He finally faced her at the entrance of the bank. His eyes were shining. If it were not for his beard, she could tell whether he was crying or enraged.
Stupid pride! Stupid, stupid, stupid pride.
She marched after him, ready to shake it out of him, but Martin Noggler came around the corner, dragging Thomas by the ear.
“At least I don’t have to go to school twice in one day,” Thomas cried, and Martin walloped the back of his son’s head.
She looked for Hans, but he’d melted behind the door of the bank. Protests from the churchyard came next, and she spun around. The carabinieri were leading Father Wilhelm towards the barracks. A small group of villagers followed behind, and someone shouted that the carabinieri were cowards.
They had found something of the school.
She made to follow them, paused at the bank window, and pressed the envelope of money up against the pane, but Federspiel had already put a fatherly arm over Hans’s shoulder. With their backs turned to her, they withdrew into the shadows.
Chapter 8
Bolzano, July 1923
A ngelo was buried in the paperwork that was coming across his desk. They required his approval, or stamps, or signatures and attention. Much attention, more attention. Three bridges that were being built in Bolzano. The new roads up in Lana and Merano. Then the dams.
First, the Gleno Dam: An inspector’s report about bad working conditions and concerns that the dam was poorly joined at its foundations. He would have to speak with the Colonel again about this. Saving money was one thing, but moving the completion of the dam to the end of November now was too risky. He paused and remembered the day he had asked Pietro about the new permits. He picked up the receiver and asked Mrs Sala to find the archived files on the Gleno. When he hung up, he turned back to the surveyor’s report. At the bottom of the page, he wrote a note that he would later reword to the Colonel: Get this into shape, or it will not be opened in time for the king’s attendance. If I need to check on this myself, I will (where is the permit??). Before laying the report to the side, he made a mental note to send his risk assessor down there.
The next one was from Stefano Accosi, his chief engineer on the Glurns project: The workers had tunnelled into the mountain with very little incident so far. One small cascade of rock from a weak spot, but no injuries. In comparison to the Gleno, this was great news.
Kastelbell: Some of the landowners had put in new claims and appeals regarding the amount of compensation they’d receive. They were already unhappy with the agreements they had signed. Angelo had a pile of these, and they were tiresome. Pietro had warned him that stamping final approvals on things lulled one into a false sense of security; they were just the beginning of the real job. “And,” Pietro had said, “that bigger mahogany desk you’re taking over only means you’ll be taking more work on, not spreading it about more thinly.”
Angelo put the letter from Kastelbell on top of a pile of similar disputes. Then the letterhead from the Consortium for the South Tyrolean Waterworks stared up at him. It was a copy of the report they had sent to Rome. The Colonel’s signature was scrawled across the bottom. He bristled.
Rome had promised Angelo that his proposal to raise Reschen Lake by five metres would be approved. Now the consortium was lobbying to raise it by twenty-two metres. Their report touted a lucrative production of energy for Italian industry. The more value for money would appeal to Rome well enough, save for the relocation plans of the citizens. Not dozens, but hundreds of properties would be affected.
Here they were again on the political carousel, but he was going to stay one step ahead of this manoeuvre. He rifled through the papers before him, looking for the soil sample order, when the phone rang. He lifted the receiver.
“Mrs Sala, did you find the file for the Gleno? And where is that work requisition for the Reschen Valley I asked you to draft?”
“I put the requisition with the other papers on your desk, and I haven’t got to the archives yet. Minister, before you hang up, Mr Michael Innerhofer is here to see you.”
Pietro had once confessed that he would have preferred a dragon lady guarding the gate to the minister and scaring everyone off, but Mrs Sala was the widow of one of Pietro’s work colleagues. Angelo wondered now if he would be able to do what Pietro had not and replace Mrs Sala with a tougher woman. Like Gina Conti. He liked that idea.
“Tell him to make an appointment with me.”
She hesitated. “Sir, he did. Today is his appointment.”
Christ. “Send him in.” He stood up to greet Michael and recognised the suit, even more frayed at the cuffs.
Michael’s dark eyes darted around the office, as if searching for clues and misplaced contradictions. As journalists, Angelo mused, are wont to do.
Michael’s eyes landed on the table next to the bookshelves where the detailed model of the Reschen Valley was. Stefano Accosi had built the model to show exactly what areas would be affected. Michael drifted to it and examined it. He would see the mountain villages and the plans Angelo had for diverting the river. The reservoir would affect the edges of Reschen, Graun, and Spinn. It was a compromise, but the best Stefano and he had been able to come up with.
He strode over and gave Michael the stiff, quick handshake that indicated he was a busy minister and, therefore, in a hurry. “Take a seat.”
Michael flashed an uneasy smile and sat. He
