“On a Sunday? The Lord’s day and... your father’s?”
“On a Sunday, on a Sunday...” Massimiliano says, irritated. “A problem on a Sunday. That can happen, can’t it?”
“All the time, Massimì? Every Sunday?” Quirino says, putting on his glasses.
“The kid threw up all night, his mother wanted to take him to the hospital this morning... a lot of talk... Let’s go, let’s not go... let’s see if he gets better...”
Quirino sits down at the table, opens the notebook. “And how is he now?” he asks, running a hand over the rough stubble on his chin, as if to say: More of your usual nonsense.
“He’s better,” his son says abruptly, sitting down in front of him and crossing his hands.
“And the new notebook? Did you get it?” Quirino asks, taking the key out of the pocket of his robe and inserting it in the lock of the drawer beneath the tabletop.
“I bought it, I bought it...” Massimiliano opens a plastic folder, pulls out an ordinary gray account book.
“What’s that? Quirino asks, startled.
“What we need,” Massimiliano says, adopting a professional tone.
“Me, I don’t need that thing! For me... this one here... is all I need.” He bangs the notebook down in front of his son’s eyes, points to the gilded face of Botticelli’s Venus printed on the cover. “I have my method, do you understand? My own way!”
Massimiliano gives him a dirty look, puts the account book back in the folder, and closes it angrily, with an abrupt snap. “A fine way...” he hisses between his teeth. Then: “Let’s see, come on, it’s getting late.” He leans across the table.
“All right then, let’s begin with the two small buildings. This one here should be nearly in order.” He takes a stack of bills from the drawer. He counts them, moistening his fingertips with saliva from time to time. “Punctual, these ‘out of town students,’” he says, stressing the words.
Massimiliano runs the bills through his hands, quickly glancing at them. He confirms. He watches his father record the figures carefully in the notebook. “And the ones from the catacombs?”
“Those... they asked me for a little more time,” Quirino says, concealing his annoyance.
“A little more time... after being a week late?” Massimiliano exclaims, fidgeting in his chair. “So, even with ten of them, those deadbeat immigrants can’t manage to scrape together the pittance that they owe! And if they can’t even pay for that rathole... why are they complaining, huh? Now they’ve even started kicking up a fuss at the Local Rights Department because There’s mold on the walls, they say! Because the electrical system is not up to code! What do they expect, those deadbeats!”
Quirino looks at him bewildered. “And what does this Rights Department do?”
“What does it do, what does it do...? It’s a pain in the ass! But they can stuff it, those jerks, because it’s not like they have proof that they’re paying us! It’s not like anyone sees the money they hand over, right? Who’s ever seen that money? Are there checks? Money orders? No!”
“So then?”
“So then, if they continue to give us a hard time, we’ll evict them for arrears, and they’re gone! Problem solved.” He slaps down the palm of his hand as if crushing an insect. “What shit...”
Quirino runs his fingers through his hair. “A person does all he can to try to please them... turning a blind eye... putting ten people in a house... ten... and just look at what they do—”
“Case closed, I told you,” Massimiliano cuts him off. “Let’s continue.”
“Fine, let’s continue... So then” — he clears his throat. “So then, the other small building... in order, let’s say.”
“And the girl? The ‘artist’?” Massimiliano urges him on with sarcasm.
“The girl on the top floor... she’ll pay in a few days, she says. Because it’s a little expensive for her...”
“And we have a painter in our building who wants to be an alternative artist!” Massimiliano retorts. “And the Chinese?”
Quirino takes the money out of the drawer. “On time.” He puts the bills on the table. “Decent people, who work... and pay the rent.”
“Decent people, fine people,” Massimiliano mimics his father, shaking his head. “Do you know how many clothing stores they supply, those people? Do you know?”
Quirino shrugs.
“Of course they pay... that pathetic amount we charge.”
“A storeroom, Massimì. How much should we make them pay for a storeroom?”
“And how much do you think they pay those poor devils who work for them day and night like chickens? Nothing! So let’s take it out of their hide, why not?”
Quirino doesn’t answer, he counts the hundred-euro bills, enters the amount in the notebook. “There, done,” he murmurs. “And then,” he adds quickly, almost taking the words out of his son’s mouth, “and then... there’s the whole thorny matter of this building here.” He taps his finger on the tabletop.
Massimiliano twists his lips into a grimace that distorts his handsome, carefully shaved face. He suppresses a sudden fit of anger.
“Where sometimes they pay, sometimes they don’t pay...” Quirino continues. “Their pensions aren’t enough... Sor Quirì, another day or two... And a little loan here, a little loan there... and the interest is too high... What can I do about it, Massimì, if the bank doesn’t want to lend them money?”
“What can you do? Throw them out, once and for all, that’s what you should do!” his son snarls.
“What, I should start throwing people out on the street now? All these old people whom I’ve known a lifetime, Massimì? I have to keep duplicate keys to their apartments, in case they leave theirs inside, they’re so forgetful... What can I do? I raise the interest on the loans... What more can I do?... And then they come crying to me over a dead cat and whatnot... and what am I supposed to do? We’ll talk about it later, I tell them.”
“I’ll tell you what to do!” Massimiliano barks. “Sell, that’s what you should do.” He bangs his palm on the tabletop an inch from his father.
Quirino looks at him stubbornly. “Sell...” he says ironically.
“Sell, that’s right. To my real estate friend, who tells me every day, Whatever you want, Massimo, for that building there on the pedestrian strip. Name your price and I’ll pay it on the spot.”
Quirino throws up his arm. “Your friend the real estate agent...” He gives his son a scornful glance that makes him draw his head back between his shoulder blades. Then he points a finger right between his eyes. “Get it through your head.” He shakes his finger. “Quirino buys, he doesn’t sell. A little at a time... A loan here, a loan there... That’s how you get ahead: a little at a time.” He lowers his hand, begins stroking the open page of the notebook with his fingertip. “Was Rome built in a day? A little at a time, that’s how the urbs was built! Was it those real estate agents of yours who think they’re God — did they build Rome?”
Massimiliano offers a doglike expression. “What does Rome have to do with it?” Then he raises his voice. “Everything’s changing fast,” he exclaims, snapping his fingers. “The people, the money that’s circulating... And if we don’t jump at the chance we’ll lose our ass, get it, with all these whining beggars. We have to be shrewd, Dad! Shrewd!” he repeats, almost shouting. “And then” — his eyes travel over the room — “if you, too, were to go, to—”
“To...” Quirino interrupts, flaying him with his eyes. “Where is it that your father should go?”