“No, I think we’ll stick with this one.”
There was a distinct sense of strain in the air. Blemish had arrived to say that the builder was asking for more money, another ten million lire. By way of response the Greens had taken him on a conducted tour, shown him the half-filled trench outside the house, the flapping plastic, the charred and gaping hole where the fireplace had been wrenched out, the wide cracks that had appeared on either side of the internal staircase.
“The floors that Esposito laid downstairs are not even,” Mrs. Green said. “My husband went out and bought a spirit level.”
“In the room below this, the one we are hoping to have as our sitting room.” Mr. Green paused and uttered a sound between a grunt and a laugh, narrowing his eyes at Blemish as if aiming. “Seventeen centimeters. From wall to wall there is a difference of seventeen centimeters in the level.”
“The internal staircase gets narrower as it comes down,” Mrs. Green said. “You don’t need an instrument to measure that, you can see it with the naked eye.”
“We have given the builder sixty million lire already. That is well over a third of the total estimate for the conversion of the house.”
“And now he is asking for more,” Mrs. Green said.
Mr. Green gave Blemish the same close-observing kind of look as before. “What is it for exactly, this ten million lire?”
Blemish was finding this atmosphere of suspicion unsettling and he had difficulty in sustaining the American’s very direct and unwavering regard. But to look people in the eye was a basic principle of business practice and so he did his best. “Well,” he said, “it seems that in excavating downstairs at the back, where you are planning to have your guest room, they have encountered rock. They will have to drill it out before they can lay the floor.”
“Let me get this straight,” Mr. Green said. “They didn’t find rock where they were expecting to find it and so they had to dig this trench around the house and fill it with cement.”
“Which they haven’t done yet,” Mrs. Green said. “And that was an imprevisto, something not foreseen, and we had to pay extra for it.”
“Then, because of the trench, they had to make this cordolo under the roof and that was an imprevisto too and we had to pay extra for that.”
“That is correct,” Blemish said. “Believe me, in the end you will have a house that will withstand anything the elements can do to it.”
“And now they have found rock after all and they will have to drill it out and unless I am greatly mistaken this too will be an imprevisto.”
“That is correct. The rock is in an unexpected place.”
“It’s crazy,” Mr. Green said. “It’s like a bad dream. You told us that each phase of the work was to be paid for when it was finished.”
“That is the way we usually operate. But in your case, for technical reasons, it was found necessary to embark on various phases all at the same time.” Blemish leaned forward with a gesture of philosophical resignation. “That is the basic problem,” he said. “Everything will be all right in the end, of course. We have seen it happen again and again. The various pieces will fit into place, you will find yourselves in possession of an extremely desirable country residence, all these teething pains will be forgotten.”
He packed all the sincerity he could into this assertion. A house was more than a simple acquisition, it was a dream of the future, he knew that; by pointing to the future you could generally persuade people to put up with what was unsatisfactory in the present. Especially gulls like these two … “Elegant and spacious,” he said, “standing in its own broad acreage, with extensive views across to the foothills of the Apennines.”
He felt no sympathy for the couple before him, had no real sense of their perplexity and distress. The fellow feeling that would have been needed for this had not been included in the sum of his endowments. They were dupes, they belonged in the contemptible herd of the cheated and deceived, the dumb providers of cotto. But for these two he felt more than contempt, he felt a malignity that threatened to disturb his judgment. As he looked from one to another he saw despite himself the decency of these elderly people, their efforts at forbearance even now, their affectionate closeness in this time of trouble. He had controlled and outsmarted them from the very beginning, he had been superior in both strategy and tactics, he had watched them blunder into the trap. Yet they contrived somehow to deny him his just reward, the customary surge of power that sweetened his profits.
He glanced aside for a moment, shifting his feet in their suede desert boots. The trouble of course was the old one, Esposito’s incompetence and carelessness. You would think that with an easy twenty-five or thirty thousand pounds in prospect, clear profit, he would take some elementary care with the staircase and the slope of the floor. Those cracks he had opened up looked really dangerous; it was obvious that he had not properly supported the walls … “I will have a word with Esposito,” he said. “I think he can be persuaded to wait for his money. I mean, if it is put to him as a question of cash flow.”
“It is not a question of cash flow,” Mr. Green said in louder tones. “The sum that we agreed to pay for the conversion of the house is immediately available. It is a question of being overcharged for work badly done or not done at all. My wife and I have thought things over and we have decided to suspend operations with this Esposito.”
“Suspend operations?” Blemish regarded Mr. Green and saw what, if he had not been distracted by his own malignity, he might have seen earlier: the blaze of rage in the American’s bright blue eyes, an anger open, direct and very strong.
“What I mean is,” Mr. Green said very distinctly, “that we are not going to shell out another cent to anyone until we have had some legal advice. And that applies to you too, Mr. Blemish. In that sense, it is very much a question of cash flow.”
Blemish retracted his narrow head sharply on its long stalk of a neck in the rather snake-like gesture usual with him when he felt threatened. “But you owe me for twenty-six hours of project management. That is one million and forty thousand lire. I’ll knock off the forty thousand—let’s just say a million.”
“We don’t really feel that you have done a good job as project manager,” Mrs. Green said. “In fact, if there is anything to be said about this project, it is that it has lacked management altogether.”
“As far as our interests are considered at least.” There was anger still on Mr. Green’s face. “It may be that you have managed Esposito’s project better.”
Blemish did not feel resolute enough for the moment to demand an explanation of the innuendo he sensed to be contained in these words. He had been caught off guard by the quietness, the lack of bluster or threat, with which the Greens had reached and announced this decision. His mouth felt dry. With an effort he relaxed the posture of his body. Were these dummies actually going to do him out of his earnings? “We have the bill all ready in our briefcase here,” he said, reaching down.
“Until things are sorted out,” Mr. Green said, “it better stay right there.”
Blemish pulled himself together. He must try to put the frighteners on these people. It was sooner than he would have liked but the situation demanded it. “You are making a terrible mistake,” he said. “If you discontinue with Esposito at this stage, he will be the one to go to a lawyer. He will institute proceedings against you.”
“On what grounds?” Mr. Green did not look worried, merely slightly angrier.
“On the grounds that he has been denied his legitimate expectations. You offered him the job of converting and refurbishing your residence and he accepted. With his experience and expertise he might have been offered other jobs. Those other jobs are lost to him forever. Now you are threatening to withdraw from a signed agreement before he is halfway through the work.”
“He has been overpaid already for what little he has done—and even that was done badly.”
“He would dispute that—it would be a matter for t
he courts. But the quality of the work is not the point at issue. Mr. Green, Mrs. Green, Italy is a country in which the process of the law is subject to a great deal of delay. The mills grind slowly. It could take years before your case was decided. In the meantime, while the matter was pending, no new contracts could be made with anyone else, no further building work could be undertaken on your property, which would remain in its present state, incompletely converted and exposed to the weather. It would not be possible for you to continue to live on the premises. By the time the case received a ruling the house, would be in a ruinous state. Then if it went against you, as it is ninety percent certain to do, in addition to your legal costs you would have a large sum to pay in compensation to Esposito. You could find yourselves in the evening of your lives sitting on a heap of stones unworthy of being called a residence and facing a bill for a quarter of a million dollars. I advise you to think again.”
Afterward, when the Greens talked about the matter together, they discovered that for both of them it had been the inflection of this last remark of Blemish’s that had stiffened their resolve. There had been an unmistakable quality of menace in it. Blemish, while endeavoring to sound like the trusted family adviser, had not been able to keep from his voice a slightly snarling, intimidatory note. And because he was an artist in his way and this interview and its outcome were part of a shaping creative vision in which the Greens would realize they were trapped and go on with Esposito hoping for the best until they had no money left, because of this he was not so alert to their state of mind as he might have been and noticed nothing of this hardening of attitude, which he now made considerably worse by saying earnestly, “Mr. Green, Mrs. Green, listen to me before it is too late. I am telling you this for your own good.”
Mr. Green stood up rather abruptly. “No point talking about this thing anymore,” he said. “We intend to call a halt until we have had legal advice. You can tell Esposito that.”
Bitterness possessed Blemish as he too rose to his feet. “You will regret this,” he said. “You will find that contract you have signed is more than just a piece of paper.”
“I advise you to take yourself off.”
Mr. Green’s voice was marked now by that throb of absolute sincerity which often preludes some violent physical act. The American was short but he was compact. He moved lightly for an elderly man … Blemish took up his briefcase and retreated with dignity down the steps and across to where his car was waiting. The Greens stood together at the top of the staircase and watched him. “I will advise Esposito to sue,” he shouted up to them as he drove off.
As a parting shot it lacked power, he could not help feeling, especially after he had been ordered so ignominiously off the premises. He drove home in a mood of discouragement. One worked and planned and this was what it came to. He had received his share of what had already been extracted from the Greens, except for the last payment, which Esposito still owed him. Whether he got any more, any share in the final settlement, would depend on whether he could make the builder believe that he would be included in further projects. As for the management side of things, the Greens had cheated him out of the money due for his twenty-six hours. Sweated labor, he said to himself bitterly. He would be lucky to clear two thousand pounds when he had hoped for three times that much.
He found Mildred, as usual at this hour, in their vast and cavernous kitchen. She was preparing an assortment of medieval snacks. Bare-armed beneath her pink and white apron, she was occupied, when he entered, with fried fig pastries. It was typical of Mildred’s endless inventiveness that she was trying now to quieten down her special savory spice mix, powder fort, which was rather explosive, by adding cinnamon and sugar so as to achieve an experimental spice base of powder fort-doux. Being eager to explain these culinary details, she did not at first see how downcast her man was. But when she heard him sigh heavily and saw him glance gloomily around she was quick to ask him what the trouble was.
Tersely Blemish told her of the Greens’ defection. “In my experience,” he said, “and it is considerable, once people have been to a lawyer, the project is at an end, it dies a natural death. There is no further scope for management, you see. Esposito will ask for a lump sum of course, and he will certainly get something. That is only natural; it is his name on the contract, not mine—I never sign anything, Milly, as you know.”
Blemish brooded for some moments, hunching his narrow shoulders. “That is the way we operate,” he said. “Strictly speaking he should give me five percent of whatever he gets, but he is not an honest man, Esposito, and I can’t be sure he will keep his word. We have made something out of it, but it will not buy as much cotto as I had hoped.”
Mildred wiped her hands on her apron. “Never you mind, dearest,” she said. “Don’t fret about the money. You are so clever and you always try so hard to make a beautiful home for us. I never had much of an opinion of those Greens, not from the moment you first mentioned them.” Mildred smiled and brushed wisps of hair from her forehead. The hairs on her sturdy arms were lightly flecked with some glistening substance like melted butter or egg yolk. “Someone else will come along,” she said.
“That’s true.” Blemish was cheered, as always, by this thought. “Foreigners buying houses all over Umbria. Especially Brits and Americanos. What with Tuscany being so expensive these days and the coast getting so fouled up, people are coming here in droves. The green heart of Italy, home of history and art. The competition is growing, of course. Well, naturally it grows at the same rate as the volume of profit. That is the law of progression, Milly; we are very familiar with it in business. I am not the only one in the field, far from it. Just in our neck of the woods, between here and Castiglione del Lago, on the western side of the lake, that’s a region about fifty square miles, I know of three other English-speaking project managers operating. It’s a hard life out there, Milly. I sometimes wonder whether we couldn’t all do a merger and pool our resources, but at the end of the day I am a lone wolf at heart.”
He watched the companion of his life brush her sheets of strudel pastry with beaten egg white and cut them into strips. “I won’t work with Esposito again,” he said. “He has no finesse, none at all, he doesn’t know the difference between deliberate and accidental wreckage. If he had played his cards properly we could have kept these people going for quite a while yet.”
“Well, that is human nature.” Mildred began to make the pastries, wrapping her rich mix of minced fig, spices, saffron and egg yolk into the strips and nipping the ends with a neat pinch of finger and thumb to seal in the mixture. “I’ve had an idea for our medieval restaurant,” she said. “I think it would enhance things if we had a minstrel.”
They discussed this new idea while they ate the pastries. Mildred fried these a few at a time in deep fat, afterward basting them with warm honey and pressing them flat with her long-handled wooden spoon. “It would have to be someone with a good voice, of course,” she said, glancing to see how her man was liking the sweetmeats. In their discussions Mildred generally provided the flights of fancy and Blemish struck a more practical, business-like note and this seemed to them both to be perfectly in keeping with their true selves.
“He could accompany himself on a lute or mandolin,” Mildred said.
“It would cost quite a bit.”
“True, my love, but think how it would add to the atmosphere.”
“It would bring the punters in, there is no doubt about that.” Blemish was liking the idea more and more. “We’d have to find someone we could trust not to dip his fingers into the till.” He blinked softly and his mouth shone innocently with honey. Milly was a real trump. Financial and sexual excitement possessed him in equal measure as he looked at her. “Shall we dress up tonight?”
Ritter reached the stream in the afternoon of the following day. The weather had turned cloudy, with a milky haze lying over things and the sun occasionally striking through, dazzling the eyes. Before him he saw the running water, dar
k against the earth of the banks, with shifting glints where it fell in a series of small plunges to lower levels in the bed. Beyond these glinting splashes the far slope of the gully, thickly overgrown, rose to a line of oaks along the crest. That side he had no intention of clearing—he had wanted only to reach the water. He turned and looked behind him at the canes he had freed, stiff and motionless now in this milky light, at the dark mouth of the cave and the hacked and devastated slope beyond it, the raw wounds of his clearance. Time would be needed to heal this passage of his.
As he stood there looking upward, feelings of loneliness and bewilderment came to him. Why had he spent this time, why had it mattered? The mystery of neglect, perhaps it had been that, the sense that on a holding of five acres, among people clinging to the margins of subsistence, even the earth of this ravine might have been used to some productive purpose, and in fact had once been so used, as witnessed by the canes, the willows, the straggling vines.
But it hadn’t been this that set him off; it had merely provided him with a motive he could accept as reasonable. A screened-off place, overgrown and steep-sided, a place where the traces of something had been covered over …
That was why, he knew it now. He had felt the need to clear the place, restore it to the generality of nature, remove its secretness, its difference. One element in the complex legacy of that March afternoon fifty years ago had been this, a picture in his mind of the quarried excavations where the hostages had been taken to be killed. Imagination and memory had worked together, translating that talk of Nordic Spirit and Civilizing Mission into a moving mouth, the crack of pistol shots and the sprawl of bodies, a picture of banks, deep-sided, a place where such things could happen, parallel somehow with the normal, acceptable life of humanity.
It had been as if by giving back this little gully to the rest of the land he could cancel out his father’s words, or make them somehow true, undo what had been done to those unknown people and what might have been done to Giuseppe and his mother. All his life he had been troubled by not knowing the fate of these two people whom he had betrayed. No one had come after them to live in the basement. There had only been Kurt, the orderly in the glass cubicle, making model airplanes out of matchsticks.