La Superba (25 page)

“Self-referential theater.”

“Yep. We're sure to make a splash.”

17.

But it didn't sit well with me, that whole story about the nine-year license and paying rent to the council—and of course it didn't sit well. I decided to investigate. I could go to City Hall and simply ask for the relevant documents, couldn't I? If it was a matter of a license and rental, it meant it was a public case and therefore the contract necessarily had to be public. And if it wasn't, it was something else and then we were a bit further. But Pierluigi himself had said this was the situation, so those documents were probably available.

Genoa's City Hall is a charming palazzo halfway along Via Garibaldi, opposite Vico del Duca. It has prominent neighbors, like museums and the fancy head offices of foreign banks. Via Garibaldi, which used to be called Strada Nuova, is the jewel in Genoa's crown, built to astonish and amaze—a milestone in
classical architecture. Rubens walked around making sketches of it. Many Genoese who live outside of the center perceive that street as the edge of the abyss. They dare venture this far and no farther into the labyrinth. The side alleys lead straight into the jungle in their eyes, a place where, within a hundred meters, you'll fall prey to prostitutes, pimps, and knife fighters. And it's not even totally untrue. Incidentally, our future theater was positioned right there in the jungle where no decent Genoese dared to go. That was something else to consider, I realized. But I would concern myself with that later.

I went and stood at the counter in City Hall. But that wasn't the way it worked. I was given to understand that I had to take a numbered ticket and wait my turn. I apologized. I hadn't noticed the ticket machine. I took number 814. I looked at the display. The number at that moment was 409. I waited to see how quickly the line moved. There was only one window open and after fifteen minutes, number 409 was still involved in a number of very special and particularly time-consuming transactions. Number 410 took about a quarter of an hour, too. I began to add up. In any case, I had plenty of time to go outside and smoke a cigarette in the street and come up with a plan.

As I stood outside smoking, a tramp spoke to me. I tried to ignore him. But he was persistent. “Thank you,” I said. He reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a small piece of paper. Number 430. “Ten euros,” he said. I decided to pay him. “And your number?” he asked. “Swap.” I gave him number 814. “That'll be the day after tomorrow,” he said. “If we're lucky. Give me an extra five euros and we'll stay friends.”

Two hours later, it was my turn. I explained why I'd come. Although my Italian was quite good by now, I had to explain my request three times in different ways and even then she didn't understand me. On my insistence, on my firm insistence, as number 431 behind me began to break out in a rash, she fetched her manager. I explained it all once again. He asked for my ID. I was prepared for that. I laid my passport on the counter with a triumphant gesture. He picked it up as though it was a rare incunabulum and began to study it at length. He shook his head.

“The information you are requesting is unfortunately not authorized.”

“You mean that you're not authorized to give me the requested information.”

“You said it.”

“So what now?”

He shrugged and turned to walk away.

“Come back, you bastard!” Behind me, number 431 held his breath. It was starting to get interesting. “I'm a citizen of the European Union and I know my rights. Allow me access to the documents I want to see or I'll drag you to the Strasbourg courts.”

That made an impression. He humbly retraced his steps. He fished a document out of a drawer and stamped it with great pomposity. He handed it to me.

“What is this?”

“You are hereby authorized to present your request to the other office.”

“Which other office?”

“Matitone.”

“And that's where they keep the documentation?”

He smiled apologetically. “I've done my best, sir. I've done more for you than is actually allowed. Thank you. Perhaps I could be of further service with a lottery scratch card?” With a compassionate smile that expressed sympathy for my quest, he withdrew to the recesses of his splendid palace.

18.

“
Matitone
” means “giant pencil.” And that's what it looks like. A hexagonal block of flats with a pointed roof. The council's pride and joy. Built by the mayor's wife's construction company. But tendered completely transparently and according to the rules, of course. Taller than the famous lighthouse. A new landmark for the modern city. Genoa doing credit to its age-old nickname—La Superba. A skyscraper in the old port. Visible clear across the city. The term “visual pollution” had never had such a golden ring to it. And because there wasn't a single company that wanted to have its offices there, the council moved in themselves. You're either a mayor or you aren't. You do things for the people. You do things for your friends.

I have to say, it's the perfect auxiliary branch to City Hall because it's high and inaccessible. It's Kafka's castle. It is visible everywhere, but just try getting there. In theory it should take an hour to walk there from the center, but were it not for the two motorways you have to cross. You can also try the Metro to Dinegro, but there are rumors about people never coming back.

By now I knew how it worked. I smoked a cigarette outside
and waited patiently until a tramp came to sell me a ticket number. I knew the price. I was prepared to pay fifteen euros. But nobody came. After half an hour, I decided just to go inside. I reported to the counter to ask where I could get a number. The receptionist said it wasn't possible. I asked whether that meant it was my turn. He said it wasn't that simple and I needed special authorization. I said I had that. He shook his head. Practically no one had special authorization. And what's more, it was the lunch break. If I'd come half an hour earlier he might have been able to help me.

“But then I'll come after lunch.”

He sighed.

“What time…?”

“Half past three.”

In my home country, I only had to give the sign and an alderman would call me back. And in such cases, someone higher up would usually offer help, too. And after that the mayor or the minister would call just to make sure that everything had been satisfactorily settled and to make sure I wasn't going to write a caustic item in the paper about it.

Here, it was with the greatest difficulty that I got to speak to a counter clerk. When I returned at three thirty, there was somebody else there. He refused to look up. I coughed. No reaction. I coughed importantly. He looked up. I produced my stamped document from City Hall on Via Garibaldi. He gave it a fleeting glance and then turned with admirable concentration to a very important, undoubtedly urgent, serious receptionist's task that he had to carry out on his computer. I hit the counter as hard as I could with the flat of my hand. It made even me jump. It clearly happened
fairly often during his responsibility-infused workdays. “If you'd like me to call security,” he sighed without looking up from his screen, “then I can be of service to you in the blink of an eye.”

“If I were you…” I began. I had to bluff my way through this. “If I were you, I'd at least have the courtesy to hear me out before I call someone. I'm a friend of Fulvia's.”

It had popped out before I realized. I don't know how I'd come up with it. But he reacted as though he'd been stung by a wasp. “Fulvia Granelli?” he asked.

“Granelli Fulvia,” I confirmed.

“My apologies, I thought you were a foreigner. Might I see that document again? And what have you come for if I might ask? Alright, alright, I understand. This is highly irregular. Fourteenth floor. You can take the lift at the end of the corridor on the right.”

I was met by a friendly older woman who introduced herself as the secretary to the alderman's personal assistant. I was already beginning to climb the ladder. But the more she began to understand of the reason I was there, the unhappier she looked.

“But it would be impossible for me to give you that information,” she said with a pained look on her face which seemed to express genuine disappointment at the fact she couldn't be of service to me.

“Why not?”

“Because it doesn't exist.”

“But if you say it's a matter of information you can't give me, that means the information does exist.”

“That might be so, but I can't give it to you.”

“Why not?”

“I just told you. Because it doesn't exist.”

“How can it be possible for something to exist and not to exist simultaneously?”

“In Italy it's very possible.”

“Everything exists in as much as it's possible with the right contacts, and nothing exists in so far as nothing is possible without the right contacts.”

“You said it. I can neither confirm it nor deny it.”

“The Parodis.”

“They're a powerful clan in Genoa. They've meant a lot to this city. Could I give you some advice?”

“Advice that does or doesn't exist?”

“Then I won't.”

“I understand what you want to say, but I'm not giving up. I want that information that doesn't exist. Where should I go?”

“You could try the City Hall?” she said hopelessly.

“On Via Garibaldi?”

“Yes, City Hall.”

“Will I have to get a ticket again?”

“I can reserve a low number for you.” The relief in her voice was audible. “I can do that for you. I'd be happy to do that. Thank you. Might I be of further service to you with a scratch card perhaps?”

19.

The heat was relentless. The sun hung above the city like a vibrating copper gong. Its sound still echoed deafeningly along the alleyways. Salty sweat dripped from the gray walls. The pavement sighed under each sporadic sighing footstep. It was about to burst open.
The pus from the swamp under the stones was searching for egress. The stench could already be smelled. Drunken Moroccans hung about on the street corners. It was too hot to mug anyone. Senegalese squatted in the shade of their run-down, overpopulated palazzi. It was too hot to pursue their war against the Moroccans. The sighing of all those afflicted hung like a clammy mist over the dark alleyways. This was the
macaia
, roaming the city like a ghost made of wet bed sheets.

It was, to cut to the chase, much too hot to wear a suit. When I'd put it on at home in front of the mirror, I'd been happy with it. It suited me, in as much as any clothes suit me. But once I was outside amid the half-naked tourists and copper girls in fluttering little nothings, it felt like a ridiculously over-the-top Mardi Gras costume in which I'd sweat to death, like someone wearing a lion suit on the beach, hopping around among the beachgoers for some ridiculous ad.

I'd arranged to meet Monia for an aperitif in the Bar of Mirrors. She wasn't there yet. No doubt she wanted to make sure she arrived later than I so that she could make a grand entrance in her evening gown. And that's what she did. And how. She came swirling around the corner in a gigantic bright yellow confection with a train and a wide, tall collar that fanned out behind her head, and which was so low-cut at the front that there was hardly anything of her scandalous breasts left to the imagination. I was really shocked when I saw her. It was all a bit too—which word should I use for it?—ostentatious. Yes, we were going to the opera and people were expected to dress up. But that doesn't mean to say you should dress as though you were going on stage to perform
the role of the Empress-whore of Babylon in the extravagant costume design of a director famous for his provocations. How could I in all decency show my face with a person like that? In my much-too-hot and much-too-expensive Mafia suit? The prospect was mortifying. What's more, I noticed that she wasn't entirely steady on her legs. But that might be due to the exorbitant high heels she was wearing.

She sat down at my table and ordered a Negroni. “Are you going to a masquerade ball?” the waitress asked. She could hardly control her giggles. Monia considered it all totally normal. She explained patiently that we were going to the opera and that her good friend Leonardo the poet was gallant enough to accompany her. I blushed, but luckily it wasn't very noticeable as my face was already bright red from the heat.

I decided to strike while the iron was hot. I brought up the theater. I explained the situation at length to her. I described what it looked like and how wonderfully equipped it was. I gave her an in-depth account of the artistic and commercial potential. I dropped the words “exceptional opportunity” several times. I told her about our chat with Pierluigi Parodi and my attempts to shine a light on the agreement with the council. I asked her what she thought of all this. She gazed at me wide-eyed. But that didn't mean anything. It was the way she always looked.

“But what do you think, Monia?”

It was as though she hadn't heard the question. She continued to look at me, smiling. Then she downed her Negroni in one gulp. “Can I have a kiss?” she asked. “You're so sexy when you talk about business.” She leaned forward. Her tits rolled out of her décolleté
onto the table. I gave her a quick peck on the mouth. She tried to worm her tongue into my mouth, but I didn't let that happen.

“But to start with,” I said to distract her. “To start with, we have to find a way to get access to the contract with the council.” She ordered another Negroni. “But I don't have the right contacts. That's logical. I haven't been here for long. Do you know a way of getting that information?”

“That's not a problem,” she said. I was incredibly relieved that she responded to my question rather than continuing her attempts to rape me in public. “My good friend Alfonso has excellent contacts at City Hall. Alfonso Gioia. I think he knows the alderman personally. I'll give him a call. If you'll give me another kiss. But now a real one.”