La Superba (22 page)

Walter knew the owners, or in any case, one of them—Raimondo, an energetic young manager who had made it into a success
in a short space of time, together with his companion. Since Walter knew him, we were given a discount. And later in the evening, it might be interesting to exchange thoughts with him, if the opportunity arose. In terms of the catering industry, he'd be our neighbor, after all. There might be a possibility to work together in some way. Everything was about the right connections, at the end of the day—that much we'd learned, even if was just through the discount on our drinks bill.

We sat outside on the terrace. Suddenly all hell broke loose. I mean, we all know more or less what it sounds like when a glass breaks on the floor. The sound is more spectacular than the actual damage. Sometimes a full tray goes crashing down. People can talk about that for days. This sounded many times worse.

We got to our feet to see what was going on. Two fellows were smashing the whole damn bar to smithereens. The table next to the entrance was in splinters. Meanwhile, they were using bar stools to hack away at the mirrored wall behind the bar in front of which all the bottles were arranged. Within a minute they had reduced La Lepre to debris. Raimondo and his companion were nowhere to be seen. The other guests fled through the door. And in the meantime, the young men continued their mission with destructive efficiency. Not a single person took it upon themselves to intervene. This was too serious. This wasn't a picturesque Italian row that had gotten out of hand. These were two professionals at work who knew exactly what they were doing. The situation was downright threatening. Walter and I made a quick getaway too.

We went to Gloglo on Piazza Lavagna to recover from the shock. We told Samir, Gloglo's Iranian owner, what we'd just seen.
He nodded. He went inside and came back with three grappas. “On the house,” he said. “To recover.” He sat down at our table, picked up the third glass, and raised it. “Do you know what?” he said, “Those two boys want too much. Raimondo and that other one. What's he called again? I mean, don't get me wrong. They're fantastic barmen with phenomenal dedication and in a short time they've really made something of the place. It's full almost every evening. Their turnover is excellent. Better than us. Ha-ha! But that's not the point. Cheers!”

He got up to help another couple of customers who'd just arrived. When he returned to our table, he'd brought another three glasses. “And then to think…” he said. “Yes, cheers. Here's to you. And then to think that just a couple of years ago it was a stink hole. Really. Scum went there. And the word ‘scum' means quite something in this neighborhood. If you call someone here in the Maddelena scum, you have to—how can I say it?” Samir laughed. “Anyhow. You get my point. But that's exactly those two boys' problem. What's the other one called again? One's called Raimondo. But anyway.” He took a sip of his grappa. “You know the toilets in La Lepre? With those big steel doors? Major dealing used to go on there. They had enough of it and cleaned up the place. But this is the payback. Unfortunately, that's how things work in this city.”

“But what do you mean, Samir?” Walter asked. “It was Mafia revenge?”

Samir held his index finger to his lips. “That word doesn't exist,” he said. “I mean, they exist, but the word doesn't. You have to have very powerful friends to be able to say that word,
make sure you remember that.” He stared ahead pensively. His voice changed. He began to speak slowly and softly. “This city is a porcelain grotto,” he said, “a labyrinth of interests. And if you have any interests yourself, you soon find yourself clashing with others' interests. And then it's the law of the jungle. It's been like that for centuries and it will always be like that. The statutory powers—the police, the judges, the politicians—are nothing more or less than individuals with their own interests who arm themselves with penal codes and truncheons before joining the power struggle. They aren't above taking sides—they're partisan. And that's why you can't get anything done in this city without the right allies. And even with the right allies, you don't get anything done. Change is by definition a threat to other people's business. It's in everyone's interest for things to stay the same. Well, I don't want to discourage you. But that's how it is. I have to go now. The drinks are all covered, alright. Reflect on it.”

Samir walked off. Walter and I stayed sitting there for a while. We didn't speak. We thought about what Samir had said. Neither of us wanted to come across as naive by being amazed at his words. We pretended to each other that what he said wasn't new and that we'd known for ages that it worked like that here. And in a certain sense, that was true. But I was genuinely shocked. Genoa had always seemed like a civilized northern Italian city to me. Well, civilized might be the wrong word. But in any case, northern. The Mafia were part of the south. But of course Samir was right. Although, it still remained to be seen. What did that Iranian know?

Walter nudged me. “See them?” Two boys walked into the pizzeria I Calabresi opposite Gloglo. It was them. These were the boys
who had just smashed La Lepre to smithereens. “What should we do?” Walter asked. “I know. I'll call the pizzeria and tell them what those two just did.” He looked up the number on his smartphone and called. He told his story, but the answer, which I couldn't hear, made him look gloomy.

“What did they say?”

Walter gave me a meaningful look. “They said, ‘But those two are our friends.'”

“And so?”

“And so, nothing.”

“They're not calling the police?”

“I know what I'll do,” Walter said. “I'll call Raimondo. I have his mobile number.”

Raimondo picked up. Walter told him that the boys were in I Calabresi at the moment. Raimondo said something. “You're welcome, you're welcome,” Walter replied. He hung up.

“And?”

“Do you know what he said?” Walter asked. “He said, ‘Thanks. But if they're friends of the Calabresis, we won't report it.'”

10.

One of my favorite television programs back in my home country used to be called, if I remember correctly,
A Place in the Sun
. Do you know it? I think what I saw was a Dutch version of a BBC show of which they'd made several foreign rip-offs. It was a simple formula. Over the course of a number of weekly episodes, you followed a number of northern Europeans, usually couples, who
had one dream in their life, and that dream was to start over in the balmy south. What they all had in common was that they'd had enough of the mist and drizzle and all that other dreariness and they were actually going to do something about it. They decided to up and set off in search of a house in Italy, Spain, Portugal, Greece, or some other Mediterranean paradise with palm trees and perma-blue skies. A discreet camera crew would be set up there and do nothing other than regularly turn up for months on end to cold-bloodedly register how their quest for light and warmth was coming along and how they slowly but surely were getting lost in their fantasy of a new and better life in the sun.

Naturally it was nearly always about people of a certain age, who after a long and difficult but relatively successful life as company advisor, interior designer, or environmentalist had saved up enough to seriously think about a modest, dilapidated, but oh-so-idyllic farm in the Algarve, on Mykonos, or in Tuscany.

The camera crew was there when, after having driven around the region they wanted to rediscover their lost youth in, they were introduced to a reliable local real estate agent, a respectable man who, unlike all the other men in the area, had the decency to dress in a suit and tie despite the heat, and who, thank God, also appeared to speak reasonably good English. He had, as he said himself, a reputation to maintain, particularly among foreigners, whom he'd always been able to accommodate perfectly because he understood the way they thought and what they wanted. And he told a couple of horror stories about the malpractices of the men who, to his embarrassment, shared the same profession and who, ultimately, were only in it for financial gain, although he was sorry he had to say that.
Unfortunately, that was how things worked in Italy, Spain, Portugal, or wherever they were. But at the same time it was such a beautiful country, he stressed. And he congratulated the northern Europeans for having found him. Because he was different. He loved his country. And as they whizzed along in his four-wheel drive to the first idyllic heap of rubble that he'd selected for them to visit with all his knowledge of human nature, they were already sold. In the back seat of the car they congratulated each other in their mother tongue for having had so much luck and having found the right real estate agent. Someone they could trust at least. Someone who spoke English. They should count their lucky stars.

A week later we see the same couple again. The third ruin they visited is possibly their favorite. Alright, it didn't have a roof. And all in all, there weren't really any walls. But they'd always fancied rebuilding to completely fit their own taste, with Ligurian slate and marble from Carrara. And just look at that view. Yes, they dare say this in front of the camera—it was the place of their dreams. They'd fallen in love. They dared to say that out loud for the first time, too. Wasn't this a lovely start to a new life? Let's face it. The asking price of three hundred thou' was a little over their budget, but you might never get a chance like this again. As their friend the real estate agent had said, “You only live once.” As far as they were concerned that was spot on.

Meanwhile, they showed footage of them sitting in their terraced house in the drizzly north, doing sums at the kitchen table. Whichever way they add things up, three hundred thousand is still too much. And then you have the building costs on top. He tells her it would be an irresponsible move. She tells him
he's doing the sums wrong because he also has to add on her own ceramics studio and factor in that she can sell to the local inhabitants. And they'll turn the scullery with the large terrace into a trattoria. Their friend the real estate agent told them last time that there was nothing at all for miles and miles in that region. So there's a gap in the market for a trattoria, certainly in combination with her studio. You'll be able to serve your own local dishes on self-designed, self-fired plates. “And of course my designs will be totally inspired by the local surroundings. Did you see the look on the real estate agent's face when I said that? Run through the numbers again, love, we're talking about our dreams here. I mean, love, look out of the window. It's raining. It's been raining for weeks. It's been raining all our lives. It's now or never. We've been talking about it for so long, you know that.”

In the next episode we've moved on a few months. The trucks full of Ligurian slate are arriving. But it's a different kind than they ordered. The man and the woman say in individual in-depth interviews that they consider this a personal failure. They'd made clear arrangements and now everything is going to have to be re-delivered. This means a delay of a fortnight, maybe even a month. And what are they going to do about the limestone ornaments? They're supposed to be arriving in two weeks. Are they going to have to put them in storage somewhere? They can't afford that. They couldn't afford any delays, either. This had already cost much more than they'd ever intended. The trattoria had to open this summer. But if it carried on like this, they wouldn't be ready until after the peak season.

And when the bill arrives for the wrong slate that was delivered,
the shit hits the fan. Of course they're not paying it. But there seems to be some kind of clause in the contract that makes them obliged, according to national laws, which have to do with recently changed legislation concerning the use of certain registered sustainable materials, to pay for the wrongly delivered slate. Their hands are in their hair. The friend, the real estate agent, hasn't been answering the phone for days. The trucks with marble from Carrara are expected tomorrow. But there's also been a potential miscommunication there because, unlike they'd agreed, the delivery date hasn't been confirmed by telephone, and it's so damn difficult to make arrangements in this fucking country where no one speaks a goddamn word of English.

Next there are problems with the sewerage permit, but they can't read the local regulations. And while the neighbor claims right of way across their idyllic terrace, there's a reassessment of the property taxes. There's also a problem with the permit for the water pipes. They'd chosen the cheapest option but hadn't realized that the more expensive company had a certain edge in the region, by ill-gotten means. The mayor of the village refuses to understand their problem. They suspect he's being paid by the more expensive company. They live for months with designer copper taps that they had shipped from France but that don't work. The opening of the trattoria has to be put back by a year as a result. They will go on to win their court case, but it will take months. Their attorney is talking years. But that would mean even higher legal costs than they'd already feared.

The only thing missing is for the two of them to fall out. This is covered in detail in the final episode. We see him back in
his drizzle-drenched house in the north. Unpaid bills lie on the kitchen table in front of him. As he talks about everything that has happened, his eyes fill with tears. She is still there. She fiddles forlornly with a stunted vine. She uses her skinny sandaled foot to spin her pottery wheel. She doesn't have any contact with the locals. The trattoria never opened. “He was scared and backed out,” she says. “And now he's refusing to pay even my maintenance allowance. How am I supposed to survive? From my pots? He has to be kidding.”

11.

There are two kinds of women: those who are just there, and others who make a grand entrance. And the second kind can also be divided into two categories: those who set foot on the terrace to conquer it, and those who haughtily beg to be conquered. She fell into this last category.