by Terry Morgan
CHAPTER 4
Milan, northern Italy.
Inside a mezzanine office hidden inside an anonymous warehouse behind metal racking and an assortment of cardboard boxes, sat a short, round man in an open-necked white shirt that clung to him with sweat.
"'Yah, of course it's me, Guido," he snapped impatiently in Italian into a mobile phone largely hidden in the fold between his chin and shoulder. The voice was high pitched, like a boy whose voice had not yet broken.
"Yah, I've read it. It's written in the language of the professional bureaucrat. It is English but not like the English we learn at school or the English we speak. That, Toni, my flower, is why you don't understand it. But Guido does. Guido does not sleep all day or sit with his eyes shut listening to opera music playing in his ears. No, no, no. Guido sits reading shit like this - long words with many different meanings."
The squat figure was seated behind a grey metal desk, his head overwhelmed by the oversized, high backed swivel chair, his short legs swinging, barely touching the floor. It was mid July and an electric fan wafted air, but it was not enough to stop beads of sweat running from his forehead. Awkwardly, he extracted a white handkerchief from his trouser pocket, brushed back the greasy strands of black hair that had fallen over his forehead, slid the laptop computer that sat in front of him to one side and, swivelling slowly from side to side in the chair, picked up a small bundle of papers. The phone was still tucked in the damp fold of his chin.
"Check the second page, Toni. Where it says: 'to improve the delivery of aid through complimentary activities aimed at increasing effectiveness, quality, timeliness and visibility.' Yah, this is so beautiful. I love the English language. It is, Toni, like the Picasso painting. You ignore what Picasso said it was and you dream what it is to you. You let it say what you want it to say. So it is very good that it is written like this. It is useful for the business."
Guido paused, chuckled, flicked over a page. "But I see the money the poor taxpayers have been forced to give them to spend has gone up - a lot. If we are to benefit from all this I'll need to consider it and to do that I'll need some coffee before I read it again or my brain won't work. I also need a shit. I'll call you back."
The phone dropped from inside his chin but he caught it expertly in his hand and put it on the desk. "Mmm," he muttered, rolling out of the chair. "Yah, too big lunch, too much wine, e troppo caro, too expensive but affare fatto. It was a bargain, a good investimento."
The rounded stomach that protruded over the tight belt of his trousers had been hurting him for an hour. He stuffed the phone into the pocket of his well filled shirt, felt the weight drag it down over his prominent left nipple and shrugged to loosen it. But the shirt was stuck with moisture and didn't move, so he ignored it. Still holding the papers, he waddled towards the door, opened it, clattered down the flight of metal stairs, turned at the bottom amongst the metal racking and went into the toilet. There was no-one else in the building but he locked it, undid his belt, dropped his black trousers down to his ankles and sat down.
"Che cazzo," he swore as he started to read. "Fucking English euro speak."
"The measures provided for in this Decision are in accordance with the opinion of the Humanitarian Aid Committee established by Article 17(1) of the Humanitarian Aid Regulation. It is decided as follows:
Sole Article Decision C(2013)4789 is amended as follows: In Article 1, paragraphs (1) and (2) are replaced by the following:
"In accordance with the objectives and general principles of humanitarian aid, the Commission hereby approves a maximum amount of EUR 759,638,745 of which EUR 593,600,000 from budget article 31 08 09, EUR 337,700,000 from budget article 31 07 06 and EUR 46,237,746 from budget article 26 09 07, of the 2013 general budget of the European Union.........."
It took five minutes to arrive at the last page. He tore a few sheets of tissue paper from a roll on the wall, wiped himself, stood, pulled up his trousers, tugged the big, shiny belt tight whilst holding the paperwork between his teeth. He flushed the toilet, backed out and, still carrying the papers in his teeth, clattered back up the metal stairs to the office.
At the top, he leaned over the metal banister, scanned the floor of the warehouse and chuckled to himself. The smooth concrete floor was visible only between the racks, the area littered with pallets piled with cardboard boxes covered in clear plastic film. A row of boxes with the blue and gold European Union logo, another showed "UNHCR" - the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees. a third marked with Red Crosses and Red Crescents. A fork lift truck stood idly between a set of double doors and a smaller metal door set into it that said "Exit". The warehouse was, but for Guido's high pitched chuckling and an occasional loud, metallic, clicking sound from the hot tin roof, eerily quiet.
He returned to the office, sat in the chair, swivelled, sweated, flicked at a fly and re-read one sheet all over again. Then he pulled the phone out of his shirt pocket and pressed a button.
"Toni. Yah. This is the part. Let me read it to you and because I know you can't understand the fucking language I'll put it in nice simple Italian for you. OK? Where is it? Yah, here it is. Now, got a pencil in your little hand? Good. Sitting down? Now listen to papa.
"It's the last part where it talks about - and excuse the fucking jargon - 'supporting existing strategies that enable local communities and institutions to better prepare for, mitigate and respond to natural disasters' blah blah. See it? Now we know what they are because we've dealt with them before. See it now? Yah. Now look at what countries are covered. That's it - Caribbean, Africa, South Asia. Right - and that'll be Pakistan or Bangladesh. The bureaucrats won't worry about money going to ISIS, Al Shabab, the Taliban or Boko Haram - or any other of their like-minded friends."
There was a pause during which the strange chuckle gurgled somewhere deep inside his throat. The pink lips of his round mouth puckered as if he was tasting something delicious and all the time, he chatted to himself.
"So we must lick some of the cream off the top before it goes sour Toni. It is like recycling - it's good for the environment.....it is a lot of money......the more there is the more will be lost in the accounts.... but no-one will lose their job......and there will be more bureaucrats after than before.... it is good for the heart to know we create jobs." And then he giggled.