White Death (2011)

by Jones, Tobias

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘The difference is you can’t always buy that kind of lottery ticket. Sometimes people just don’t want to sell the land you need, which is why cars get burnt and so on. They need a little bit of persuasion.’

  ‘Do you know much about Masi’s operation?’ Spago asked.

  I pulled out my phone and showed him the snapshot of the construction board: all the names of the architects and contractors and so on.

  ‘You want to work through those,’ Spago said, pointing at the phone screen with his fork. ‘Because someone did Masi a favour when they tipped him off about the redesignated land, and you can be sure that he’s repaying favours, putting work their way. Check out who got the big contracts, who the subcontractors are. That’s the way it’s always done in this business.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Completely legitimately. It’s all above board, out in the open.’

  ‘Sounds either honest or shameless.’

  He smiled wearily. ‘It’s both. Who’s the vending agent, by the way?’

  ‘Some place called Casa dei Sogni.’

  ‘Start there. That’s the biggest racket there is. An agent takes 3 per cent on sale price, a bit from both ends. For doing what? Showing people around once or twice a day.’ He was mopping up the butter with a bit of bread. ‘Say they’ve got twenty-five flats to sell at 300 grand each.’ He jabbed the wet bread in my direction. ‘That agency’s going to make a quarter of a million just for getting the contract. Anyone getting that kind of slice has got to be connected. It’s not even corruption. Corruption doesn’t mean anything to them. It’s simply business. That’s the way life is. Find out who runs that agency and I expect you’ll find they’ve got a powerful relative or husband or something.’ He put the bread in his mouth and looked over my shoulder and started talking almost to himself. ‘That’s why the family’s such a strong institution in this country. It’s not because of Catholicism. It’s because money’s got to go through a third person and who can you really trust to look after your money if you can’t touch it yourself? It has to be family.’

  He glanced at me to check I was listening. I was listening all right, but my head was spinning. I was already thinking about other things. He took a last swig of wine and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  ‘I’ve got to run,’ he said. ‘Thanks for lunch.’ He stood up, but then bent back down and tapped a finger to his temple. ‘Occhio, eh? These people sound serious.’

  I nodded and watched him disappear. Only someone so idealistic could be so cynical, I thought, as he disappeared into the crowd of people at the bar. One or two slapped him on the back, shouting his name, as he went. He was that kind of person.

  I stopped in a bar on Via Sauro to check where I was going. The barmaid was the typical simpaticona. Whilst I waited for her to notice me, I listened to her offering sighs and consolations for another customer. ‘Ma cosa vuoi?’ she kept saying to keep the conversation ticking over. The fourth or fifth time I heard her say it, I got in my order.

  ‘Coffee.’

  She went through the familiar motions – bashing the previous batch into a bin, refilling the thing, twisting it in place – whilst still listening to the man next to me grumbling about his son.

  ‘You got a copy of Tuttocasa?’ I said to her back when the man moved away.

  ‘Outside in the rack,’ she said over her shoulder.

  I wandered outside and saw the familiar freesheets stacked in a white plastic rack. I took one, went back inside and sat on a barstool.

  ‘Looking for a new place?’ she asked, putting a red and white Lavazza tazzina in front of me.

  The coffee was piping hot. I looked at her over the thick rim. She was already talking to someone else. I put the little cup down and opened up the yellow paper. It carried ads for all the houses and flats in vendita or affitto. There were pages and pages of mini paragraphs: descriptions of dream flats and houses in streets I had never heard of. It was clear we were in the midst of a crisis because almost every price said ‘trattabile’.

  Casa dei Sogni had a whole half-page ad. The name of the agency was written underneath a pediment supported by two neoclassical columns. It was on Via Garibaldi. I left a euro on the counter and headed over there.

  A few minutes later I was standing outside an imposing building. Most estate agents’ windows have pictures of the insides of apartments: slinky kitchens, a little bedroom, a few ‘beams on view’ as they say. This window was almost all made up of artist’s impressions of what a finished block would look like. There were pictures of monolithic blocks with human dots in the foreground. There were photographs of 3D models with plastic trees. Casa dei Sogni was clearly into the wholesale market: not selling dinky little flats in the centro storico but new-builds in the suburbs. When the market was moving, they must have been making a mint.

  Behind the prices, plans and photographs I could see a large, light office. Spotlights were suspended from taut, thin wires and the computer screens were as thin as coasters. There was a huge blow-up of an aerial photograph of the city.

  The entrance was set back from the pavement, a glass and brass door behind an archway. When I walked in a young girl looked up.

  ‘Buongiorno,’ she said.

  ‘Hi.’

  She stood up, ready to do business. Like a lot of the office girls round here, she was showing more skin than clothing. ‘Mi dica,’ she said formally.

  ‘I saw a new block of flats in Via Pordenone. Someone there said you’re the vending agents.’

  ‘Via Pordenone?’ She sounded uncertain. ‘Let me find the right folder.’

  She turned round to the wall of fat files behind her. She put her head sideways to run her eyes across the names on the spines. I cocked my head in the same way, more to look at her than the folders.

  ‘Ecco,’ she said suddenly, reaching up on tiptoe and revealing the tanned small of her back. She brought the box folder over to a large, semicircular desk in the middle of the office and opened it up, pulling out plans and documents and the rest.

  ‘Prego,’ she said, pulling up a seat for me.

  ‘Who’s the builder?’ I asked, wanting to make sure of the facts.

  ‘Hang on,’ she said, leafing through the papers. She made the usual sounds people make to fill the silence when they’re looking for something. Two bars of tuneless singing. ‘Here we go. Masi Costruzioni. One of the most reputable builders.’

  ‘Are they all sold by now?’

  ‘Only one of them, but we’re doing viewings all the time. They’re generating a great deal of interest.’

  I’ve never met an estate agent who doesn’t come out with that line. I looked at her with my chin on my chest and gave her a tired smile. ‘Everything generates interest,’ I said. ‘It’s generating money that’s hard.’

  ‘They go together. Money makes interest, and interest makes money.’

  ‘What’s the real situation?’

  She lowered her voice, like she didn’t want to admit it was slow. ‘It’s a far cry from what it was a year or two ago.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Eh beh. There were three of us working here until recently. There was a queue of people snaking out the door. Now it’s just me here and you’re only the second or third person who’s come in today.’

  She was looking at a red elastic band that she was wrapping around her fingers.

  ‘Don’t get me wrong,’ she looked up at me, trying to recover her professionalism, ‘now’s probably a good time to buy. You haven’t got a lot of competition and you can negotiate pretty hard.’

  ‘So you’ve only sold one so far?’

  ‘Yeah. Sold one from the plans.’

  ‘Like ordering a meal from a menu?’

  ‘An expensive meal, mind.’ She gave half a smile. ‘I mean,’ she corrected herself, ‘in a way, it’s a sensible way to purchase. It’s cheaper to buy from the plans. If you were to buy now, before completion, you would certai
nly get a good deal.’ She rummaged amongst the papers, fanning them out across the table until she found what she wanted. ‘Here. You can get a three-bedroom flat, fourth floor, for three four nine. That’s with a lift, cantina and garage. A two-bed for two nine nine.’ She was about to unfold the plans and go back to selling mode.

  ‘Which one has been sold?’

  She shuffled the papers again. ‘The penthouse.’

  ‘You know who bought it?’

  ‘Marina, I think. She often invests in the places we’re selling. Says it reassures clients to know that the agent involved has also bought in the same block. It sends out the right message.’

  ‘Who’s Marina?’

  She looked across at a thin flight of stairs at the back of the office and nodded. ‘It’s her agency.’

  ‘And her surname’s Casa dei Sogni?’

  She smiled. ‘Vanoli.’

  ‘Marina Vanoli?’ I said slowly. ‘The name rings a bell.’

  She opened her mouth and drew breath, like she was about to say something. But then she closed it and said nothing.

  ‘Is she in?’

  ‘She’s upstairs.’

  ‘Any chance I could have a chat with her?’

  She nodded, stood up and walked off. I watched her go up the stairs and out of sight. I heard footsteps above my head. A few minutes later the girl came back down, followed by a woman who was wearing enough jewellery to rattle slightly as she walked. Her face looked like she had spent too much time and money trying to make herself beautiful and had gone beyond the point of no return, like eggs that have been beaten too long. Her cheeks were shiny and immobile, and she had bee-stung lips that looked about as soft as the sole of a shoe. Her neck, by contrast, looked about thirty years older than the rest of her.

  At the bottom of the stairs she overtook her employee and walked towards me, hand outstretched. ‘Marina Vanoli, piacere,’ she said.

  ‘Salve.’

  ‘Come upstairs, we can talk there.’

  I followed her back up the stairs and she led me through a heavy door into a sumptuous office: dark oil paintings and antiques in all directions, three sofas, a large plasma TV on the wall. I noticed the edges of the ceiling were curved rather than at right-angles, and there were faint, cracking frescoes all over it.

  ‘Caffe?’ There was a sharp, business-like tone to her voice.

  ‘No.’ I shook my head. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Have a seat.’ She motioned towards one of the old sofas. As I sat in it, it took my weight, the wide cushions slowly giving way until I almost sunk inside them. I tried to crab towards the left of the sofa to pull myself up on the arm. She sat on a black office chair holding a clipboard and a pen.

  ‘Annalisa tells me you’re interested in one of the new flats on Via Pordenone.’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘How can I help?’ She tried to smile but her face was too rigid so she just bared her teeth.

  ‘You bought one of those flats, right?’

  ‘I did,’ she purred. ‘Amedeo Masi’s the best constructor in this city. It was a great opportunity. Great location, great price. That whole area is …’

  ‘Coming up?’

  ‘Exactly.’ She nodded eagerly.

  ‘But it’s between the motorway and the railway line.’

  ‘Good transport links.’ She tried to smile again, pleased with her translation.

  ‘Did you buy it at market price?’

  ‘That’s the only price there is.’

  ‘No discount?’

  She frowned, not sure where the question was coming from. ‘Market price,’ she repeated like her mind was elsewhere. ‘What’s this all about?’

  ‘Masi put the entire vending operation in your hands. That’s quite a contract. Then I hear he’s sold you the penthouse flat, the largest, lightest flat in the block.’

  ‘Allora?’

  ‘It makes me wonder what’s going on.’

  Her face was so rigid it was hard to read. Only her eyes seemed to move naturally and they were static, boring through me. ‘What is it you want exactly?’

  It sounded like she was opening negotiations.

  ‘You ever heard of a man called Luciano Tosti?’

  She shook her head, wobbling her wattles. I looked at her closely, but she stared back at me with a slight frown as if she really hadn’t heard of him.

  ‘Carlo Lombardi, how about him?’

  Same face, same reaction. ‘Who are these people?’ She sounded impatient.

  ‘How do you know Amedeo Masi?’

  ‘He’s a constructor. I’m an estate agent. Isn’t it obvious?’

  ‘Why did he choose you?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Why did he ask you to sell his flats and not someoneelse?’

  She smiled and shrugged. ‘I’m good at my job.’

  She was so self-satisfied she didn’t even seem to understand why I was asking the question. Didn’t appear to understand that there was something unusual going on. Or if she did understand, she had buried it deep under her own vanity, preferring to see herself rather than the secret.

  Someone as hard-nosed as Masi didn’t put that much work someone’s way just because they’re good at their job. It would have been cheaper for him to hire his own staff and set up an agency on his own. But he was giving a lucrative contract to Vanoli and it seemed a good guess that it was to thank someone for the tip-off about the redesignation of land. Vanoli, I suspected, was just a way to get money to someone else.

  ‘Ci vediamo,’ I said, trying to push my way out of the sofa.

  She stood up and looked at me, bemused. She walked over to the door and held it open. ‘Aren’t you at least going to tell me what this is all about?’ she said.

  ‘I don’t even know myself.’

  I walked down the steps and nodded at the girl on the way out.

  It was early evening now and the day was giving up the fight against darkness. I went over to Bragantini’s factory. It was clear that the case was more serious than he or I had realised yesterday and I wanted to check he had organised some decent security. I pulled up at the factory and walked into reception. The receptionist was there with a different shade of spray-on clothes.

  ‘You looking for Bragantini?’ she asked.

  I nodded and she got up to go and find him. I looked around the reception area. It was like any other: a couple of sofas, a low table with trade publications, a water cooler and a bin full of discarded plastic cups. I looked out of the window and could see the city on the other side of the river. I imagined it getting closer, moving nearer every minute.

  ‘Prego,’ said the receptionist at my back.

  I turned round and saw the familiar scowl of Pino Bragantini. He looked tired.

  ‘Did you sort out a security guard?’ I asked.

  ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Let me introduce you.’ He walked out into the car park and around to a side entrance. ‘Tommy?’ he shouted loudly. ‘Tommy?’

  We went inside. The corridor was narrow. There were doors off to the right into cramped storage rooms.

  ‘Tommy,’ Bragantini barked, pushing open the doors of each room.

  A young black man emerged from a room further down the corridor. He didn’t say anything but stood there eagerly.

  ‘This is Tommy,’ Bragantini said, holding his palm towards the boy.

  We nodded at each other. I tried not to look unimpressed. He wasn’t exactly the type of security guard I had had in mind. He was wearing an Inter Milan top. All immigrants knew that the fastest way to true integration was to adopt a local football team.

  ‘You sleep here on site?’ I asked.

  ‘Won’t get much sleep.’ He smiled cheerfully. ‘I’ll get up every hour to check things.’ He spoke Italian with a strong African accent, each sentence coming out breathily like he had been running hard.

  ‘Seen anything?’

  ‘Lot of wildlife.’ He smiled again.

  ‘You see an
ything, hear anything, you call me, OK?’ I passed him a card.

  ‘Sure.’

  I looked at him again. He can’t have been much more than sixteen or seventeen. He looked up from the card and nodded, eager to please.

  Bragantini led me away, explaining that Tommy had been recommended to him by one of the men who worked in the factory.

  ‘Not much of a security guard,’ I said.

  ‘What do you want? He’s here at night and keeps an eye on things. What else do I need?’

  I shrugged. ‘You’re sure he really is up at night and not just using your factory as a doss house? When I was that age I could sleep through a war.’

  Bragantini threw his hands in the air to say he didn’t know. ‘He seems a good lad.’

  ‘A good lad might not be enough against a bad man.’

  Bragantini nodded wearily. ‘Maybe you’re right, but he’s better than nothing.’

  ‘And cheaper?’

  He stopped walking and stared at me. ‘I hired you to help me out, not to give me this sort of grief. I’m doing what I think is best. I’m trying to protect myself and my family. How many people do you think I can hire, eh?’

  I gave way, looking at him and nodding like I agreed with him. ‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘I just want to make sure you’ve got the best protection possible …’

  We were back outside now and he aimed his chin at the buildings I had been looking at before. ‘I can feel them circling. Can feel the bastards coming after me. They’re not brave enough to come and talk to me face to face like real men. They’re just hiding out there somewhere, waiting for nightfall to come and attack.’

  I didn’t want to reassure him, to pretend that his car had been an isolated incident. He knew, instinctively, that he had been targeted, and we both knew there was more to come. It felt eerie standing there, staring at nothing but knowing they were readying themselves for the next attack. I felt powerless, unable to protect him, and I told him so.

  He looked at me with unexpected melancholy. ‘I don’t think anyone can stop the spread of the city. If someone wants this land, they’ll get it somehow, even if it means burying me under their concrete.’