Free White Death by Tobias Jones Page B

Anyone getting that kind of slice has got to be connected. It’s not even corruption. Corruption doesn’t mean anything to them. It’s simply business. That’s the way life is. Find out who runs that agency and I expect you’ll find they’ve got a powerful relative or husband or something.’ He put the bread in his mouth and looked over my shoulder and started talking almost to himself. ‘That’s why the family’s such a strong institution in this country. It’s not because of Catholicism. It’s because money’s got to go through a third person and who can you really trust to look after your money if you can’t touch it yourself? It has to be family.’
    He glanced at me to check I was listening. I was listening all right, but my head was spinning. I was already thinking about other things. He took a last swig of wine and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
    ‘I’ve got to run,’ he said. ‘Thanks for lunch.’ He stood up, but then bent back down and tapped a finger to his temple. ‘Occhio, eh? These people sound serious.’
    I nodded and watched him disappear. Only someone so idealistic could be so cynical, I thought, as he disappeared into the crowd of people at the bar. One or two slapped him on the back, shouting his name, as he went. He was that kind of person.

I stopped in a bar on Via Sauro
    I stopped in a bar on Via Sauro to check where I was going. The barmaid was the typical simpaticona. Whilst I waited for her to notice me, I listened to her offering sighs and consolations for another customer. ‘Ma cosa vuoi?’ she kept saying to keep the conversation ticking over. The fourth or fifth time I heard her say it, I got in my order.
    ‘Coffee.’
    She went through the familiar motions – bashing the previous batch into a bin, refilling the thing, twisting it in place – whilst still listening to the man next to me grumbling about his son.
    ‘You got a copy of Tuttocasa ?’ I said to her back when the man moved away.
    ‘Outside in the rack,’ she said over her shoulder.
    I wandered outside and saw the familiar freesheets stacked in a white plastic rack. I took one, went back inside and sat on a barstool.
    ‘Looking for a new place?’ she asked, putting a red and white Lavazza tazzina in front of me.
    The coffee was piping hot. I looked at her over the thick rim. She was already talking to someone else. I put the little cup down and opened up the yellow paper. It carried ads for all the houses and flats in vendita or affitto. There were pages and pages of mini paragraphs: descriptions of dreamflats and houses in streets I had never heard of. It was clear we were in the midst of a crisis because almost every price said ‘trattabile’.
    Casa dei Sogni had a whole half-page ad. The name of the agency was written underneath a pediment supported by two neoclassical columns. It was on Via Garibaldi. I left a euro on the counter and headed over there.
    A few minutes later I was standing outside an imposing building. Most estate agents’ windows have pictures of the insides of apartments: slinky kitchens, a little bedroom, a few ‘beams on view’ as they say. This window was almost all made up of artist’s impressions of what a finished block would look like. There were pictures of monolithic blocks with human dots in the foreground. There were photographs of 3D models with plastic trees. Casa dei Sogni was clearly into the wholesale market: not selling dinky little flats in the centro storico but new-builds in the suburbs. When the market was moving, they must have been making a mint.
    Behind the prices, plans and photographs I could see a large, light office. Spotlights were suspended from taut, thin wires and the computer screens were as thin as coasters. There was a huge blow-up of an aerial photograph of the city.
    The entrance was set back from the pavement, a glass and brass door behind an archway. When I walked in a young girl looked up.
    ‘Buongiorno,’ she