II.xi. A Technician from Calabria

"Italy is only a geographical expression."
- Clemens von Metternich

Alessandro Rusco moved to Bologna some time in the late nineteen nineties. He took the train North, with all his possessions, and hasn't seen his mother since. On Monday morning, he met me outside the entrance of Via Centotrecento 12. As he arrived, I explained to him that the name on the buzzer had not yet been changed, and that I wanted to make sure he found the apartment all right. Via Centotrecento 12 is, after all, a rather labyrinthine structure. I live in apartment eleven, in staircase B, on the mezzanine level. I would be rather difficult to find, I suppose, for someone not in the know. Even my mailbox still sports the old renter's name. I would change this, but Dr. Caramori and the woman who acts as superintendent have lost my mailbox key, and have only just initiated the long process of getting a replacement made. For the moment, I am reduced to using a pair of scissors and a length of wire to fish for my mail, and yet most of it remains inaccessible, though visible through a small unopenable window at the bottom of the box. Perhaps, I think, it is not worth the effort to extract my mail, as most of the residents now eye me with a certain suspicion. I wear khakis and pilfer advertising supplements. I am probably German, in their opinion. Occasionally, when mail arrives for me that is not labelled with Dr. Caramori's name as well, the postal delivery lady can be heard yelling through the apartment halls "Herman, Nick", as though the cisalpine character of my name makes it all the more suspicious that I do not have a proper mailbox.
    Recently, internal politics at Via Centotrecento 12 have become even more tense. On Monday afternoon, an unknown resident broke their key in the lock of the main door to the street, necessitating an expensive repair and a great deal of inconvenience for everyone. The short woman who smokes Camel cigarettes and assisted me when my electricity went out reluctantly tended to this new problem, angrily cursing as she opened the door for each resident before it could be fixed. Frustrated by having to assume these extra duties, she posted a series of strongly worded, hand-written notices all along the corridors of the building. "I should really like to know who broke the key in the lock without informing the superintendent or paying for the repair", one notice said. The other, even more severe, was posted near staircase B, in the sector of the building where the rent is cheapest and where most students, including me, live. This notice suggested that the building was not an asylum but rather a condominium for adults willing to take responsibility for their own actions. Hoping that this notice wasn't referring to me, I made sure to make plainly visible to the short woman the next time I saw her that all the keys on my key chain were intact and unbroken.
    But, of all this, Alessandro Rusco was not aware. He arrived on Monday morning to install my Fast-Web service, and to offer his various insights on Northern Italy, and more specifically Bologna. Alessandro was quite a friendly chap, and as soon as he noticed that I was a foreigner he seemed genuinely interested and all the more eager to converse.
    "I can understand you" he said, as I apologized for my rather rudimentary skill in his language, "and that's what's important." As went about his work, he talked about his life here, about his longing to return to Calabria. In his mind, the place of his origins was distant and exotic, a faded memory, far away. So too psychologically did he differentiate Calabria from Bologna. "People are more relaxed there", he said. "this city is a casino by comparison. You really need to come down to Calabria."
    "I'm sure I will at some point, in the middle of the winter, when I really need to get away from Bologna." I found it strange that this man was reminiscing about his homeland while at the same time explaining how he could never return. I wanted to ask him to explain myself, but my Italian was failing and the installation was finished, and our brief conversation was over as soon as it began.