This would take longer indeed. Angelo reluctantly pulled the crystal ashtray from his desk drawer and placed it in front of the journalist, who was patting around his faded jacket pockets. This was the first time Chiara’s acquaintance was interviewing him. Chiara’s friend. Chiara’s accomplice. He did not offer Michael a light.
The journalist found his own, and when he had taken his first drag, he leaned back and scanned the office less discreetly. “Many changes, Minister. Lots of development. You are a busy man.”
“Yes, I am. I’m pleased that you can appreciate that. How are things at the paper?”
“A constant tug of war with the censors,” he said, his accent thick. “They check the advertising too now.”
“Yes, I’m sorry to hear that.” Angelo glanced at the report from the consortium and turned it over. To be polite, he should ask about Michael’s family, ask how the brother, Peter, was doing after losing his teaching position. He was relieved when Michael cut the pleasantries.
“I’m not here to discuss my work troubles, Minister. I will write a story about the banks and the land they buy up. Your ministry is responsible for bidding on many auctioned lands, no?”
“Oh, I don’t know if it’s that many. We have the authorisation to purchase land as allocated within the projects, certainly, but you’re talking about a matter between the landowners and the banks, not the landowners and this department. We get the information about available properties just as any other citizen.” Angelo smiled and opened his hands. “We just happen to be in the market for a lot of real estate at the moment.”
“You mind if I ask you questions? I want to get this story straight.” Michael flicked the cigarette over the ashtray and raised an eyebrow. “My Italian, you see, is bad.”
“It’s become much better.” He meant that sincerely.
There was a defiant look in Michael’s eye. “You are too kind. But maybe I should ask you to speak to me as if I’m a child. Make sure a simple Tyrolean like me understands everything.”
“What do you want to know?”
“How many more projects do you have in the frontiers? Coming?”
“The ones that you already know of. There are not many more.”
“Not many more? What is many to the Italians? It’s not the same for us Tyroleans. One is already too many. You see, it is relative. I need numbers. Mussolini has big plans, as does the new senator, Ettore Tolomei.”
“Tolomei’s speaking at the Municipal Theatre next week. He’ll probably have many of the details you’re looking for.”
Michael narrowed his eyes, the corners of his mouth grim. “I look forward to meeting him face to face. Tolomei always had big plans for Tyrol. Big plans to make it Tyrolean free and wipe us off the face of history. Italian history, that is.” He was referring to the Alto Adige as if it still belonged to the Austrians.
“Mussolini knows that here, we have money,” Michael continued. “He marched on us last year in his big boots to see how much of it he could shake from the ground and see if we would run to leave it behind.”
Angelo shifted in his seat. Indeed, in some ways the Tyroleans, this area, rather, were better off than almost the rest of the country, but he wouldn’t describe it as rich.
Michael exhaled smoke. “I’m not talking about lire, Minister. I refer to the resources. Land. Water. Grain. Fruit. Wine. Borders.” He sounded as if he were running through a grammar school vocabulary list. “All things that turn to gold for your prime minister.”
The sooner you accept that he’s your prime minister too, the better, Angelo thought. He said, “Do you not want your country to prosper? These developments are for the entire nation’s well-being. I agree with most of what is planned and under construction, Mr Innerhofer, because it is meant to improve our standard of living. Add to your prosperity.”
An irritated smile spread across Michael’s face. “Our province prospered before you came. At the cost of our landowners, no, Minister, we do not want to see more of it. Tolomei is, what is the word? A python. He squeezes us around the middle, and departments like yours have their hands around our necks. But allow me to get to the facts.” Michael flipped open a small notepad and read, “The number of forced foreclosures and auctions of farms with loans at the Farmer’s Bank increased tenfold in the last year. It is in direct correlation to two things: the projects coming out of this ministry and the bank’s new board of directors, made up of only Italian members.” He looked up, earnest. “I’ve prepared, but please feel free to correct my grammar if you still hear a mistake. I would hate to offend anyone’s Italianism.”
Loathsome man! Angelo cleared his throat. “Go on.”
“Your ministry decrees new roads, new bridges, new dams, everything new, to bring in more Italians from the south, and you buy off property cheap so that you don’t have to pay compensation, even restitutions, later.” He looked up, his pencil poised over a blank page now. “These lands have belonged to the Tyrolean people for hundreds of years, many generations. Over and over, these families live, work, sweat, have families in these houses and on these lands, and in less than one year, you swoop in like…like crows to shiny things and exchange them for contracts they cannot understand because they do not know the language.” Michael held a hand up when Angelo shook his head. “How many more projects, Herr Minister? How many more projects with no regard to people on those lands and around those lands?”
“I am not at liberty to tell.”
Michael nodded, drew in a deep, smokeless breath, flipped his notebook closed, and stubbed out his
