I snort, rolling my eyes. “M-i-c-h-a-e-l D-a-r-c-y. Okay? Can I go?”
“Where?” she asks me, as if she’s just had a reset.
“To meet the inspector.”
“They aren’t here yet.”
“But it’s eleven,” I point out.
She turns to the clock hanging on the wall behind her. “Mmm, I think it’s ten fifty-seven.”
“Are you joking?”
“Please take a seat and wait for the inspector to call you.”
I sit on a faded and threadbare armchair with my head in my hands, dazed by the secretary, who has disappeared. “Michael D’Arcy,” a voice calls me from behind an opaque glass door covered with yellowed papers. The nameplate says “Surveyor Rubina Gentile.”
“Good morning, surveyor,” I say as I enter, petrified.
At the desk is the secretary from before.
“Um . . . are you . . . ?”
“Surveyor Rubina Gentile. How can I help you?”
“But ...” I’m so confused I think I must have hit my head.
“Go on. I don’t have much time. I have more meetings after this,” she says angrily.
“I’d like to request a copy of the current urban planning regulations and all the building documentation for Le Giuggiole.”
“Did you request access to the documents?”
And how would I do that? “No.”
“To obtain a copy of public documents, you have to fill out the request form.”
“And where do I find this form?” I ask, exhausted.
From a binder, she takes a typed sheet of paper that’s practically illegible thanks to the number of times it’s been photocopied. “Here. Fill in the property data.”
“Do you have a pen, please?”
“Blue or black?”
“It doesn’t matter! Blue, please.”
I fill in all the requested information and hand it to the surveyor. “Here you are.”
“It has to be stamped by the secretary.”
“Um, but aren’t you also the secretary?”
“Documents are stamped by the secretary, not by the inspectors. And anyway it’s not complete.”
“What do you mean? I filled everything out.”
“You need to pay the two-euro stamp duty.”
