IV.x. Without House

"From the keep of the well-closed doors, Let me be wafted."
- Walt Whitman

"Uh, Doctor Caramori?"
    "Yes, hello Nicholas, how are you?" We were speaking in Italian. It was early Saturday morning.
    "Fine, uh, I guess. Listen, I have a small problem here… the door to the apartment won't open."
    "What do you mean?"
    "Well, it's struck. The key won't open it. It must be jammed."
    "Oh my god (o mio dio), that is quite a problem. You are absolutely sure about this? Nicholas, I don't know what to tell you." Doctor Caramori was quite frantic for an Italian, and this was especially evident in his mother tongue.
    "Well, I guess it is rather serious. It began last night. I had to sleep at a friend's place. Listen, I'll just wait at a café until you arrive, alright?" I was worried because, owing to last night's festivities, the whole apartment was uncharacteristically filthy, and I certainly didn't want poor Doctor Caramori to see the place in such a state. I had even left cheese out on the table.
    "Nicholas, I am not in Bologna. I am in Treviso." Treviso is north of Venice.
    "Oh." I also used an expletive, the severity of which I had underestimated because it was in a foreign language.
    "Sorry? Nicholas, you must call a Fabbro."
    "Who?"
    "Fabbro."
    "Fabbro? How do I call him?" I feigned knowing who Fabbro was.
    "I don't know… you must look him up. It may be difficult. These things seem to happen only on Saturdays and Sundays! I am so terribly sorry, but I can't help you. I can't be back in Bologna until Monday. "
    "I see…"

---

    After the phone call it took me a significant amount of time to find out that Fabbro was actually a fabbro, a locksmith. Never had my four year secondary school Latin substrate paid off so. In my tired state, having slept on a mattress at the rather distant apartment of a friend, I stumbled towards the university area, spurred on only by a coffee and a brioche filled with Nutella.
    It was just my luck that the phone books in the city of Bologna were being updated for the new year this week. I grabbed an old one from a pile in the street, and with cold fingers found the pages where the local fabbri were listed. I walked to the nearest phone booth and began to call.
    Most people I spoke to seemed incredulous, some downright indignant, that someone could be locked out of an apartment on a Saturday morning. Never mind that these were all professional locksmiths who purported in their adds to have twenty four hour service. A few said they could possibly stop by late in the afternoon. It was nine AM.
    Finally, I found a fabbro who arrived within an hour. Even his van, custom decorated to resemble a giant key, looked expensive. I shuddered and made a mental count of the euros I had on me. By means of a hammer and a great deal of force, the locksmith was able to unjam and open my door in a minute flat. He charged me eighty euros, which I voluntarily paid. The price was so high, so outrageous, that I was stunned out of protesting. Before leaving he commented on the state of my apartment, obviously wondering about the five empty bottles of wine on the table and the wafting smell of Asiago cheese that had been left in the open far too long.