Friday, November 18, 2009
We were awakened by the front door buzzer at 10am. Fausto and Admir, a young handsome Albanian, who has done some work on the house, were outside and they were soon joined by Carlo, the geometra who I engaged eight years ago to draw up the plans and sub-contract the restoration work. Carlo gave up on me when the money was not flowing and I have not heard from him in nearly four years. But he is needed now in order to inspect the work and report to the commune so that I can get the authorization to legally inhabit the house. My premonition that involving Carlo again would lead to trouble turned out to be well founded, but for the moment everyone was friendly and smiling, shaking hands and kissing cheeks.
For someone who arises at 5:30 every morning to begin the daily ritual of reading the NY Times over coffee at Starbucks, followed by an hour at the gym in order to ready myself for a workday that begins at 9:30 and often ends after 8pm, being able to sleep until 10 feels like an almost shameful luxury. Truthfully, I believe I would have slept til noon if Fausto hadn’t rang the bell. The beds were surprisingly comfortable and the comforter did a more than adquate job of providing a cozy protective womb against the cool air. Amazingly, the morning crow of the neighbor’s rooster did not penetrate the house, a testament to the thickness and tightness of the windows and shutters. I am overjoyed and smugly pleased at myself for not having stinted on such an important architectural element.
There are many distinctive characteristics of Italian culture, one of which is the tendency to spin every problem, significant or insignificant, into the highest possible drama. Things begin at a fever pitch that creates in me - anxious to begin with - almost more anxiety than I can stand. Three years after purchasing the house, I received a threatening letter from the realtor who handled the transaction, saying I owed him money (I did not) and that he was going to seize my property if I didn’t pay up. I flagellated myself for days for being so naïve as to think that I could pull this off, this dream of mine, without paying a price. With my limited resources I was not rushing to find an Italian lawyer to dispute the charge, nor was I inclined to fight, but rather to run the other way, surrender the damn property and live my life in peace! A wise and knowledgeable friend advised me to do nothing (a novel approach for me) and sure enough, not another word was heard. Today, somewhat experienced in operatic interactions with agitated Italians, I have learned to quell my anxiety in most cases and adopt the “do nothing” mantra until more information is revealed.
So when Carlo declared that the house was far from finished enough to get the approval of the commune, I did not immediately start quaking at the thought of transferring more weak American dollars to my Italian bank account. I wasn't able to follow the conversation entirely, but when Carlo strutted over to the edge of the garden and began making dramatic gestures indicating that something from my garden (a wall, perhaps) had fallen down below on to the neighbor's property, I got the distinct feeling that some restitution was being proposed. Admir looked serious, nodding his head in rhythm to Carlo’s rapid-fire pronouncements. Fausto, too, seemed perturbed, took a deep breath, ran his fingers through his hair and crossed his arms against his chest. I tried not to read anything into this, instead directing my attention to a little piglet – a cinta senese - that had wandered into the garden from the neighbor’s property just below my house.
“It’s a cinta,” declared Ralph. “They’re very expensive, the little pigs with a white ring around it,” he said, causing me to speculate as to how these grimy contadini, who appeared to be salvaging garbage, could afford an expensive pig. In fact, the spread of land below my house that appeared to be their property, was enormous, with olive groves, a chicken coop and a great expanse of grass to feed the goats and other creatures that roamed their field. I glanced over to Fausto and Admir with a worried look, needing some reassurance that the pig was harmless. They found this highly amusing, but I’m not someone who typically welcomes uninvited neighbors of any species. I decide not to approach Miss Piggy, recalling the questionnaire at Customs when re-entering the U.S., asking whether you’ve touched any farm animals. I envisioned being subjected to a battery of tests to determine if I had contracted swine flu or some other contagious disease and being sprayed down with disinfectant by a snarky officer in the Customs restroom.
Later, Fausto and Admir explained their plan to me. While Admir was able to do the required work, if he began immediately, without Carlo’s agreement, the neighbors would likely make trouble; using his index finger to pull on the skin below his eye, he warned me that they will be watching everything that happens and will report any suspicious activity to the commune. So Fausto would meet again with Carlo to get an estimate of the work, and then Admir would do his own estimate – presumably much lower - and present it to Carlo, who could not help but see the discrepancy. After that they lost me but I more or less got the picture – there was a process that needed to happen before Admir could begin, one of those incredibly convoluted paths that are the order of everyday business in Italy.
In the late afternoon I met up again with Fausto at Brico to get the scaldabagna, which had finally arrived. We then drove to Todi to pick up the idraulico who would install it. He was a tiny, jovial man, accustomed to making house calls to the frazioni, or local towns, surrounding Todi. At 5pm it was already dark. On the way, Fausto pointed to a light in the distance. “La tua casa” he said, indicating that the light was coming from Le Caselle. “Vicino ma lontano”, he said to the idraulico, who responded with a hearty laugh. So near and yet so far.
That evening, we took Judy and Fausto to a brand new restaurant in Marsciano called Citrus. Like many places around here, the entrance was nearly impossible to find, despite a very visible sign only a short distance from the restaurant. It was an upscale, modern, “American-looking” place, all white walls, white furniture, lots of glass and mirrors and little other décor. Absolutely nothing Italian about it, not surprisingly, as the chef was trained by Jamie Oliver, a British TV celebrity chef. The dinner was excellent, but not what I come to Italy for. But for Judy it was a welcome change from the Umbrian cuisine which Fausto demanded almost exclusively.
At dinner, Fausto revealed to me that following our meeting that morning, Carlo had contacted a mason who had done some work on the house four years ago and whom he had never paid, to tell him that I was in town. The worker – identified to me only as MM – called Fausto and demanded his money – 1800 euro, he claimed. It seems that even though I paid Carlo, he did not pay his workers and now he set them after me to get their money. I was livid, and initially refused to pay. But Fausto said that MM had engaged a lawyer and he did not think it was worth it for me to fight back for this relatively small sum. He suggested I pay him some of the money and then wait a few months and see if the guy called back.
I swirled what was left of the maile sautéed in red wine with radicchio around my plate with a fork while contemplating the injustice of the situation. My decision to cave was based solely on the knowledge that MM would continue to harass Fausto, not me, and that was unacceptable. I was falling into traps that had been laid for other stranieri; the locals had concocted myriad ways in which to separate foreign homeowners from their money, assuming them to be not only rich but ignorant of Italian law and customs. In my case, ignorant, yes; rich, hardly.
