The surveyor takes them and counts them. “That’ll be forty-three euros and thirty-one cents.”
I reach for my wallet, but she stops me. “You pay on the third floor, at the treasury.”
Hang in there, Michael. The nightmare is almost over. I take the stairs three at a time, but of course the treasury is closed. I knock, but no one opens the door. I knock again—radio silence.
Slow, rhythmic footsteps announce the arrival of a second person who turns out, of course, to be the diabolical Rubina Gentile.
“Let me guess: You’re the treasurer.”
She doesn’t answer, takes out a bunch of keys, and with Olympic calm opens the door, sits at the desk in the small, bare room that smells of must, opens a metal drawer, and looks at me. “How can I help you?”
“Your helpful and delightful colleague in the buildings department directed me here to pay for some copies. Ms. Rubina Gentile, do you know her?” I joke.
“Don’t try to be funny. That’ll be ...”
“Forty-three euros and thirty-one cents,” I say, handing her fifty euros.
She takes the banknote, checks it’s authentic with a marker, and places it in a drawer. “I’ll give you the change,” she announces in a strangely jovial tone. “Would you like a bag?”
“No, thanks. I can hold the files,” I reply.
“It’s not for the files,” she chirps with a disturbing grin.
And she proceeds to dispense all six euros and sixty-nine cents in one-cent coins.
Exhausted and on the verge of being committed to the psych ward, I go into Mario’s bar, frequented by the regulars.
“Give me the strongest thing you have,” I say, leaning on the counter as if it were a lifeline.
“You sure?” says Mario.
“Please.”
He places a glass on the rubberized mat and takes a bottle of Mr. Muscolo from under the cabinet. “This is the house blend. A two-finger pour will bring someone back from the dead!”
“Just what I need.” I down the drink in one gulp and cough, my throat burning. “What’s in that?” I gasp.
“I can’t tell you, or they’d take away my liquor license.”
Someone pats me on the back. “Mario baptized you with his bomb!” It’s Max, the mechanic.
“People survive this?”
“In ten minutes, you’ll be a new man,” he says. “Mario, can you make me a Campari?”
“Listen, Max, what if I said I have an old beat-up Cinquecento I’d like you to fix up?”
“I’d say you’re talking to the right person.”
“I used to like working with cars, taking apart engines and putting them back together, but I’m out of practice. Could you help me? Paid, of course.”
Before I can answer, a gentleman with a very sweaty striped shirt, a nametag with the wordVannihanging from his pocket, and a cap that says “Belvedere in Chianti—Pro Loco” enters with a folder. “Morning,buccaioli! Would anyone here like to sign up for karaoke at the grape harvest festival?”
Max raises his hand.
“Our reigning champion!” exclaims Vanni, scribbling his name. “Any other old geezers? This year’s prize is a cordless vacuum cleaner! If no one’s interested, I’m out of here.”
“Wait,” I shout. I don’t know if it’s me or Mario’s liquor talking. “Put down ‘Michael D’Arcy.’”
