Covered: Tricksters, Rome r
oma
Editions 19
leter from rome
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letter from rome
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The administrator sits at the kitchen table in a foul mood, scowling at the hallway like a put-out loan shark. I just want my money, he’s clearly thinking, what is it with these stupid foreigners? Eventually he gets through to the landlord, who explains to him that it’s his responsibility to pay, “so come and meet me at the restaurant later on tonight, and I’ll give you the cash on the spot”. “I’ll go with him to the cashpoint though,” continues the man, talking about me, “and you can deduct it from his rent. Or I can wait here while he goes to get it.” “No, we’re not doing that; come to the restaurant tonight.” The guy hangs up and tells me it’s all sorted, thanks for being patient, before dragging himself out of the flat. Now, the lady and I are really p*ssed off about this, but the landlord rings up ten minutes later and apologises profusely for it. It’s an honest mistake, I let it go. Later in the evening Claudio is in his usual spot, the Napolitano restaurant that his firm delivers cuts of meat to, having a coffee and a bite to eat while he waits for the administrator. Only he never shows. Now being half an hour or so late in Italy is practically being on time, but this guy was desperate for the money right now, so where is he? He calls the administrator to ask what’s going on – after all, he’s not usually so insistent for the cash. “What do you mean, ‘Where am I?’” the administrator asks. “Well, you wanted money for the
The conman and the condominio Journalist Terry Daley gets his feathers ruffled by a very insistent Roman gentleman
cleaning work a few hours ago, what’s going on?” Halfway through Claudio’s phone call, the penny drops. “This man was a con artist,” he explains. The actual administrator had never done any cleaning work, and in any case Claudio always pays promptly and by direct debit. This fella (apart from doing a mean administrator impression) was going around flats with foreign names – in our case, the name of our Slovak housemate – attached to the buzzer button outside in the hope that they’d not have any idea what was going on. Not only that, he was doing it in the same building, over and over again, and others on this street. He’s probably researching his next mark as I write. If that’s the case, I really, really hope he comes back in here again. We can have a nice chat.
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illustration By Sasha Tugolukova www.fullofmeaningless.com
ften in a Roman block of flats, you’ll hear the sound of the buzzer. Mostly, it’s mates calling up to be let into the building, or a postman, or maybe even a spark or whoever else is being employed by the condominio (the collective of flat owners in the block) to do bits of maintenance work. It’s not a problem letting people in, even if they’re just pressing any old number outside to gain access, and I’ve had stilted chats with many a gruff Roman plumber in my time. Today, I’m working on a freelance contract I’ve recently landed, when the buzzer goes. I pick up the phone by the front door, and am asked whether I am one “Signor Iommi”, who happens to be our landlord. No, I say, he doesn’t live here anymore, what’s this all about? “Well,” the voice explains, “I’m the administrator of the condominio, and there are people in the building who owe us money for cleaning in the building, can I come in?” I press the buzzer to let him in the main gate, and this shambling, bristly-looking chap trundles up the stairs, walking in a ghoulish fashion, like his shoulders are carrying the rest of his body and his legs are there for show. Upon arrival, the man shows me a cleaning bill for €140 and asks me whether I can pay it now, as it’s been outstanding for a while. I explain in the best Italian I can manage that there’s no way I can hand over that much cash, and in any case it’s not my responsibility to do so. Speak to Claudio, the landlord. “No, no,” he explains, “I’ll come with you to the cashpoint.” Obviously I’m not getting through to him, so I call my Italian-speaking girlfriend and ask her to give him what-for more fluently, as well as our landlord’s phone number. She then rings the landlord to have a go at him: if he’s coming round, why not f*cking well tell us?