Rancid Pansies by James Hamilton-Paterson

but I can’t yet make out its direction.
    ‘Because you and I are such old friends’ – Benedetti’s eyes guilelessly take in the flyblown ceiling overhead that still bears signs of the exuberance surrounding Italy’s last World Cup win – ‘I will tell you something you will not have heard me say once I’ve said it. It is that gossip in our small world suggests la signora Marta has already made enquiries about the status of your remaining land at Le Roccie.’
    ‘ Ahh .’ Not to me, she hasn’t. Devious bitch. Wants to expand her little empire, I suppose.
    ‘Yes indeed. I expect you are wondering about property values and so on.’
    ‘Suppose I were. What would you say my remaining land is currently worth? In round figures?’
    ‘In round figures? Precisely zero, I’m afraid. The roundest figure of all.’ Benedetti darts me an intense glance as if daring me to protest that only a few years ago he had promised me its value could only ever go up in leaps and bounds. ‘How could it be otherwise, signore? You would never get planning permission to rebuild a house up there even if you wanted to. And if by some miracle you did, no one would insure it for you.’
    ‘I suppose not.’
    ‘Definitely not. As terreno it is valueless. It is not agricultural land, nor is it proper forest. At best it is merely sottobosco . And blighted sottobosco at that.’
    It’s dreadfully upsetting to hear my treasured patch of Eden so described. ‘You mean I might as well give it to Marta?’ I exclaim bitterly.
    ‘Ah, but would the signora want it? Don’t forget that from the moment of the earthquake, the value of her own house halved.’
    ‘Really?’ I perk up a bit.
    ‘Of course. Who else would want to live there when one day a slightly bigger tremor might drop her house into the gulf as well? I fully understand your predicament, maestro, and I am overwhelmed by sympathy. Both you and la signora are artists. You must have silence and solitude. However, I promise you need not search out wildernesses above the snow line in order to find an ideal house for yourself in this area.’
    Good God, I do believe he’s going to try and sell me another house! The nerve of the man! One really has to admire his chutzpah. ‘No doubt you have somewhere in mind?’
    Again Benedetti scans the ceiling. Some of the adhering flecks may be the dried toppings of ice creams that were hurled heavenwards at the moment of Italy’s winning goal: peppermint and chocolate sprinkles and the like. For the first time Inotice that the little round grey marks are actually dimples in the plaster, no doubt impacts from the metal-topped corks of shaken spumante bottles. ‘But when I say your property is valueless ,’ he says as though I hadn’t asked the question, ‘that is true only in terms of the terreno .’
    ‘Oh? So what else is there? Don’t tell me the landslip has exposed an Etruscan hypogeum full of treasures? Or an unexpected vein of gold, perhaps?’
    ‘I’m afraid not. No, I am still thinking of your Princess Diana.’
    And suddenly I get it. Of course . How dumb I’ve been! So fixated have I become on the demise of my beautiful home that I have been blind to alternative possibilities. Seeing my expression Benedetti nods, the lights gleaming in his jet black thatch where only a few months ago they would have glistened pinkly on his scalp. Does he take it off at night and put it on a stand? I wonder. Or does Mrs Weasel like to run her fingers through it when hormonally urged? And why does this make me feel marginally more softly disposed towards him?
    ‘You see?’ he says with a smile. ‘But it will need quite careful management. How much need I tell you , maestro, of all people: a local resident of such exquisite knowledge and perceptiveness ? It has long been a cause for regret that our little town, though richly historic, lacks the somewhat obvious attractions that cause tourists to flock to our neighbours. Viareggio is an