Everything the Colonel was to this city—power—was contained in that building. The signage was new. The colours of the letters MFE alternated black, red, black, with a silver bolt of lightning through them. Angelo imagined the Colonel inside, almost seventy, balding and slightly angled over the paunch of his belly. Other than the physical signs of ageing, Colonel Grimani would not be slowing down anytime soon. He’d be surrounded by his investors and supporters, planning his next move—the biggest dam he could build. A dam that would provide electricity to exactly the kinds of industries that surrounded his new building. And the Colonel would be planning the manoeuvres that would divert around Angelo’s ministry in order to build it.
There was a click followed by static on the loudspeaker, and the train rounded the bend. Even from a distance, Angelo could tell it was packed with people. Elbows, arms, and hands jutted out the windows, and as it drew closer, the end of a yellow scarf fluttered on the breeze. The train hissed to a stop, and passengers spilled out onto the platform. A chorus of Italian dialects rose as people sought one another out. He imagined entire families—peasants from as far as Sicily—had become disengaged as they’d boarded their northbound connections. These were the Italians who had been hardest hit during the depression and were now flocking to the former Tyrolean province, where more opportunities lay in wait.
Stefano Accosi would tower over these people. When Angelo did not spot him right away, he watched a group converging nearby. They were all men who would probably send for their wives and children once they secured positions and received their first paycheques. They wore chequered jackets in a variety of earth-tone colours, and beneath the coppolas on their heads, their faces were masks of mistrust and strain. No doubt they envisioned hordes of Tyroleans just around the corner, waiting to attack them with axes and picks as depicted in anti-German propaganda. Yet as the train pulled away and unveiled the industrial zone before them, there was something like a cheer that rose from the new arrivals. This was what they’d come for, as if silk and perfume were being spun out of those smokestacks instead of cheap labour, sweat, and—Angelo’s eyes landed on the MFE logo—exploitation.
He’d been a part of that once. No more.
“Minister Grimani,” a man’s voice called.
Angelo was already smiling before he spotted Stefano. The first thing he noticed was Stefano’s wire-rimmed spectacles—new—then the friendly, open face. All the earlier doubts and anxieties about their reunion washed away.
When Stefano reached him, Angelo clasped the man’s shoulders. “It’s so good to see you again. Thank you for coming. Thank you.”
Stefano grinned and embraced Angelo. “It’s good to be back in my hometown.”
When they pulled apart, Angelo glanced at the emptying platform. “Where’s your family? Where’s your wife?”
“Elena wanted to stay on in Verona with the children.” He looked sheepish. “Just until it’s safe.”
“Safe? Safe from what?”
“You understand. In case I’m forced to relocate again.”
“I’m so sorry—”
“Stop. You apologised enough in your letter.”
He pressed the bridge of the spectacles up with a forefinger, more habit than necessity, from what Angelo could tell.
“Besides, the party did as you had promised. They made our transfer as easy as could be expected, but Elena, you know, is very cautious. She wants to make certain that I really have a place here.”
Angelo patted the man’s shoulder. “You tell her to start packing then.”
He shepherded Stefano towards the exit, but Stefano stopped and turned, staring across the track at the factories. His smile vanished, and he whistled quietly.
“The Bolzano Industrial Zone,” Angelo explained. “The locals call it the BIZ. That’s where all the money is flowing. And, Stefano? People like you and I will be checked any time we threaten to ebb that flow.” He pointed to the MFE tower. “That’s the reason I need you back here.”
Stefano glanced sideways at him. “Colonel Grimani’s?”
They both had to be thinking it, picturing it. The Gleno Dam. The breach. Over three hundred people dead. The committee had put on quite a show during the hearings, hammering the Colonel with questions and accusations, but men with money and power rarely made it to the scaffold. And if you were the son of such a man…
“My father’s. Yes.” Angelo turned his back on it, Stefano following him. “It’s a new name, a new facade, but everything within it is still the same.”
***
T o get back to the ministry, Angelo hailed a taxi and directed the driver to city hall. Stefano sat hunched in order to look out his window, making sucking sounds in response to what he saw. Like Angelo, Stefano looked older. There were slight creases around his eyes and lips. His dark hair had the first few wisps of silver. Otherwise, he looked fit, trim. Happy even. It had to be the return to Bolzano more than anything. Twelve years was a long time for anyone to be away from home.
As they passed the Laurin Hotel again, Angelo’s thoughts returned to the Gleno Dam tragedy. He had been in that hotel, lying in bed with Gina Conti, the morning the dam broke. A porter had heard about it on the radio and come to fetch Angelo, so obvious had his whereabouts been. Angelo had left Gina behind with hardly a thought and never resumed the affair again. The opportunity had never truly presented itself.
“When did that happen?” Stefano asked into his window.
Angelo bent to look, and the images of Gina Conti evaporated. They were passing the forlorn statue of von der Vogelweide in the square. “The day they renamed the piazza after the king. Quite some time ago.”
“Well then.” Stefano leaned back into his seat and gazed at Angelo, his light-grey eyes magnified a little by the
