faithfully promising escalating fines the longer I postpone paying them. The companies behind them are not to know that their final sanction, the threat to cut off their services, merely makes me laugh. And in the offices of Assicurazioni San Bernardino da Siena, the agency that unwisely insured both my house and my car, I encounter the expected thicket of small print and unread clauses designed to let the company slither out of any obligations it once implied it would honour. A horrid glued-on fingernail gleaming with crimson lacquer draws my eyes to the clause, in print a bacterium would need a magnifying glass to read, stating the company’s grudging preparedness to reimburse me the current value of the house as it presently stands.
‘Unfortunately, signore, it no longer stands, does it? Regrettably , therefore, it has no current value.’ The creature rapsher claws on the policy as though the whole matter were settled . She has a lot to learn about Gerald Samper. A wedge-shaped piece of wood on her desk announces her as Dottoressa Paola Strangolagalli, a name that gives you some idea of her family’s antecedents. They probably had to make their own furniture.
‘Preposterous,’ I tell her. ‘I can’t be bothered to argue here and now. I shall have my solicitor handle the entire business. This is a perfectly standard Act of God for which I am covered and indemnified. Houses are always falling down, often on their owners’ cars. You agreed to insure mine sight unseen, and that was your own look-out. Do you really think the saint whose name this company has adopted would have tried to wriggle out of such a moral commitment? I notice your letter-head presumptuously includes San Bernardino’s famous IHS plaque, which he devised so that the crowds who heard him preach would venerate the Holy Name of Jesus. Undoubtedly you know that this native of Massa was celebrated all over Italy for restoring stolen or defrauded property? I rest my case.’ It really pays to do your homework. These proliferating Catholic saints often have considerable ironic value. I doubt if I know a single Maria who is a virgin.
‘I shall need to confer with our head office.’
‘As opposed to your conscience?’ On this tetchy note I leave. But there’s nothing to lose. My solicitor will do the donkey work, after which I shall not again be putting my custom into the hands of Assicurazioni S. Bernardino da Siena, especially not when they wear glued-on talons the colour of fresh blood. I spend the rest of the day visiting old acquaintances, not least of whom being my solicitor. I also hire a car.
The next morning, having avoided switching on BBCNN, I am drawn irresistibly back to the scene of my tragedy. I drive up through Greppone along the winding mountain road that eventually peters out in a realm of crags and buzzards. Just before it does there is a short track leading slightly downwards to the left. I bump along it. The view of Le Roccie is at oncewarmly familiar and painfully strange. The immediate trees seem unchanged but the expected roofs beyond them are gone. Someone has closed my barrier with a bright new chain, wound it with police-style dayglo tape and hung a medley of notices on it: Proprietà Privata. Attenti ai Cani. Zona Proibita Senza Esclusione. Via Interdetta, Sia per Veicoli o Pedonali. Pericolo di Morte! In addition, panels of rusty builder’s mesh have been secured across the track. The effect of all this drama is spoiled by a clearly trodden path off to one side that simply avoids the whole caboodle and gives easy access to what is left of my property. With misgivings I note a car cavalierly parked halfway down the track leading to Marta’s house. I prepare to deal mercilessly with intruders.
Feeling almost like an intruder myself, I pick my way between the trees and in past the barricade. It really is very strange, the huge gulf that now yawns to the left: a pit of sky and blue panorama where until so recently
‘Unfortunately, signore, it no longer stands, does it? Regrettably , therefore, it has no current value.’ The creature rapsher claws on the policy as though the whole matter were settled . She has a lot to learn about Gerald Samper. A wedge-shaped piece of wood on her desk announces her as Dottoressa Paola Strangolagalli, a name that gives you some idea of her family’s antecedents. They probably had to make their own furniture.
‘Preposterous,’ I tell her. ‘I can’t be bothered to argue here and now. I shall have my solicitor handle the entire business. This is a perfectly standard Act of God for which I am covered and indemnified. Houses are always falling down, often on their owners’ cars. You agreed to insure mine sight unseen, and that was your own look-out. Do you really think the saint whose name this company has adopted would have tried to wriggle out of such a moral commitment? I notice your letter-head presumptuously includes San Bernardino’s famous IHS plaque, which he devised so that the crowds who heard him preach would venerate the Holy Name of Jesus. Undoubtedly you know that this native of Massa was celebrated all over Italy for restoring stolen or defrauded property? I rest my case.’ It really pays to do your homework. These proliferating Catholic saints often have considerable ironic value. I doubt if I know a single Maria who is a virgin.
‘I shall need to confer with our head office.’
‘As opposed to your conscience?’ On this tetchy note I leave. But there’s nothing to lose. My solicitor will do the donkey work, after which I shall not again be putting my custom into the hands of Assicurazioni S. Bernardino da Siena, especially not when they wear glued-on talons the colour of fresh blood. I spend the rest of the day visiting old acquaintances, not least of whom being my solicitor. I also hire a car.
The next morning, having avoided switching on BBCNN, I am drawn irresistibly back to the scene of my tragedy. I drive up through Greppone along the winding mountain road that eventually peters out in a realm of crags and buzzards. Just before it does there is a short track leading slightly downwards to the left. I bump along it. The view of Le Roccie is at oncewarmly familiar and painfully strange. The immediate trees seem unchanged but the expected roofs beyond them are gone. Someone has closed my barrier with a bright new chain, wound it with police-style dayglo tape and hung a medley of notices on it: Proprietà Privata. Attenti ai Cani. Zona Proibita Senza Esclusione. Via Interdetta, Sia per Veicoli o Pedonali. Pericolo di Morte! In addition, panels of rusty builder’s mesh have been secured across the track. The effect of all this drama is spoiled by a clearly trodden path off to one side that simply avoids the whole caboodle and gives easy access to what is left of my property. With misgivings I note a car cavalierly parked halfway down the track leading to Marta’s house. I prepare to deal mercilessly with intruders.
Feeling almost like an intruder myself, I pick my way between the trees and in past the barricade. It really is very strange, the huge gulf that now yawns to the left: a pit of sky and blue panorama where until so recently
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