The café strike, proclaimed by Garibaldi and observed by more or less everyone, provided the first results. Plenary session of the regulars and first conciliatory offer from comrade Benassi.
But Melega refuses to be charmed. ‘Sorry, Capponi, but can you run that past me again? We pay for the television out of our own pockets. When we come to see it, we pay a surtax on the coffee, and with that surtax, which is still our money, Benassi covers his costs? It sounds like a swindle to me, I can’t speak for everyone else.’
About ten heads nod, convinced. ‘Melega is right!’
‘It’s a swindle!’
‘Who does this guy Benassi think he’s trying to kid?’
Excited by this consensus, Melega spreads his legs in the pose of Pecos Bill. ‘One of the two: either he pays, and then we hike the price to get his expenses back, or we pay, and the prices don’t get hiked.’
Capponi strikes the bottle as though it were an anvil. Bottone’s counter-suggestion is quick to come. ‘I say: fine. We pay. But,’ he counts on his fingers, ‘no surtax for anyone who’s contributed to the collection, and all the extra revenue to be placed in a communal kitty for at least three years, because if our income exceeds our outgoings, I don’t know, either we lease out the table football or we buy a ticket for the stadium.’
Convinced looks are exchanged.
Someone insists on paying in instalments. ‘Listen, lad, if you ask me for the 5,000 now, all at once, I’ll have to sit this one out, because in August I’m going on holiday with my family, ten days in Torre Pedrera and that’s 40,000 in a third-rate B&B. Can you tell me where I’m going to find the money for the collection? I’ve barely got two coins to rub together.’
‘Come off it, Marmiroli,’ someone else comments acidly, ‘do you tighten your belt all year to go to the Riviera? Give your kids more to eat, they’ll starve to death, they’re like dry twigs already.’
Nicola has done enough shouting, and lets his brother reply: ‘The instalment idea isn’t too bad, but it might be better to accept Gas’s suggestion: a single payment, and a saving of almost 80,000 lire on a luxury model.’
Gas’s scalp, freshly shaven, is shinier than ever. But most eyes turn towards Garibaldi, who spreads his arms dolefully and takes a sip to control himself.
‘Ok, ok, what are you all staring at?’ Then, with a burst of pride, he jumps to his feet and points his finger at the bald man. ‘But be careful, ok?’
He must be sure of himself, our entrepreneur. He doesn’t say a word. He takes a long draw on his cigar and arrogantly blows away the smoke. He has accepted the challenge.
‘Ok, then,’ Pierre goes on. ‘The approximate figure is 250,000. The collection will raise 200,000 at the most. We’ll have to work out what comes out of the other initiatives. Not least because time’s marching on, and the World Cup starts in mid-June. Bottone, what about your tarocchino tournament?’
‘We’ll win, easy. First prize: a nice Langhirano ham, we’ve already found a buyer for it, and it’ll make us about seven or eight thousand lire. Let’s hear what Benfenati has to tell us about the contribution from the Section.’
Silence falls, even with the bottle untapped. First, because what’s at stake is a share in at least 20,000 lire; second, because everyone knows that the problem has been hotly debated, above all for ideological reasons, and we’re all expecting a definitive political judgement; third, because Benfenati is one of those people who can wet the bed and say it was sweat, and people will discuss his intervention, turn it around however you like, in the days to come.
‘It gave me a lot of pleasure to hear that Benassi in person is going to pay the subscription charge. We would have refused straight away.’ The voice rises over the buzz of surprise. ‘You know what we’ve discovered, with the other comrades, reading the text of the convention carefully? Listen to this. ’ He rummages in his shirt pocket and takes out a piece of paper: ‘“Clause 16: In case of financial or economic information of special importance, and information of general interest, the concessionary body will follow the instructions of the Chairman.” Pretty, isn’t it? Just so we know who we’re dealing with.’
This surprise reading prompts comments. In the midst of ‘what bollocks’, ‘did you hear that?’, ‘fascists!’, Walterún’s voice addresses his neighbour.
‘Garibaldi, I don’t get it: are they paying, or are they not?’
Benfenati, like a good primary school teacher, has radar in his ears and continues without missing a beat: ‘Comrade Santagata rightly wonders whether we’re paying. Let’s get to the nub, then. Today we don’t know much about television, but like any technical innovation, we know it will be useful if used judiciously, and damaging otherwise. Take the radio. Very useful, everyone agrees. But have you ever listened on a Tuesday evening? Have you heard that yankee fop who answers to the name of Mike Bongiorno? “How old are you? Are you married? What do you do for a living? Fine, Signor Grimaldi, tell us, for 450,000 lire, which liquid are they talking about in this advertisement?”’
‘Hey, good idea!’ Gaggia explodes. ‘If he rang us up we’d have solved the problem.’
‘Comrade, what are you on about! That’s exactly what they’re trying to tell you: that nothing involves any effort now, that life is one big joke, provided you know what’s really important, like learning the words of ‘Vola colomba’ off by heart, devoting an in-depth study to the life of some princess or other, or taking an interest in the fantastic properties of Colgate toothpaste. If he phoned me up, I’d ask the questions, you bet: “Tell me, Signor Bongiorno, for 400,000 lire, how come my brother broke his back in the field and now he lives on a basic pension of 4,000 lire? In your opinion, how does he do it?’ Those are the questions that need asking. However, to cut a long story short, specifically given the ambiguity of the new machine, we have not reached a common position, and we have decided to pay according to our consciences. Each man for himself, each one his own share.’
He sits down. He has finished. Ruling of Solomon? No one wants to be the first to comment.
‘An angel has passed!’ Garibaldi says sententiously as he usually does when a sudden silence falls. The tension eases, and everyone settles down, one after the other, smoke, chatter and the smell of feet.
‘Ok, I’m off,’ says Brando, ‘I won’t be in tomorrow, I’ve got things to do. I’ll see you Tuesday.’
‘As long as we’re still alive,’ Pierre shoots back with a laugh.
‘Eh?’
‘Haven’t you heard? Some loud-mouthed fools are saying the world’s going to come to an end on 24 May, at midnight. And so does Padre Pio, that priest who converted Macario. There’s no doubt about it: the world is on the brink of destruction.’
‘He’d be on the brink of destruction if I had anything to do with it. Take care of yourself.’
Chapter 17
Bologna, Villa Azzurra, 31 May
Tired and battered, the swing creaked beside the pond. A pint of oil would not have eased its arthritis. Hopeless there, in the bed of roses and petunias. Visiting relations often asked what the point of that old crock was, and someone had even put a hand on his wallet, just in case contributions were required. That wasn’t the point.
While he’s here, Signora, we can’t take it away. We’ve tried, haven’t we? Isn’t that right, Fefe? You should have heard how he started shouting. Can you shout at night? Oh, you know it’s not ok. Give me an example. What does Marco say to me if I start shouting at night? Eh, Fefe, how many times have I told you, if you need me, call me down.