The Reluctant Tuscan by Phil Doran

who actually lives here,” I had Nancy tell him.
    â€œYou live here?” the mayor said, his eyes brimming with innocence.
    â€œWe bought the old rustico up on the hill,” Nancy said. “The one people call ‘the Bunker.’ ”
    â€œOh, I know it well. As I child I often played there,” he said, gazing nostalgically at a framed puzzle of a lacquered Tahitian sunset.
    â€œThen you know how much work it needs,” Nancy said, “. . . and some of the problems we’ve encountered.”
    â€œWell, I really don’t know all the details.” Nancy didn’t have to translate how evasive he was becoming.
    â€œThe point is, sir,” I said, boring in, “I can’t write an article as someone who lives here, because due to this denuncia business, we don’t. And my paper’s kind of a stickler about things like that.”
    â€œI see.” He tilted back in his chair but kept level eye contact.
    â€œOf course, the sooner this little problem is solved . . . the sooner I can begin.”
    â€œFrom what little I understand, your denuncia is a rather complicated situation. With many different facets to consider.” He carefully pushed his jigsaw puzzle aside to make a little room on his desk for his elbow.
    â€œAnd you haven’t even heard our side of the story,” Nancy added.
    â€œIndeed,” he said, staring down at the unfinished board. “And that only makes it . . . uh, more of a puzzlement.”
    Nancy tried not to smile when she translated.
    â€œSome pieces fit and some don’t,” he said.
    â€œWell, sir, just because some of the pieces may be missing,” I said, “doesn’t mean there isn’t a big picture here.”
    â€œTrue.” He held up a small piece shaped like Florida. “But even when you have that missing piece in your hand, do you always know where it goes?”
    Nancy and I craned our necks to study the board and see where Florida went.
    â€œWe feel that you’re very skilled at solving puzzlements,” I said, handing him a piece shaped like a bird wing and pointing to where I thought it might fit. “So we were hoping you’d get involved.”
    â€œI’d be happy to look into it for you, signore e signora, but really there’s not much I can do until it’s been processed by the proper committee.”
    â€œI’m glad you brought that up”—I took out my notepad—“because I think our one point seven million readers would be very interested in how that process works. And especially how long it’s going to take.”
    â€œThat’s hard to predict,” he said. “But I can assure you that the Comune di Cambione is known far and wide as one of the most modern and efficient in Tuscany.”
    â€œWith all due respect, sir, I saw your office equipment and it made me nostalgic.”
    â€œOh, this mania for computers is so wrong,” he said, interrupted by the jangling of African jewelry on his assistant, who had entered with our cappuccinos.
    â€œReally?” I clicked my pen and poised to write. “Why’s that?”
    â€œWe Italians tend to make a lot of mistakes.” He winked at his assistant, who backed him up with a smile. “With a computer, once you make a mistake, poof, it’s gone! But a typewriter is slow. You make a mistake and there’s time to catch it before it goes out in the world for everyone to see.”
    â€œThat’s terrific,” I said, writing furiously. “You know, sir, it’d be a damn shame if I couldn’t do this article and the world missed out on reading about such a quotable civic leader as you.”
    â€œSì, che peccato,” he said. Yes, what a shame.
    â€œAnd what’s an article without pictures?” I said, taking out my camera.
    The mayor sat up and adjusted his tie. “Could I be doing my puzzle?”
    â€œI don’t see why