The Happening
Unpicking the tentacles as I try to leave...
I received an unexpected phone call tonight, ‘It’s Monica’ she announced in such a familiar tone I felt awkward as I scrabbled around in my mouldy, menopausal memory for a face to go with the voice. A previous guest? One of the parents from the school I used to teach at? Someone wanting information on the house? No bells ringing. And then…
‘It’s me’ she said, in a friendly all-girls-together tone ‘Do you remember me? We all went to Ponza on our boat?’
I stood up quickly as the unpleasant and unwanted memory pushed itself back in, in full horrific technicolour.
The last time I had seen this woman had been more than four years ago when, at the request of my ex-narc-husband, we had gone on a day trip with his friends to swim around an archipelago. Insisting I took along a large bag of home grown vegetables as a gift - his idea of a malicious joke. The abject humiliation I felt as I handed over my ridiculous offerings and their barely concealed contempt told me all I needed to know about bringing extra weight on a RIB - rubber inflated boat.
Hello Flower - Chapter 53 ‘That’s Not My Name’. - Setting off, I willed myself not to cry. The lump in my throat felt as big as a golf ball, but I needn’t have worried; no one was paying me any attention.
Yes, I remembered. That final year of discard and pain, full of the nasty memories I had worked hard to leave behind. Such an unwanted and unexpected intrusion from a life I had painfully and systematically extricated myself from totally blindsided me. The wife of one his ‘best mates’, and someone I had not heard a word from in more than four years.
Suffice to say, Mon’ was not on my Christmas card list let alone my phone contacts.
Blithely unaware of the visceral reaction I was having remembering that bloody awful day she carried on chatting as if we had been in constant contact. She was wondering if I would be available to teach her daughter some conversational English, what with me being English mother tongue and all…
There is an expression in Italy, ‘Faccia del culo’ while the literal translation is face of an arse it is not meant as an insult about the person’s physical appearance, instead it refers to a shameless, or brazen and very direct request - often deemed inappropriate. Monica’s call is a perfect example.
Remaining calm despite wanting to slam down the phone, I politely declined, telling her I no longer teach (I do) I also said if I heard of any other teachers I would let her know (I won’t) and throughout the call I kept my voice steady and civil because I knew any other reaction would have simply underlined and verified that lying bastard’s claims about me being unhinged and hysterical.
I have not spent the last few years picking myself back up again piece by piece to let one telephone call undo me.
Afterwards I reflected on how this place I have been so desperate to leave for over a year appears to be unwilling to let me go, at least not without a bit of a fight.
…………………………………….
I accepted an offer for my house over the summer and it felt as if I was about to fly, to be set free and start over. Another stage of my life but this time of my own choosing. The idea of peace seemed to at last be within touching distance, I had asked the universe and it had kindly replied, however, I have a feeling the universe doesn’t speak Italian, at least not fluently. In a country where nothing is straightforward and their very flowery language is used to say the same thing backwards, forwards and sideways to then deny, excuse or prevaricate. The whole process, rather than being a done deal, straightforward and smooth has been anything but. I am not talking about the entire country, but here in this particular coastal town where I have been trying to sell, it is an expensive minefield of two steps forward three back. At the point you believe you have made headway another obstacle is lobbed at you, testing your will and determination not to mention your bank balance. An accepted offer is good, great even, signing the initial contracts was also good but it was far too premature for any celebrations as I was to find out.
Resilience was called for in buckets and spades.
The preparation for the closing down of the nation during the month of August starts early as you are warned of office closures and bureaucratic unavailability as early as June. My impatience or irritation at prolonged processes or delayed paperwork were received with a half smile, a shrug of the shoulder, an inclination of the head. Everyone needs a holiday I’m told, and I remind myself daily of the need for patience and deep breaths.
My little garden studio where I wrote the book, needed permission as an out-building because the original approval I had bought and paid a considerable amount for turned out to be non-existent. When the paperwork was submitted (by an honest and decent building surveyor I had been working with) it was subsequently returned because they claimed they hadn’t received the correct forms. Yes they had.
The office in question had not bothered to look further than my surname (Gruppo) - which could also mean a ‘company’ here in Italy. Too damned lazy to check the attached documents including my passport, proof of residency and codice fiscale (A sort of NI number) identifying me as an individual, they rejected the application outright not bothering to check. They rejected it twice. Briefly gratifying was my building surveyor’s reaction, he was apoplectic and the estate agency were also astounded as once again everything was put back while we waited for the forms to be approved.
That is pretty typical; a lot of huffing, outrageous puffing and bluster combined with exclamations of 'I can't believe this' and 'You couldn't make this up'. Empathetic sighing and shaking of their heads as they gather up belongings and the offices are locked up for two hours as they head out for lunch.
After the application had been submitted and accepted we had to wait for an appointment with a Perito, (the comical translation of this is an expert) a technical person assigned to the project to verify that everything was legal and as it should be in line with the amended house plans. Unexpectedly this happened in July, I was fully prepared for yet another postponement but the appointment was fixed for a Friday afternoon and we all met at my house, two people from the agency, my surveyor, and me.
For an hour in 35 degrees we waited...and waited.
The expert eventually turned up in beachwear without any documentation, blaming the delay on her satnav, and without even a hint of an apology she spent less than 5 minutes giving the entire property a quick glance over and then left. It was all par for the course, there is less accountability here than there is in the current WhiteHouse administration.
One recent 'favourite' exchange was between myself and the estate agency as I had been waiting and praying the buyer's mortgage would be approved. I called them on the first Thursday of September. 'We have good news!' they told me, I was overjoyed, 'Finally!' I responded, delighted and doing a mini on the spot dance of happiness, 'We will confirm on Monday' she added. 'Wait, what?' I was confused and terminated the happy jig. 'Just to be absolutely sure' she said. Their mortgage was then properly confirmed almost a week later, which was nice.
Over the summer the house has been emptied, boxes packed and I have an initial exchange date for the end of October, I am hoping to bring that forward, but once again it is out of my hands. In the meantime I have started selling off items of furniture. I asked around if anyone needed anything, from beds to sofas to glassware, this was usually met with enthusiasm as they wanted a nosy-bonk around my house , followed by a solemn shaking of their heads. If I happen to mention a sofa bed, mirror or mattress I have already sold it is always exactly what they had been looking for, if only I had let them know earlier.
Hmmmmmm...
I know perfectly well that the grass isn't greener or the sea bluer and of course there are difficult people and systems everywhere. I do not see unicorns, rainbows and golden pavements in my future. Wherever I eventually settle the bar has been set so low even a stranger's friendly smile will feel as if I have won the happy lottery.
For now I am ticking off a huge 'to do' list, in between choosing items for the 2nd hand market pile where at least they will be going to someone who wants them, and the 'I will not be separated from this' pile. I have had to be ruthless, after all there is only so much blue Wedgewood I can reasonably cart around Europe - Sorry Mum -My Dad's bureau on the other hand is non negotiable and I have a previously used removals company waiting for all the details of boxes, weights and dates and a green light.
Of course the tentacles keep tightening as much as I try to pick them off. Dealings with the local council offices are scenes straight out of an Italian version of Fawlty Towers, only nowhere near as funny. The idea of having to do anything in there fills me with the same sort of dread I used to feel on Sunday nights, when school loomed and incomplete homework sat untouched in its own pool of procrastination. The bank isn't as frightening as the post office (where the sneering is next level) but it does require at least an hour of your time, and may also involve someone looking entirely fed up that you have dared to walk through their doors.
I can deal with all of that, because I have to and I know how, but more than anything...it is happening, I am going home.