There it was again, Angelo thought, the project that refused to leave him in peace. Sleepless nights indeed. “Perhaps I’ve not been communicating this clearly enough: gentlemen, we have no money left. I can hardly get the permissions from Rome to extend our budgets on the projects we do have going, much less put new ones forward or speed them up. We must begin earning something from the dams we’re building before we can reinvest.”
Barbarasso scratched his head and made a face. “We’re working on that. As a matter of fact, Mussolini is drafting decrees for more building, and the funds will be made available. That we can assure you.” He glanced around the room. “We just need some help to tide all this over until that happens. Tell us what you need, and the consortium will help you as soon as it can.”
“Why is the Reschen Valley even in question again?”
The Colonel and Barbarasso exchanged a look.
“Some of our men were recently in Curon Venosta,” the Colonel said. “We’ve done an independent surveillance on the lakes.”
Angelo’s blood simmered. “You were in Graun? What for?”
Barbarasso stepped forward. “Because we’re still convinced there is great potential if all three lakes are raised. With the new water rights, the project will also find resonance in Rome.”
The Colonel put a hand on Angelo’s shoulder. “Look, when the money comes, we need a clear path. You take care of the communities and the legal aspects. Sell it to them in advance, Minister. Sell them on exactly what you’re good at, the good fight.” He opened to a page in his notebook and scratched something in. Angelo imagined the words flood, money.
“We are of the opinion that any new projects need to have a face on them, an authority figure,” Barbarasso said. “What if you were to take to the road and connect with the people? Campaign for a prosperous, industrious Italy. These dams will create jobs. The farmers we relocate can work in factories. They just need to be made to recognise the advantages.”
Angelo shook his head. They wanted a mouthpiece for their dirty tricks. A politician. And he was not. He was an engineer. “I’m needed here. I cannot just traipse off to the frontiers.”
“You could send someone else up there,” Barbarasso said. “But—”
“We believe you’re the right man for the job,” the Colonel said. “You already have the connections you need, people you could convince. Like in the Reschen Valley.”
Angelo felt a prickling under his arms. “Such as who?”
“Captain Emilio Rioba, for example. He’s been made prefect up there. You know him. The policeman who came to see you about… Well, I don’t know what it was about, I suppose.” His father stuffed the notebook back into his breast pocket. “He’s been canvassing some of the locals up there.”
A bead of sweat rolled down the inside of Angelo’s arm. Maybe he should tell his father the truth about the attack on him. It was so long ago now, what difference would it make? The Colonel was waiting for an answer.
“Vaguely. I remember Captain Rioba vaguely.”
“If you have your own friends up there, Angelo, connections you made during your stay there, then use them to help the cause. Before you’re forced to fight against them.”
“Thank you for the warning. If that’s all, gentlemen, good night.” Angelo winked. “I need to catch up on my sleep.”
He brushed past the milling crowd to the door. Before he left, he heard his father laugh and turned to see the beguiling Gina Conti standing with the two dogs. She most certainly had the lead on them.
***
O n his desk, a letter. Addressed to him and posted from Curon Venosta. Graun.
Someone mentioned something, and suddenly it was everywhere, crawling out of the woodwork. Months before, he’d read an article by a Victorian philosopher explaining African backwardness. While studying slaves, the philosopher had come to the conclusion that human development took place in three stages: savagery, marked by hunting and gathering; barbarism, accompanied by the beginning of settled agriculture; and civilization, which required the development of commerce. European scientists claimed that Africa was stuck in the stage of barbarism because Africans lived in a place with such good soil and climate that it provided “tropical abundance.” For days thereafter, Angelo heard about the topic on every corner, in every café, and read it in other newspapers and journals, as if the world were being revolutionized by the idea. As if it would justify or change things.
On the letter from Graun, the handwriting was feminine. Arlund was where she lived. But the post office was most likely in Graun. Damn it.
Angelo loosened his necktie, sliced the envelope with his opener, and unfolded the paper. There she was at the bottom, in black ink. Katharina Steinhauser, geb. Thaler. Damn it. He started at the top of the letter and slammed it down.
“And now I’m supposed to be able to read German? Christ.”
He could just burn it. He should destroy the letter, for two reasons. If it related to anything personal, he did not want to know what it was. If it had anything to do with his job—had she read about his nomination in the papers?—then he could choose to ignore it. The German language was dead here. He did not have to respond to anything calling on his official duties if it was not written in Italian.
He glanced at the open page. “Damn it.”
On the bookshelf was the thick German-Italian dictionary. The letter was less than two pages long, but it would take him half the day to get it to make
