none other than the pallid image of St Vincent Ferrer himself! ‘Signore,’ whispered Signor Speranza, his voice trembling with emotion. ‘You’re a friend of St Vincent?’ The junior inspector glanced down at his medal and smiled. Feeling that it was now safe to let his guard down, Signor Speranza dropped to a sitting position, propping his elbows on the rim of the bath. ‘I’m very impressed,’ he enthused. ‘You do not often find this kind of devoutness now, in young people.’ The junior inspector nodded, and pulled on a pair of goggles. ‘It’s very important, signore. My father says people do not take care of things the way they used to. Someone has to pray for the pipes.’ Then he switched on the saw and began to cut into the plaster. The junior inspector’s words, along with the buzzing of the saw, seemed to bounce and ricochet off the porcelain sides of the bathtub and ring in Signor Speranza’s ears. Someone has to pray for the pipes? He was reminded of a similar argument he had made to the village priest, Don Rocco, regarding vacuum cleaners. How has the Vatican not considered the need for their protection, Father? he had asked fretfully after yet another customer had failed to show up for their yearly service appointment, and a search of the otherwise ‘complete’ Compendium had yielded nothing. Signor Speranza gasped and put his hand to his mouth. He understood everything now. This upstart clerk was not praying that the nation’s pipes might outlast their prescribed usefulness, as he himself had been doing. No! This dastardly pup had been praying instead for their deliverance! At this instant of terrible reckoning, two things happened. The junior inspector, switching off the saw and pushing back his goggles, gently eased the freshly cut block of plaster from its place in the wall, sending a chalky shower of white dust on to the linoleum, and Signor Speranza, his black moustache trembling, recalled the means by which he had repaired the washbasin. It came to him as a kind of vision – Smilzo, in shirtsleeves, perched on the edge of the bath, chewing pack after pack of pink bubblegum. It was the junior inspector’s turn to gasp, as he shone his flashlight into the hole. ‘Signore!’ he cried. ‘What is this?’ Resuming his earlier sangfroid, which at this point was the only thing he had left, Signor Speranza glanced into the hole, crossed his arms, and sniffed. ‘I think it’s Hubba Bubba.’ 2 Do You Want Me to Show You a Real Problem? Signor Speranza was subdued after that. He stood there, in the bathtub, as the junior inspector filled out a form in triplicate and handed it to him. ‘Here is the estimate, signore. The town will need to remit payment within sixty days or the Commission will cut off the water.’ Signor Speranza stared at the form. The junior inspector had written the total in blue ballpoint, and circled it. Seventy thousand euros. The numbers swam on the page. Seventy thousand. It might as well have been a million. ‘Signore?’ the junior inspector called to him from somewhere very far away. ‘Would you like to see if you qualify for a payment plan?’ Signor Speranza must have nodded, because the junior inspector turned to a fresh sheet on his clipboard and rattled off a string of questions. Was Prometto home to any major form of industry? Did it have a shopping mall? Any unique or culturally significant tourist attractions? Was there perhaps potential for mining in the area, such as natural gas, or coal deposits? No … no … no … Signor Speranza shook his head. Prometto didn’t have any of those things. It was just a nowhere place. A going-nowhere place. Had the junior inspector ever seen it on a map? It was like a tiny speck at the bottom, just at the point where Italy’s narrow boot might meet the pavement if it were grinding out a cigarette. The junior inspector didn’t answer, but just checked his boxes, and when he was finished he sighed, and returned his pen to his pocket. ‘I am very sorry, signore, but it appears your village does not have the resources necessary to qualify for a payment plan at this time.’ Signor Speranza looked at him, dazed. ‘No money,’ the young man said loudly, as if Signor Speranza were deaf. ‘There is no money here, signore. There is not even the chance of money.’ * The Lord works in mysterious ways. Signor Speranza would not be able to see it until much later, when everything was over, but the pointless, maddening time he spent at work that afternoon was destined to change the course of his entire life. Three hours after the departure of the junior inspector, he sat at the back of the once-flourishing Speranza and Son’s on the Via Sant’Agata, just him and his terrible secret that they were all doomed. He had avoided his wife Betta on his way out of the door, and she had called after him not to forget the balloons for his uncle’s birthday party, and just hearing the words had brought tears to his eyes. A party? What was there to celebrate? He had the town’s ledger open on one side of his desk, and the Compendium on the other. He was no longer on speaking terms with St Vincent Ferrer. He had, in fact, taken a permanent marker, and, in full sight of God, run a line through his name. He should have known better than to trust the patron saint of plumbers. The ledger had yielded no hope. As he had known already, there was no money in the coffers. He glanced around his shop, at the quiet ranks of vacuum cleaners and the dim coils of replacement tubing, and sighed. There was no money here, either. He had discussed the matter only a week ago with Don Rocco. ‘Understand me, Father. It’s not the population,’ he had told him over glasses of lemonade at the café. ‘It’s a matter of percentages. If one hundred per cent – 212 people – were all to bring their vacuum cleaners to my shop, then—’ Here, Signor Speranza had kissed his fingertips. ‘Mwah!’ Don Rocco, who was a young priest, and a thoughtful one, had stirred the ice in his glass. ‘Two hundred and twelve, signore?’ he asked, his forehead rumpling. ‘But wouldn’t that mean that every husband and every wife would have their own vacuum? And each of their children, also?’ Signor Speranza pulled a face. ‘If you want to split hairs, Father. You know what I mean. You have the same issue. It’s the young people – they are the problem. We cannot even get them to stay in the town where they were born. They would rather have internet service.’ Don Rocco frowned. ‘Just because they have left Prometto, that does not mean they have left the church, signore. It’s possible they are going to Mass in those new places where they are.’ Signor Speranza shook his head. ‘That’s a very nice dream, Father, but we have to face the facts. Young people do not take care of vacuums, and they do not go to church. That is just the way it is. How many young people do you have going to Mass now?’ Then he held up his hand. ‘And spare me Christmas and Easter, Father. Even the devil goes to church at Christmas and Easter.’ But Don Rocco would not be drawn into talking numbers. ‘It’s something we’re doing, signore,’ he said instead, glancing forlornly at the little church. ‘We are doing something wrong.’ Signor Speranza had taken a contemplative draught of lemonade. ‘People also like Ash Wednesday,’ he mused. ‘They enjoy the drama of that, I think. Have you considered giving out ashes on other days, Father? Might drum up business.’ Yes, clearly, the young people were to blame. Hundreds of years, and Prometto had never been in a mess like this before. Signor Speranza closed the ledger now and glared across the shop at his own personal young person, Smilzo, who was perched atop a vacuum canister in the showroom and scribbling in a notebook, the tip of his pointy nose pink with concentration. Signor Speranza and his assistant were not currently on the best of terms. A little over a month ago, in response to the customary yearly dip in business following spring-cleaning season, the two of them had undertaken an informal campaign of inter-office pranks, as a way of livening things up. Signor Speranza had difficulty now in remembering who had started it, and indeed it might have been accidental – one of them had mixed up the salt and the sugar, or something like that. But, last week, Smilzo had gone too far. It was just as Signor Speranza was calling a meeting of the local business owners to order. He had a special gavel and block, of carved walnut, and stored in a walnut box lined with dark blue velvet, which he kept in the top drawer of his desk and brought out for just such special occasions. All the council members had sat ranged in a semi-circle in front of Signor Speranza’s desk. Smilzo, who was not on the council but had been prevailed upon to take notes, had been sitting off to one side. Everyone was chatting when Signor Speranza rapped the gavel. ‘Order. Order, please,’ he had called. The room had fallen silent. Signor Speranza had smiled pleasantly. ‘Now,’ he’d said, and leaned forward at his desk. At that precise moment, when all eyes and ears were riveted in Signor Speranza’s direction, there had come – and most definitely emanating from Signor Speranza’s chair – the loudest, most terrific fart anyone had ever heard. PBBBBBBBBBBBBTTT! ‘You should have seen your face, boss,’ Smilzo had said, when the meeting was finally over. Then he had keeled over and clutched his stomach, engaging in the kind of helpless laughter that is so filled with mirth, it produces no sound. A black box, with a blinking red light, was revealed, taped to the underside of Signor Speranza’s chair, and a matching remote with a single button produced from Smilzo’s pocket. ‘See, boss? Simple.’ And Smilzo had demonstrated, pressing the button and releasing another thunderous explosion. Signor Speranza had done the only thing he could do under the circumstances, which was to plant his heavily booted foot on the seat of Smilzo’s pants. He had realised later that he should have immediately confiscated the box and remote control. Now, while he wasn’t exactly living in fear, it might be said he was living in a state of heightened awareness. Closing the Compendium with a sigh, Signor Speranza went for a fitful walk around the shop. When he came to Smilzo, he stopped, and kicked him gently in the shin. ‘What’s happening now?’ he demanded, nodding at the notebook. Smilzo was writing a screenplay. Signor Speranza didn’t approve of screenplays, obviously, but it was sort of interesting that a person could just write something down as if it had actually happened. Smilzo looked up, his pointy face aglow. ‘You’ll never believe it, boss. A tornado comes and picks up the house. And then it puts it down in a magical world.’ Signor Speranza considered this, his mouth disappearing up into his moustache. ‘Like ruby slippers?’ he asked finally. Smilzo was very still for a moment, and then a muscle under his eye twitched, and he dived back into his notebook, rubbing his eraser across the page. Signor Speranza rolled his eyes and then circled around behind his assistant, so he could read over his shoulder. ‘Enter leading lady, ARABELLA, 23. Tall, skinny, black hair. Bubbly personality.’ He snorted. ‘That sounds just like—’ The little bell over the shop door jingled. Smilzo, looking up, yelped, turned three shades of pink, and then sat on his notebook, just as Antonella Capra burst on to the scene. She was the only person Signor Speranza knew of who was skinnier than his assistant – like a walking stick of spaghetti. Today, she was wearing approximately fifty bangle bracelets on each narrow wrist, and a pair of enormous pink plastic hoop earrings, one of which had got stuck in her voluminous black hair and was sticking out at an odd angle. Her thin face was bent over her phone, and she was typing very fast. ‘Ciao, signore,’ she said, aiming two air kisses in roughly the direction of Signor Speranza’s cheeks without looking up and without ceasing typing. ‘Do you know where Smilzo is? He’s supposed to take a picture of me with a vacuum. For a joke.’ Signor Speranza’s moustache bristled. Smilzo jumped up. ‘Is not really a joke, boss,’ he said hurriedly. ‘Is more like an ironic statement.’ Antonella looked up. ‘Oh, there you are.’ Signor Speranza sighed. He had known Antonella since she was a baby. She was twenty-three years old now, and for the first twenty-two and a half years of their acquaintance he had, whenever he saw her, enjoyed an unobstructed view of her face. This had all changed now, since she had acquired this new gadget of hers. ‘What are you doing on that thing?’ he asked crossly. He had used his own mobile phone exactly twice: the first time when Betta had called him to be sure it was set up properly, and the second, when he had hurled it across the room to kill a spider. ‘Are you talking to someone?’ Antonella nodded, causing one pink plastic earring to jounce up and down, and the other, which was stuck in her hair, to tremble maddeningly on the very cusp of freedom. ‘Who is it?’ Signor Speranza persisted. Antonella let one hand go for a second and waved it around in the air. ‘I am talking to everyone, signore.’ ‘What does that mean?’ Signor Speranza frowned. ‘You are talking to everyone? Are you talking to me?’ Antonella sighed, and with some effort peeled her eyes off her phone’s screen long enough to turn it around so Signor Speranza could see it. ‘Social media, signore,’ she said, scrolling. ‘I have seventeen followers now, but really, anyone, anywhere, can read it.’ Signor Speranza tried to concentrate as words and images flashed by. ‘Mm,’ he said, nodding as if he understood. ‘It’s the worldwide web?’ Antonella giggled. ‘Sì, signore.’ ‘Who is this one?’ Signor Speranza poked his finger at the screen, trying to stop on a particular picture he kept seeing scroll past again and again. Antonella angled the phone back towards herself and tapped it. ‘This one?’ she asked, incredulous, turning it back around. Signor Speranza blinked at the tank-topped young man who was smiling at him from inside a neon-pink heart, and whose bicep was roughly the size of Smilzo’s waist. The face was familiar. ‘I know him,’ he said, pointing at the screen. ‘Who is it?’ Antonella’s mouth dropped open. ‘Dante Rinaldi,’ she said, in a tone she might have used if Signor Speranza had asked her to explain what pasta was. ‘Dante Rinaldi.’ Signor Speranza frowned, searching the young man’s face. Rinaldi … Rinaldi … He couldn’t place the family. Had Giulia Scarpa married a Rinaldi? He glanced at Smilzo, who appeared to be studying the ceiling tiles. He turned back to Antonella. ‘He’s your boyfriend?’ he asked. ‘Boyfriend?’ Antonella threw her head back and squawked. ‘Signore! It’s Dante Rinaldi!’ ‘He’s a film star, boss,’ mumbled Smilzo. Oh. Signor Speranza lost interest. A film star. ‘Just look at him, signore.’ Antonella had apparently switched over to a page devoted exclusively to pictures of Dante Rinaldi sporting a lurid assortment of multicoloured tank tops, and was now scrolling tenderly through them, the phone tilted outwards so that Signor Speranza and Smilzo might enjoy them too. She sighed. ‘Isn’t he beautiful?’ Smilzo made a sound like a strangled cat, and covered it with a fit of coughing. ‘Look at this one,’ she said, tapping the screen, but then did a double-take and stuck her lip out. ‘The internet is glitching again.’ She pointed her phone accusingly at Signor Speranza. ‘You really need to do something about this, signore. It’s a serious problem.’ ‘Yeah, boss.’ Smilzo nodded, having recovered his composure. ‘Is a very serious problem. I was watching a film on my phone last night, and right at the end – fft!’ He drew one finger across his scrawny neck. ‘All gone.’ Signor Speranza’s eyes widened. A serious problem? This was their idea of a serious problem? Do you see, Lord? he asked, gazing heavenwards. Do you see what I am dealing with here? He opened his mouth, and in another second he might have spilled his secret, and told these two idiots what a serious problem really looked like, but he was interrupted by the jingle of the bell. * ‘I hope you don’t mind, signore, if these two young people listen to our conversation.’ Signor Speranza was ensconced at his desk at the back of the shop. Signor Rossi, a loyal constituent, sat in the upholstered chair opposite him, while Smilzo and Antonella sat alongside the desk in a pair of folding chairs, Smilzo sneaking looks at Antonella out the corner of his eye, and Antonella scrolling through her phone and twirling her hair. ‘I’m trying to show them the difference between serious and non-serious problems.’ ‘Oh, this is a very serious problem, signore.’ Signor Rossi leant forward in his chair and twisted his hat in his hands. ‘It’s a problem I am having with my dog.’ Antonella snorted. Signor Speranza threw her a warning look and then gestured. ‘Please, signore, continue.’ ‘Well, it’s – it’s that she’s being attacked.’ Signor Speranza raised one eyebrow. ‘Attacked, signore?’ Signor Rossi nodded. ‘She’s being attacked by my neighbour’s new litter of puppies.’ Signor Speranza pre-emptively glared at Antonella and produced a small spiral notebook and a stub of pencil. ‘What kind of puppies?’ he asked. ‘Miniature schnauzers,’ said Signor Rossi. ‘You know, the German ones, with the ears.’ Signor Speranza nodded over his notebook. ‘Yes, I have seen some of those. They look like the Huns, marching, marching.’ ‘That’s exactly right,’ agreed Signor Rossi. ‘And these Huns, as you call them, will not leave Bambolina – that is my dog – alone. They jump on her and they bark, and they bite her ears and her tail.’ Signor Rossi’s eyes filled with tears. ‘She’s a very old dog, signore. She deserves her time in the sun.’ ‘I completely agree, signore.’ Signor Speranza made a notation in his notebook. ‘And have you approached your neighbour with this complaint?’ Signor Rossi’s deeply tanned cheeks flushed, turning his face a kind of dusky purple. ‘Yes, I did. I spoke to both of them, and they just laughed. They said, “How can you tell she’s bothered by them? Have you checked to see if she’s still alive?”’ Signor Speranza gasped. ‘Signore!’ Signor Rossi nodded. ‘I couldn’t believe it myself, signore.’ The bell at the front of the shop jingled, and he glanced over his shoulder. But here – here is Bambolina now. My wife has brought her out for a walk. I will bring her in so you can meet her and see for yourself how sweet she is.’ Everyone moved to the front of the shop, where Signora Rossi was negotiating the entrance. When she was finally inside, Signor Speranza saw that she was dragging a large red wagon. ‘Here she is. This is Bambolina, signore,’ said Signor Rossi. Signor Speranza blinked at the contents of the wagon, a little bit of the wind going out of his sails. ‘So, this is the famous Bambolina,’ he said, and then, weakly, ‘Is this how she goes for a walk?’ Signor Rossi and his wife exchanged indulgent smiles. ‘Bambolina has always been a bit of a princess, you see,’ said Signor Rossi. ‘I will take her out so you can say hello.’ Before Signor Speranza could object, Signor Rossi had removed Bambolina from the wagon and placed her heavily atop the toes of Signor Speranza’s shoes. There she sat, the world’s largest Pomeranian, her tongue lolling out of one side of her mouth, bright pink against a fluffy profusion of orange fur. She did not move, except for panting and blinking, and as Signor Speranza watched, mesmerised, the frequency and duration of her blinks gradually increased, until, finally, she was sleeping. Everyone was silent for a moment, until Antonella knelt beside Bambolina. ‘You are right, signore,’ she said, giggling. ‘This is the most serious problem I have ever seen.’ Then, holding her phone up, she fluffed her hair, and snapped a picture. 3 Betta Finds Out Signor Speranza closed the shop at five-thirty, turning the crank that lowered his awning, and taking care to shake out the all-weather mat outside the door. When he had finished, he glanced around the little cobblestoned square. Everything was just as it had been when his father was still alive. There was Bisi’s Emporio to his right, its tin roof baking in the late afternoon sun, and the café beyond it; the dentist’s office was to his left. Directly across the street was Maestro’s butcher’s shop, and, diagonally to the left, the little whitewashed building that was Sant’Agata, Prometto’s church. It was all anyone could ask for. Maybe there were not so many people milling about as there had been in his father’s day, but there were a few. Signor Speranza watched them, and his heart sank. Unless he came up with some kind of answer to this spectacular problem they were having, in sixty days, there would be no one. Everyone would be gone. Seventy thousand euros. The number squeezed at Signor Speranza’s chest and wrung the air out of his lungs as he walked down the Via Sant’Agata towards home. How much would that be in lire? He had to stop to do the computation. Almost one hundred and thirty-six million! ‘What do you make of that, Papà?’ he asked out loud. Luigi Speranza, despite having departed this earth nearly three decades earlier, as yet occupied a small corner at the back of his son’s mind. There he sat, on an upturned bucket, threading red peppers on string – because that was how Signor Speranza pictured him. Today, however, Luigi Speranza had no answer, no words of advice for his son. He only hunched over his peppers and sorrowfully shook his head. Signor Speranza got all the way to the hotel before he recalled that tonight was Zio Franco’s birthday party, and he had been meant to pick up balloons. As he opened the front door, his four-year-old granddaughter, Carlotta, careened towards him. ‘Nonno!’ she shouted, and blew a party horn in his face. * Zio Franco, who was now ninety-three years old to the day, sat at the Speranza kitchen table. He was not happy to be there; he was not happy to be anywhere. He was sitting beside Carlotta – who, in contrast, was having a marvellous time – and glowering at everyone, his arms crossed in billowing linen shirtsleeves, silvery patches of psoriasis showing on his elbows, and a pointy orange party hat on top of his balding head. ‘Go on, Zio, open it.’ Signor Speranza leant over the table and nudged the little foil-and-ribbon-wrapped package closer to his uncle. ‘You’ll love it, believe me.’ When everyone’s eyes were on Zio, he dabbed his forehead with a napkin and took a long drink of water. It was exhausting, smiling like this as if everything were fine, and avoiding his wife’s searching eyes. He glanced around the table. It was just them for the party: Zio, who had been picked up earlier that afternoon, Betta, little Carlotta, and Carlotta’s mother, their daughter Gemma. Gemma had come to Signor Speranza and his wife late in life, an astonishing gift after they had stopped hoping. His eyes lingered on her now, as was his habit these last five years, ever since the news had broken, just after her nineteenth birthday, that they were to have a grandchild, but no son-in-law. Was she getting smaller? Signor Speranza narrowed his eyes and frowned, watching her pick at her cake with the tines of her fork. ‘Let me help you, Zio,’ said Carlotta, who was dazzled by the shiny paper. Hopping down from her chair, she wrested the box from Zio Franco’s notaltogether-co-operative hands and tore it open. ‘LEGO!’ she crowed. Zio Franco slouched in his chair and grunted. ‘What the hell am I supposed to do with that?’ Signor Speranza managed a manic grin and shovelled an enormous forkful of cake into his mouth. ‘You’re a builder, Zio. I thought you would like to build something.’ He continued his grinning and shovelling, until his black moustache was dotted with white frosting and he looked insane. ‘I think it’s offensive,’ said Gemma, putting her fork down and clamping her arms over her chest. ‘Who gives a ninety-three-year-old man a kid’s toy for a birthday present? It’s rude.’ Signor Speranza’s mouth dropped open. This cutting little statement constituted almost a full-blown speech for his daughter, who didn’t ordinarily go out of her way to speak to him at all. Betta motioned to him to keep quiet from the other end of the table. ‘I don’t think that’s how Papà meant it, Gemma,’ she said, her voice soothing. ‘It’s just a little joke. Something for Zio to play with Carlotta. Isn’t that right, Nino?’ Now Signor Speranza crossed his arms and scowled. Carlotta clutched the box to her chest, almost bursting with excitement. ‘Can I open it, Zio?’ Zio Franco muttered that she could keep it for all he cared, and within seconds she had the box open, and had popped one of the plastic bags, sending Lego pieces skittering everywhere, including one that landed in the remains of Signor Speranza’s cake. He picked it out and brightly changed the subject. ‘I’ve been wanting to talk to you about your house, Zio.’ Zio Franco’s already petulant face hardened into a stiff mask, and Betta made a tsk-ing sound, but Signor Speranza did not back down. If he was going to have to convince this uncle of his, who was stubborn as a mule, to leave Prometto peacefully in sixty days’ time, he needed to get cracking on it now. ‘Zio, please understand. I know you’re attached to your house. But I think it’s time. It is not good for you to be there all alone.’ Zio Franco shook his head. ‘I’m not moving.’ Signor Speranza persisted. ‘Did you see the advertisement I left for you last week? That place looks very nice. Units starting at four thousand euros.’ Zio Franco snorted. ‘That was a mausoleum.’ Signor Speranza’s eyebrows lifted. ‘What are you talking about? It’s a condominium complex.’ Betta, at her end of the table, stifled a whoop of laughter. ‘No, Nino,’ she said, when she got a hold of herself. ‘Zio is right. I looked at the ad myself. The Garden of Everlasting Roses is a mausoleum.’ Signor Speranza was baffled. ‘It said they have air-conditioning,’ he marvelled. And then, mystified, ‘Who is the air-conditioning for?’ Zio Franco ignored all this and pounded his fist. ‘It would take three armies of men to remove me from my home.’ Signor Speranza rolled his eyes to the ceiling. Or one oversized toddler with a clipboard. ‘Papà,’ said Gemma. ‘I think that Zio should be able to make up his own —’ Signor Speranza turned to her, beseeching. ‘Cara mia, please.’ Gemma’s quiet eyes flashed. ‘Oh, right,’ she said, her lip trembling. ‘Who am I to have an opinion?’ She stood up, her chair knocking over behind her. ‘Maybe for my birthday you can get me a Barbie doll!’ She ran out of the kitchen and into her bedroom, slamming the door behind her. Carlotta looked up from her Lego bricks and started to cry. Betta folded her hands on the table and sighed. ‘Oh, Nino.’ ‘What?’ Signor Speranza shouted, throwing his hands in the air. ‘What did I say?’ ‘All right, that’s it.’ With Zio gone and Gemma and Carlotta in bed, Betta closed the bedroom door behind her and put her hands on her hips. ‘You tell me what’s happening right now. You were like a crazy person tonight. What is bothering you?’ Signor Speranza sank on to the bed, and Betta sat beside him. The story came out in fits and starts. ‘Oh, Nino.’ Betta covered her mouth with her hand. They sat there for a while in silence, and then the cogs of her brisk and practical mind began to turn. ‘Well, there has to be an answer. You have to talk to Don Rocco,’ she said. ‘He’ll take up a collection.’ Signor Speranza sighed. ‘To collect from whom? Betta, we are in this mess because no one has any money. You know how many people have not paid their taxes?’ He knew. He had their names marked in the town ledger, with their excuses alongside, on sticky notes. It was a mess. It was all a mess. Betta chewed her lip. ‘What about Signor Maestro? He has to have money. Have you seen that ridiculous house?’ Signor Speranza grimaced. He had not had cause to enter Signor Maestro’s domicile, thank God, but he saw him every day outside the butcher’s shop, a large gold and diamond ring sparkling on his pinky finger. Imagine the blood and guts that must be stuck in the prongs of that ring. He shuddered. ‘Signor Maestro is a barbarian,’ he said. ‘He will not be interested in helping anyone but himself.’ He shook his head and got into bed. ‘Try not to worry. We will have a place to live. Tomorrow, I’ll call Alberto.’ Betta, who had her own views on the said Alberto, pulled a face and got into bed also. As she pulled up the covers, her eyes wandered to the wall that separated their room from Gemma and Carlotta’s. ‘Do you think they’ll want to move with us?’ she whispered. Signor Speranza was startled. ‘Of course they will move with us. Where else would they go?’ But, even as he spoke, he felt uneasy. The last time Betta had asked him a question like that, in that worried voice, had been five years ago. Nino, you don’t think Gemma is getting too serious with this Ricci boy, do you? And he had been sure then, also. ‘I’ve seen her texting him, you know,’ said Betta quietly, looking at her hands. ‘He’s in Rome, I think. We cannot afford Rome, Nino.’ Signor Speranza sat up. ‘So what?’ he blustered. He could feel his blood pressure rising, and a pounding in his temples. It was the feeling he always got when he was boxing an invisible enemy. ‘So what? No one is keeping her here. If she wanted to go, she would go. She likes it here.’ ‘Shhhhh,’ said Betta, her eyes flicking again to the wall. ‘Yes, Nino. She likes it here. She likes the school for Carlotta. She doesn’t want to take her away from her friends. But—’ She shrugged. ‘What if there is no school? What if the friends are gone? What then?’ Signor Speranza had no answer for this. ‘I worry about her, Nino.’ Betta sighed. ‘It’s as if she has given up. No friends. No interests. She’s angry or depressed all the time. I worry. Maybe —’ She hesitated. ‘Maybe it’s not the worst thing that could happen, if she and Carlotta were to move away … start their own life … ’ Signor Speranza grunted, and turned out the light. In the dark, he saw himself and Carlotta, four years ago. He was walking the floor with her as she cried in the middle of the night, while her mother cried in the room next door. ‘Gallinella zoppa, zoppa, quante penne tiene ’n coppa,’ he sang softly, the old song about the little lame hen, and how many feathers she had on her back. When he stopped singing, Gemma had called out, in her thin, stretched voice. ‘Sing it again, Papà,’ she said, and he had sung it over and over, until both his little girls were sleeping. Now, tonight, he bunched his pillow under his head and pretended to sleep, until he heard the sound of Betta gently snoring. Then he climbed out of bed and knelt at the side, as he had when he was a child. He grunted a little as his knees struck the hard floor and that electric jolt of old age shot through his joints. He made the sign of the cross and scrunched his eyes shut. In his mind, he paged through the Compendium, trying to decide to whom he should appeal for help. In the end, given the dire circumstances, he went directly to the manager. ‘Please, Lord,’ he said, whispering aloud. ‘I do not know what to do. If you have the answer, please – show it to me.’ He waited a few minutes, in case God wanted to make a really grand gesture and tell him what he should do on the spot, but, when nothing happened, he climbed back into bed and stayed awake, deep into the night, arguing with Betta in his mind. Because she was wrong. Gemma and Carlotta moving away was the worst thing that could possibly happen. 4 The Mysterious Whereabouts of George Clooney At dawn, Signor Speranza was dreaming of when Gemma was young. ‘Papà.’ He was in the hotel’s living room, but it was the living room of twenty years ago. At the windows there were the pink watered-silk curtains with puffed flounces, which Betta had found at a fleamarket, and he was sitting on the old, scratchy couch with the crewelwork flowers on the cushions. He peered over the top of his newspaper. ‘Papà, you said that you would come to my tea party.’ There was little Gemma, as real as anything. She was standing with her arms crossed, the way her own daughter did now. Then Signor Speranza found that he was no longer his younger self, sitting there on the couch. Rather, he seemed to have floated up, and was looking down on the scene from above. He had been here before, he realised, in this actual place; he had participated in this actual conversation. He wasn’t so much dreaming as remembering. He saw his younger self lower the newspaper and raise one eyebrow. He watched his old moustache, at the very peak of its luxurious lushness, twitch from side to side. ‘Will there be biscuits?’ he heard himself ask, in a mock-serious tone. They moved to the table, and Gemma told him about school. ‘I don’t like it,’ she said, staring fiercely at the little china teapot. ‘Everyone is mean there. Why can’t I just stay home?’ The young Signor Speranza had not got the moment right. He had miscalculated. He had teased. And the older Signor Speranza, who was