“Nothing comes to mind.”
“Chiara says to me that you’re unhappy with the Reschen Valley project.” He turned slightly towards the model. “She says you stand against it.”
Damn it, Chiara, Angelo thought. He’d mentioned it to her once. Once, when he’d had a tirade about the Colonel’s plans, and she had been sympathetic. Maybe she was even ignorant about how Angelo felt adversarial towards Michael, but no matter what her intentions, she was not helping matters one bit by opening her mouth. Not to this man.
“To an extent, I do not agree with it. Not all of it.”
“What does that mean?”
“I, myself, proposed to keep the original plans that the Austrians had outlined. It would provide enough electricity for the intentions decades ago.” He leaned forward. “The reservoirs and dams are necessary. You can see for yourself the industrial growth we have, and that calls for more electrical power.”
“But the Reschen Valley plans are in dispute, no? Chiara says Rome is greedy and even you are concerned about, how do you say? The impacts. But who has the power to make decisions, Minister? Rome is not listening to you. The consortium is not listening to you. Who is listening to you?”
“You’re out of line, Michael. I am not the one you should be angry at.”
Angelo pushed himself away from his desk, itching to put this man in his place once and for all. “I get my directives from the legislature. On the rare occasion from Mussolini himself. I can only make my recommendations and appeals based on the surveys and the expert reports. Yes, my power is limited, but what I have available, I use to the fullest extent.”
Michael laughed drily. “Limited powers, you say. Interesting. The consortium’s president is Colonel Nicolo Grimani, your father. Your father runs the growing electrical Monopol: Grimani Electrical. Limited powers because you are, what is the phrase? In cahoots. You have an interest yourself to see the Colonel’s success. After all, you do have a son, an heir.”
Angelo stood up and leaned over his desk. “I can assure you that I do a clean job.” He winced inside. Glurns. Kastelbell. But he’d been sure to cover his tracks. “There is nothing you can write that would prove otherwise.”
“I only write the truth.”
“Here’s the truth, Herr Innerhofer: the world does not give a damn about a little valley in the outback of Italy. After the war and when all the world’s politicians drew up the treaty, not even the US president checked the maps he’d received. Tolomei and his delegation drew the rivers to run from south to north, and nobody came to investigate if that was true. The world’s leaders wanted it to be true because it was a matter of convenience. The Americans were not about to dispute the agreements in a pact drawn up by the Triple Entente and Italy in nineteen fifteen. Tyrol, south of the Brenner Line, was sold out. And that, Michael, that was a big deal. That redrawing of the maps and the geography—of history—that part of the Versailles peace treaty attracted national attention, and nobody gave a flying damn about truth then. Nobody paid attention to the fact that you are all German-speaking citizens with a different culture, with a different language and history and that, that alone, compromised Woodrow Wilson’s ninth of fourteen points. Now…” He shrugged. “You and the Ladins, of whom no one has ever heard, are Italian. So, Herr Innerhofer, I ask you once more. Why should anyone in power want to be inconvenienced? You will soon see that you too are limited by the system.”
Angelo stalked to the window located behind his desk and caught a reflection of himself. The black hair swept back, the beard he had grown making his face fuller. He could not see his eyes in his reflection, just two dark shadows where they should be. Michael was busy scratching in his notepad. He decided to let the journalist catch up. It did not matter anymore. Let the censors deal with him.
When Angelo focused outside the window, he saw the street where the parades took place and the church. He saw carts of hay being lugged by barefooted boys, and wicker cone baskets filled with early apples on the backs of old women. He thought of the Reschen Valley. He thought of her. Of Katharina.
Turning back to Michael, he pointed out the window. “The electricity we will get and the compensation we pay will put an end to crumbling houses and farms in a mountain province where prosperity now means that someone owns more than one pair of shoes. The world will see this dam as progress.
“Why wouldn’t the Reschen Valley people be happy to accept recompense or sell their land for a better life? Mussolini’s government is offering money or a steady income for land that will be of some use to necessary and modern changes.”
Michael’s face was satisfactorily stony, and it provoked Angelo to continue, even if he did sound like the Colonel. “Progress! That’s what this is all about. This ministry is doing all it can to bring advantages to all its Italian citizens as intended. You included.”
Angelo sank back into his chair and turned the consortium’s report over. Beneath it was the drafted order for new soil samples in the Reschen Valley, ready for his signature. He looked up at Michael, to share the document as proof that there was nobody leading his ministry by the nose, but Michael was at the door.
“Thank you for your time, Minister.”
“Michael, I am trying to do things right. I cannot stop progress, but I can help with the impacts and make sure they are safe for the citizens. You can quote me on that.”
The journalist pursed his lips and shrugged his shoulders. “The Italian citizens, you said. And
