“Possibly.”
“No, definitely,” said the Professor. “The problem these days is that people just don’t see the obvious—or they see it, but won’t admit it. Of course our faces reveal our character—of course they do.”
Paul was thinking of Becky. He had once heard her face described as vain and had been outraged. But was it?
“Well?” asked the Professor.
“Possibly,” said Paul. “I suppose that if emotions register on the face…”
“Which of course they do,” said the Professor. “Anger shows, doesn’t it? Resentment? Naturally. Benevolence? Again, yes. So why not malevolence, guilt, deception—all those vices?”
“Well, those may be passing states…and perhaps the head, the face, or whatever doesn’t create the attitude so much as reflect it.” Yes, he thought; that was the flaw in the Lombrosan position.
But Silvio Rossi was not impressed by this logic. “Pah!” he said. “Anyway, here we are. This is the turning that leads to my friend’s place.”
—
The headquarters of Central Commercial Vehicle Hire occupied a fenced compound at the end of a dusty side street. The office was in a temporary building near the gate—not much more than a shed—and it was here that they found the owner, a squat, slightly overweight man in a shiny blue suit. As they entered, he sprang to his feet and pumped the Professor’s hand in an enthusiastic handshake.
“Cavaliere, what an honour!”
The Professor acknowledged the greeting and proceeded to introduce him to Paul. “This is Claudio,” he said. “He is a very helpful person.”
Claudio beamed at the compliment. “I do my best,” he said.
“You do very well, ingenere,” said the Professor, using the courtesy title of engineer. “My friend here is in need of a car for a few weeks. He is not too fussy about what sort. We’re not looking for a Maserati.”
Claudio laughed, and then his face fell. “Alas, all my cars are out,” he said. “The holiday weekend, you know…”
“No vans?”
Claudio shook his head. “All rented out for the next month to a contractor from Grosseto, I’m afraid.” He looked apologetically at Paul. “I’m so sorry, dottore…”
The Professor looked dejected. “Well, I suppose it can’t be helped.”
But it seemed that Claudio had had an idea. “I could give you another vehicle,” he said, “rather than send you away empty-handed.”
The Professor brightened. “There you are, Claudio—I knew you wouldn’t let me down.”
“For you, Cavaliere, nothing would be too much trouble.” He turned to Paul. “It is the last vehicle I have available. It will be a bit slow, but it will get you to where you want to go.”
“Very satisfactory,” said the Professor. “What is it, Claudio?”
Claudio looked slightly embarrassed. “It’s a bulldozer, Cavaliere.” And then he added, “A very reliable one, you understand.” He smiled at Paul. “This bulldozer will give you no trouble at all, dottore—I promise you that.”
Are You Sure You’re Not from Rome?
Driving his newly rented bulldozer slowly down the road south, Paul reflected on the curious events of the previous day. It was a promising morning—the heat that one would normally expect in July was ameliorated by the arrival overnight of cool breezes from the north; now, at eight in the morning, the temperature was comfortable and the wide-open windows of the bulldozer would ensure against any build-up of heat. He had spent the night at the Professor’s house in a leafy suburb of Pisa, the bulldozer parked outside the front gate and providing a strong talking point for the neighbours.
Paul and the Professor’s wife, Antonietta, had established an immediate rapport, strengthened when Paul had offered to cook the evening meal with her. Afterwards the three of them had sat in the drawing room and enjoyed an amiable conversation until Paul’s tiredness showed.
“You must get some sleep now,” the Professor had said. “You have had an exhausting day. Sleep deprivation, you know, is a major cause of anti-social behaviour—and accidents too. Look at all the big accidents—the spectacular ones—and you’ll find that those involved were sleep-deprived.”
“You would not wish to have an accident with a bulldozer,” said Antonietta. “You could easily slice another car in half with the blade. Disastro!”
“You remember that big explosion at Chernobyl?” said the Professor. “All the people in the control room were sleepy—they had just changed from day to night shifts. And that tanker that ran aground in Alaska…”
Antonietta raised a hand. “Poor Paolo is very tired, my dear. We can talk about sleep deprivation some other time.”
Paul had sensed the onset of another of the Professor’s enthusiasms, and was relieved that the evening was drawing to a close. He slept well, dreamlessly he thought, and the following morning left shortly after breakfast, waved down the road by his hosts and by a small crowd of animated neighbours who had emerged from their houses to witness his departure.
He had been shown how to operate the bulldozer the previous afternoon. At first, when Claudio led them out into the yard to inspect it, he had imagined that he was joking. Yet this was Italy, and it seemed that unlikely—even surreal—things could happen here at any moment. When, all those years ago, he had been a student in Florence, he had sensed that this was a society under the surface of which there lurked strange goings-on, but protected by the self-absorption of youth, he had never bothered to find out what they were. Now, with the awareness of one in his late thirties, he was beginning to see.
Claudio had quickly made it clear that he was entirely serious, and the Professor was too.
“Don’t be put off by the fact that it’s a bulldozer,” said the Professor. “Our human categories are often far too exclusive, too limiting. We need to open them up to allow us to seize opportunities.”
Claudio nodded sagely. “The Cavaliere is quite right,” he said. “As ever.” He tapped the bulldozer in a proprietary manner and began to explain how the machine worked.
“You’ll notice,” he said, “that this is a tracked bulldozer. Some of them can be very clumsy machines, but this has special lightweight tracks that are suitable for use on the road. They’re not much different from wheels, actually. It’s fine on the road—just like a big truck.”
“That’s right,” said the Professor. “You can drive this one on the road without any difficulty. I wouldn’t hesitate to do so myself.”
Claudio led them to the side, where a step on the bulldozer bodywork enabled the driver to get into the cabin. “If you follow me up here,” he said, “I can show you the controls.”
The ignition was demonstrated, as were the five forward and two reverse gears. “The second reverse gear is to enable you to get out of trouble quickly,” said Claudio. “If you create a landslip, for example, you may need to go backwards very fast.” He paused, and smiled at Paul. “Not that you’ll be doing that. You see, I don’t think you’ll need to operate the blade.”
“No,” said Paul. “I wasn’t planning to.”
“But I’ll show you how it works, anyway,” said Claudio. “You never know.”
“No, you don’t,” said the Professor. He had now joined them and was hanging on to the outside of the cab, peering in through the window.
Claudio pointed to a prominent lever. “You pull that towards you to raise the blade—the normal position for travelling—and then you push it away from you to lower it. Simple.”
“Could you show us, Claudio?” asked the Professor.
“Volentieri, Cavaliere,” said Claudio. “I shall have to start the engine, though.” He turned to Paul, wagging a finger to emphasise his point. “Never operate the blade when the engine is turned off—you’ll drain the battery very quickly if you do that. The hydraulic system takes a lot of battery power. Understand?”
Paul nodded. He was wondering how he could get out of this. It was an utterly ridiculous situation to f
ind oneself in—to be about to rent a bulldozer, of all things, and then to drive it off along roads that were challenging enough for a foreign driver, even for one in an ordinary car. He could simply decline, of course, but he sensed that this would be difficult to do. The Professor had been inordinately kind to him, and to refuse now would surely be considered bad manners; and yet they had no right to force him into what was, after all, a commercial contract. No, he would have to be strong. He would have to say how much he appreciated their help, but that he had decided to make his way to Montalcino by bus and then simply to walk once he was there. That was an entirely rational plan, and yet, and yet…were these people, charming though they might be, entirely rational?
They dismounted.
“So,” said the Professor. “That’s everything fixed up. What a relief it must be.”
“I’m…,” began Paul.
The Professor reached out to touch his arm. “Please, Mr. Stuart, there is no need to express your gratitude. Claudio and I are only too pleased to help a visitor to our country—especially one who can use our language so well.”
“Indeed,” said Claudio. “Whatever we can do to help, we shall do. So shall we go and sign the rental agreement? It’s pretty straightforward—you take it by the week on a renewable basis. How long do you wish to be in…”
“Montalcino,” supplied the Professor.
Claudio’s face broke into a broad smile. “Ah, Montalcino! Now that’s a very pleasant place to be. I went there once or twice when I was a young man. I knew somebody who lived down in the Val d’Orcia, and we cycled up to Montalcino from below—quite a ride it was.”
“One of those roads that never seems to get to the top,” remarked the Professor. “Of which there are many in this life, alas.”
“Hah! Very well put, Cavaliere,” said Claudio. “In those days, Montalcino was a rather forgotten small town—not much more than a village. There was a piazza, I remember, where they had some sort of municipal fountain. Small boys stood around throwing stones at the fish until a woman came out of one of the houses and chased them away with a broom. Isn’t it strange how some memories linger?” He paused, lost in the recollection. Then he continued, “So how long will you be up there, dottore?”
Paul did not answer for a moment. He sensed that he was at one of those crossroads when a decision would somehow affect the shape of the rest of his life. He would have to say no; there was no other possibility. He could not drive off in a bulldozer. He could not subject himself to the amazement and ridicule of other road users as he trundled through the Italian countryside in this large steel-bladed vehicle. It was simply inconceivable.
“Three weeks,” he said.
It was his voice that spoke. It was he who had said it. And yet it was not what he had intended.
“That’s fine,” said Claudio. “I have somebody wanting to rent this in September, but that gives us plenty of time.” He smiled encouragingly. “So, are you happy to sign a rental agreement for three weeks, renewable, of course, if you want a few extra days? All you’d have to do is phone to extend the period.”
“Yes,” said Paul.
He could hardly believe that he had said it, and for a few moments the thought crossed his mind that he was acting in a state of dissociation. He had read about that recently—about how, when tired or stressed, we might act without having any real control over our actions. And the things we might do in a state of dissociation might be bizarre, be out of character—just as this was.
“Good,” said the Professor. “After you’ve signed, you can bring it round to my place. We’ll put you up for the night, as you can’t go off this late in the afternoon.”
“I wouldn’t drive it at night,” warned Claudio. “It has headlights, of course, but at night one might just misjudge things and the blade could hit something—heaven forfend, of course.”
The Professor laughed. “At least you have Saint Christopher on your side. Did you see the large medallion in the cab?”
Paul said that he had.
“Of course he’s the patron saint for all travellers, whatever their mode of transport,” mused the Professor. “Although there’s always Saint Joseph of Copertino. He’s the patron saint of air travellers because he was famous for having levitated.”
“In the air?” asked Claudio. “He went up in the air?”
“Yes,” said the Professor. “He levitated and then travelled quite considerable distances, going sideways through the air. Remarkable.”
“Italy is full of surprises,” said Claudio.
“Mind you,” continued the Professor, “the patron saint of bulldozers must surely be Saint Benedict of Nursia, who looks after those involved in construction.”
“If you say so, Cavaliere,” agreed Claudio.
They walked back to the office, where Paul signed the contract, handed over his credit card to pay, and closed his eyes briefly in acceptance of fate. Saint Benedict of Nursia, he said to himself, will you let me get away with this? Not that he believed in the power of saints to intervene in our affairs; and even then Saint Benedict was probably the wrong saint anyway. Was there a patron state for those embarking on pure folly?
He turned to the Professor. “Forgive me for asking, professore—is there a patron saint for fools?”
The Professor did not hesitate. “Saint Simeon,” he said. “He was known as the Holy Fool. He behaved in a very foolish way…”
Like me, thought Paul.
“…and all the time he was secretly performing acts of great kindness.”
“I see.”
“So he is now the patron saint of fools of all sorts,” concluded the Professor.
Including those who hire bulldozers, thought Paul.
The Professor was looking at him in a bemused way. “I hope you’re not thinking yourself foolish?”
“Well…”
“Because you are not being at all unwise.” He paused as he put a brotherly arm around Paul’s shoulder. “Listen, dottore, in Italy we are always open to new experiences. We are not like our dear friends the Germans—they are always so careful and so measured; we are not. We like to live. We like to throw caution to the winds. We delight in life. Going off to Montalcino on a bulldozer may seem odd, even foolish, but it is not. It will get you there, and once there it will take you to other places you may wish to visit. So embrace the opportunity. Set off with a song in your heart. You have a bulldozer; you have an empty road ahead of you; you have three weeks of freedom in the most beautiful landscape in Europe. Is that foolishness? Is it really? I think not, dottore—I think not.”
—
Now, sitting in the cab of the bulldozer as it trundled along a quiet side road, Paul could enjoy the view that his elevated position afforded him. It had been a surprise to him to discover just how commanding that view was: as cars passed him, he saw only their tops; as he approached a corner, he was able to see around and beyond it; as he drove past walls, he saw into the farmyards or gardens beyond. A couple lying on a lawn in intimate embrace looked up to see Paul waving to them as he went past; a man pruning an apple tree near the roadside, high on his ladder, finding himself eye to eye with Paul as the bulldozer growled by, was able only to open his mouth in surprise. And beyond such unexpected human encounters, there stretched the Tuscan countryside, now plains sloping down to the coast, now rolling hills blue in the distance under the first shimmering of heat haze.
The bulldozer’s slow pace meant that a line of cars would build up behind it, but Paul, being able to see very clearly what was coming, could wave people past when it was safe for them to overtake. They signalled their appreciation by sounding their horns, pleased at the courtesy of this construction worker, bound, they assumed, for some pressing local task of earthmoving but still considerate of those with longer distances to cover. A police car went past, slowed down momentarily, but then sped off again. Nobody imagined that the bulldozer was on such a lengthy and inappropriate journey.
One thing
quickly became clear to Paul. As a regular visitor to Italy he had experience of Italian driving. The Italians are not noted for their patience on the road and will make their displeasure known to any driver who holds them up by sticking to the speed limit. For the visitor, this can be alarming, as small and underpowered cars sweep past them at dangerous corners or on blind rises. But Paul noticed none of this now, and realised that the attitude of other drivers to a bulldozer was one of cautious respect. There was no point in attempting to intimidate or box-in a bulldozer. There was no point in driving too close to its rear in an attempt to get it to speed up; not only would the driver of the bulldozer not see you, but should he brake suddenly, he might not even notice the crumpling of metal as your car collided with the hardened steel outer provinces of his vehicle. In the pecking order of the Italian road, then, a bulldozer’s position was evidently not to be questioned.
Of course, progress was slow, but not quite as slow as Paul had expected. As he moved upwards through the gears, Paul discovered that the bulldozer was capable of reasonable speed—perhaps that which might be achieved by a cautious Sunday motorist on a relaxed drive through the countryside. On hills this might pick up even further, as the weight of the blade helped to add momentum, even if some distance was required for a safe slow-down at the end. Only once on that journey did he feel any alarm, and that was when at the bottom of a steep hill the road bore sharply to the right without giving much warning of doing so. Paul wrestled with the steering and felt at one point that he would crash through the farmyard wall and barn directly in his path. At the last moment, though, the bulldozer negotiated the bend, the blade taking only the smallest shaving off the wall—so small, in fact, that nobody would notice, or mind if they did.
Shortly after noon he stopped in a small village. This village was slightly off the main road, and to reach it Paul was required to make a short detour. But having spotted the village from some distance away, and having seen a roadside sign advertising its single trattoria, he decided to have lunch there rather than in one of the busier towns through which his route would take him.
My Italian Bulldozer Page 5