At a loss for an answer, I head back toward the insurance company, where the claims center should be opening for business soon.
The three pieces of shit whose names I canceled from the sign-up sheet have written their names on the list again, which strikes me as a notable act of arrogance on their part, because it’s obvious that if someone strikes your name off a list, it must mean something. You can’t go around falsifying lists. It would mean the demise of the guiding principle of standing in line, one of the very few principles, if not the only one, that people allow to govern their lives. Even though it’s a principle based on getting there first, which doesn’t amount to much as far as underlying foundations of principles go, truth be told. Still, standing in line is an incarnation of an egalitarian principle that states: all human beings are equal in the face of the right to get someplace before other people get there. Which is a pretty loopy principle, if you stop to think about it.
Anyway, my name is still at the top of the list, so I sit in the waiting room of the claims center, enjoying the warm glow of pole position to the clear discomfort of my fellow lawyers, who are already starting to look impatient, considering the number of people already crowding into this dimly lit cubbyhole at just 9:05 in the morning.
Unless you’ve spent time in the waiting room of an insurance company claims center, you can’t really have much of an idea of how depressing it is to witness the most common occupations that come with a degree in jurisprudence. The kind of thing that makes you wonder whether it was really worthwhile to spend all those years studying just you so could find yourself speculating on a car crash. Because when it’s all said and done, that’s what you’re doing. You’re bartering a court case (that you try to avoid pursuing) for a check for damages that includes a certain sum for your legal representation. Practically speaking, you’re skimming something off the top. And lawyers (who work in the field of traffic accidents and insurance cases) can be grouped along a continuum from the relatively honest to the outright criminal, according to how much they skim off the top.
Finally, after we’ve been there for a while, the claims adjusters make their entrance. One after another, they walk to their drab little offices like so many aging showgirls heading for their dressing rooms. They love their morning stroll down the catwalk. This is the one moment when—you can see it on their faces—they find genuine satisfaction in the line of work they’ve chosen. You can see their point, for that matter. If you started out thinking you’d do who knows what for a living, and now you find yourself haggling over a body shop estimate, trying to limit the reimbursement of damages from a car crash to the lowest accepted minimum, what could be more gratifying than a waiting room filled with mendicants with law degrees, all willing and ready to kiss your ass in exchange for favorable treatment?
My adjuster, true prima donna that he is, is the last to arrive, and this morning he looks to be even nastier than usual. As he walks through the waiting room, he looks at everyone, not just me, with such scorn and contempt that, taken a little further, he would have just spit in our faces. In fact, we exchanged a lot of long, searching glances in here, among us lawyers, after he came through.
While I’m lingering over the procession of claims adjusters, with the poorly concealed objective of keeping my mind off the memory of Alessandra Persiano’s message (which has already tied lead weights to my love of life, despite the fact that I’m doing my best to behave as if that weren’t exactly the way things are), I glimpse, right there, at the entrance to the claims center waiting room, in an unexpected and to my mind absolutely unforgivable manner, like a slap in the face, a broken promise—and to make matters even worse, with a horrible friendly smile on his face—Tricarico.
I have to look at him a couple of times before I can be sure it’s him. He’s coming straight toward me, amid the embarrassed glances of a few fellow lawyers who evidently dabble in criminal law. The guy sitting next to me stands up immediately to give him his seat. And he sits down without so much as a thank you, the nonchalant recipient of an act that is expected if not required.
“Buon giorno, Counselor.”
So now we’re publicly friends.
Well, Jesus H. Christ on a crutch.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, making an effort not to shout.
“What you mean what am I doing here? For the first few days, don’t you remember?”
I could tell him that I’ve changed my mind about the intrusiveness clause, that I don’t want him around me anymore, much less sitting next to me, but suddenly I’m seized with a sense of curiosity about something else.
“How did you know I was here?”
“I saw the name on the sheet of paper downstairs.”
I jam my tongue hard against the walls of my mouth while I craft my answer. Then I run it back for him in a replay.
“So you just happened to be passing by the street door downstairs, you liked the place so much that you just walked in, you saw a sheet of paper stuck up on the wall with scotch tape, you read it, and since my name was on it too, you just said to yourself: ‘You know what, I think I’ll go upstairs.’”
He laughs. But awkwardly.
“Eh, let’s say that’s how it was.”
I must have caught him off guard, because he jerks his head back when I start shouting.
“Just who do you think you’re talking to? Eh? Do you think you can just put your feet on anyone’s face you feel like, you Camorristi?”
I must have raised my voice a lot louder than I realized, to judge from the ensuing silence. And at that exact moment, my claims adjuster sticks his head out to call the first lawyer on the sign-up sheet, that is, me.
“Counselor, there’re certain words that you might be better off not saying,” says Tricarico, doing an admirable job of maintaining a deadpan. You might not think of Camorristi as restrained and understated, but in a certain sense that’s how they are. Well, I’ve already gotten started, so I might as well take it all the way.
“Or you’ll do what? Wait for me outside? Shoot me right here, in front of everyone? Come on, why don’t you tell me, I’m curious to know!”
There’s not even a fly buzzing in there after that. It’s like being in a library. My fellow lawyers, aside from the ones staring open-mouthed, are looking at the floor. A couple of them are scrolling through the directories of their cell phones. The claims adjuster stands at the door, mouth half-open.
Tricarico takes it like the consummate gambler that he is: he stands up and, without a word or a sign of annoyance, he leaves the room.
My embarrassment is so profound that I can hardly feel my face anymore. I smooth back my hair, I fan myself for a moment, and then, while everyone looks at me in silence, I stand up and walk toward the claims adjuster.
“I believe it’s my turn,” I say, tilting my head to indicate the file he’s holding in one hand.
He emerges stammering from his trance. First he looks me in the face, then he drops his gaze to the file, and then he looks back up into my face.
“Oh, of course! Pa . . . Pa . . . ”
“Pallucca, Maria Vittoria,” I finish his sentence for him.
“Right. Of course. Absolutely.”
Absolutely? I think.
The office visit that follows verges on the distasteful. Even though there’s an element of satisfaction, witnessing the metamorphosis of a renowned misanthrope into a worm on a hook is an experience you’d just as soon do without, if you have even a shred of respect for the general notion of personal dignity. Long story short, ten minutes later I walk out with the check in my pocket. I practically never had to say a word, because the claims adjuster seemed eager to take care of everything himself, and so I settled the case, for nearly twice as much money as I would have been willing to accept.
I head downstairs in a state of partial depression, turning that odd and unexpected winning lottery ticket over and over in my hand. Is that all? I say to myself. Is being seen with a criminal all it t
akes to improve the manners of the notoriously rude? Does it take so little to settle a case with spectacular results? Is the Camorra right after all?
I pull out my cell phone and immediately call Pallucca, Maria Vittoria to tell her the happy outcome of her case, with the feeling that this money, dirty in its way, is burning a hole in my pocket. She practically screams with happiness when I tell her the amount of the check and, after I let her shower blessings on me for a while, tell her that I’d appreciate it if she could drop by soon to pick it up.
She says, “I could drop by this morning.”
I reply, “This morning?”
She suggests we could go to the bank together, where she could cash the check and pay me then and there.
I look at my watch and think it over. In fact, I don’t have to be anywhere, aside from my clandestine Whopper with Alagia at one o’clock. Though I have to factor in the time to get to the airport, of course.
Since I don’t seem to be coming up with a response, at a certain point she asks me, with unmistakable shame in her voice, whether my fee is still what we agreed on.
I reply, “Of course it is.”
She tells me that I’m a gentleman.
I think to myself: Sure I am.
Se we make a date to meet at eleven o’clock at the Feltrinelli bookstore, which is very close to the bank where she’ll be cashing the check.
I walk out the front door of the insurance company, deflated.
I wish Alessandra Persiano would call me right now. Stupid as it is, I touch the cell phone in the breast pocket of my blazer to see if it’s vibrating.
Of course it’s not vibrating.
On the sidewalk across the street, Tricarico is waiting for me, tail between his legs. I cross the street unenthusiastically and walk over to him. He looks at me, embarrassed, probably expecting another dressing down.
“Nice job,” I tell him. “You just settled an insurance case.”
“Just did what?” he asks.
“Nothing, I know what I mean.”
He purses his lips as if to say, Huh?
“Counselor,” he says, after a little while.
“E-e-eh.”
“I wanted to apologize.”
“Oh, please, do me a favor.”
“No, you were right. I made a mistake when I came upstairs. I put you, how do they say it, in an awkward situation. It’s just that I don’t see myself, when I do things.”
“Excuse me, what do you mean?”
“That is, I only understand things after I’ve done them.”
“Ah. Okay. But could you just leave me alone now, do you mind?”
“Why? What is it, are you sad about something?”
“Oh, please.”
“Still, there’s something I want to tell you.”
“Now what.”
“There’s a person who wants to talk to you.”
“And just who would that be?”
“She’s waiting for us in that car, over there.”
And he tilts his head to indicate a Mini Cooper double-parked with the emergency blinkers on a short way up the street. There’s a woman behind the wheel.
“I asked you who that is,” I repeat.
“The CPA.”
“The CPA?” I ask, as if the professional title didn’t fit in somehow.
“Oh, what do you want from me? That’s all I know.”
“And what does the CPA want to talk to me about?”
“What do CPAs usually talk about, Counselor?”
“Taxes?”
“Which is to say?”
“Money.”
“Bingo.”
Maybe I shouldn’t get into that car. Maybe I’m just making one idiotic mistake after another. But then and there I have so little self-esteem that I can’t imagine that anything I do could have any significant consequences.
So I accept.
According to Tricarico’s categorical instructions, I get into the car through the right rear door. He waits for me to get seated, then he shuts the door, walks around, and gets in the car and sits down next to me. And to think I’d meant to tell him to sit in front, since the seat is available.
“Buon giorno Counselor Malinconico, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” the so-called CPA says without turning around.
She has a nicely trimmed pageboy haircut and a youthful, slightly mannered voice, and a nice, non-vulgar scent of perfume wafts off her. Even from back here, she seems to be dressed quite tastefully.
“The pleasure is all mine, Dr. . . . ?”
Tricarico wags his finger admonishingly at me, out of sight.
“First of all, I’d like to thank you for having agreed to represent Fantasia, Counselor,” she says, ignoring my question and continuing to talk without turning around.
I crane my neck in an attempt to see her in the rearview mirror. She reaches up quickly and grabs it, positioning it so it faces downward.
I look at Tricarico as if to say “What the—?” He pretends not to understand.
“You’re quite welcome,” I reply, not knowing what else to say.
“We’re very pleased with you. You’ve mounted a truly brilliant defense. We certainly didn’t expect him to be released so quickly,” she declares, with a cadence straight out of Human Resources Management.
“Oh, is that so?” I say, with the beginning of a flush of annoyance.
Tricarico must have sensed my irritation, because he shoots me a stern sidelong glance. She also heard the gall beneath the flip remark (something tells me), but she smooths it over.
“The decision to take a risk on new names has proven to be a wise one,” the talking pageboy haircut continues. “You see, we feel certain that there are excellent lawyers like you around, and that all they need is an opportunity. It’s just a matter of giving them a chance.”
Well, listen to that, I think.
“The famous lawyers are just so many brand names by now. They don’t study, they don’t keep up with the latest developments. They are just managers of themselves, they live on public relations and political contacts, and they have galley slaves to do all their work for them. Young and not-so-young lawyers and paralegals who run their law offices for a monthly salary . . . well, we’re interested in emancipating these worthy professionals from a state of dependency. We want to invest in them. Invest in all of you, who work in the shadows, far from the recognition that you deserve.”
I take a deep breath, doing my best to control myself. All right, I agreed to step into this car. I was curious to see what would happen. But I can’t take it.
“So what are you, some kind of labor union?” I say, in a chilly, cutting voice.
Tricarico trains his gaze on me suddenly. In all the time we’ve spent together, he’s never looked at me that way before. The Camorra PR executive lets the seconds drip past before answering me.
“You’re a funny man, Counselor. But there’s nothing to laugh about here.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” I say. “But now I’ve really got to go.”
I reach out to open the car door.
Tricarico grabs my wrist.
“Get your hands off me,” I order.
He ignores me, but his grip doesn’t tighten either.
“Just a moment, Counselor,” says the whore.
Tricarico releases me.
“What else do you want?”
“We’re very impressed with the fact that you haven’t asked for the payment of your honorarium.”
“I assumed that Fantasia would pay me.”
She reaches out her hand, opens the glove compartment, pulls out a rectangular envelope and, still without turning around, hands it to me.
“This is for you.”
I’ve always needed money, all my life. Maybe because I’ve never had money. So why is it that this morning, of all mornings, just when I don’t want any, everybody’s trying to give me money?
“What’s the meaning of this?”
“Take it,
Counselor.”
“I don’t even know how much it is.”
“It’s more than enough.”
“I think I should be the judge of that, if you don’t have any objections.”
“You’re right. I may not have made myself clear. I just meant to say that I consider it to be a reasonable sum.”
“I need to make out an invoice.”
“You can invoice Signore Fantasia.”
I don’t answer. But I don’t make up my mind either.
“My arm is getting tired, Counselor,” the Corporate Camorrista says.
I inhale. And as I exhale I realize how deeply offensive it would be to them if I refused to accept the money.
So I take the envelope and I open the car door.
“Counselor,” the union representative calls out to me.
“What.”
“We’d be deeply honored if you’d be willing to work for us again.”
“I’ll think about it,” I say.
The dirty city air has a wonderful taste when I finally get out of that piece-of-shit car.
WHAT MALINCONICO WOULD SAY ABOUT THE CAMORRA AND ITS SUSTAINABILITY, IF ANYONE (BUT WHO?)
EVER ASKED HIM
I, for what it’s worth, don’t even know what the Camorra is anymore. Not that I have any special knowledge on the subject, because I know more or less as much as everybody else. And what people know about the Camorra is essentially the popularized version of what is written in the verdicts handed down by trial judges, which are after all the primary sources for any study of the phenomenon. Because it’s clear that in order for something to be studied, it must be written down, at least to some extent. Of course, direct experience is also a form of knowledge (generally—though not necessarily—the most reliable form); but those who study things refer to written documentation, because, for the purposes of study, that is to say, the critical understanding of a subject, a written account is always preferable to an oral account. On the other hand, when we’re talking about the need to convey a cumulative personal experience, that is to say, writing it down (since writing is the natural extension of experience), we immediately sense the need for other bodies of writing as a point of reference. And where is someone who writes about the Camorra going to find these other other bodies of writing as a point of reference? They’re going to turn to the verdicts handed down by judges in Camorra trials. Because, let’s face it, the Camorristi don’t write. Or perhaps we should say: they pick up a pen and paper when they’re turning their back on that life, in order to provide, in a certain sense, the written proof of a change of heart (what Camorrista still in the business would put his dealings in writing?). And it’s obvious that a personal account, even a written personal account, by someone who has had a change of heart lacks the degree of reliability found in a legal verdict, which is the product of an extended, painstaking, complex effort, adhering to certain criteria of objectivity and, most important, a text that has been written by people who have no need of a change of heart in order to start writing.
I Hadn't Understood (9781609458980) Page 28