1. THE FAIR
Milan, 11 May 2008 – Sunday
Federico had already come to terms with it: for some men, it’s hard to ask a favor. It’s like admitting defeat in the covert war they are fighting. They seem to have embedded in their character the will to solve everything by themselves, under penalty of public humiliation and shameful exposure. Federico was reluctant to ask for help. But while he knew that he felt that pain even more than others, he also wanted to offer a unique experience to his son Manfredi. He had no choice but to do one of the things he hated the most: soliciting his boss to invite them to his house in the city and watch the explosion together.
The fair was, in fact, only a hundred and fifty meters away from Giorgio’s balcony: the minimum distance to watch the event indoors. A crowd had already rushed into Domodossola Square, with Security keeping everybody back at the prescribed safety distance of three hundred meters for those outdoors. They were all exalted to attend the most significant demolition ever in Italy. A ton of explosives was set to blow up the Pavilion 20 of the Fiera Campionaria: the equivalent of eight hundred three-room apartments.
Federico was even more elated looking to the North: the San Siro Stadium stood up, fronting a line of white-capped mountains biting their teeth into a strip of clouds. Above them, the spring sky.
His attention was taken aback by the building as the countdown began: “Three, two, one, go!”
The roar of three cannon blasts swept away all other sound waves in the city.
At 10:07 a.m., the base of the construction crumbled, and the rest fell like a drunken giant whose legs had given way. But the colossus didn’t get up; what rose in its place was a cloud of smoke and rubble that darkened the stadium, the mountains, and the sky, while the smell of gelignite saturated the air.
Federico felt the adrenaline rush from detonations coursing through his body and turning into worry. The explosion’s shock wave made Manfredi gasp for breath and cling to his father’s leg.
Ten seconds, and only debris was left of the pavilion. In its place, the curved skyscraper designed by Daniel Libeskind would be built in the new area to be called City Life.
They went back into the house. Giorgio started brewing coffee while Manfredi regained his breath and resumed the drawing he was coloring. He tilted his head as if trying to perceive its depth: “Papi, I like the sky so much. Can you please pass me the color of the sky?”
Federico passed the blue crayon to Manfredi and turned to Giorgio: “A nice way to celebrate our last success.”
Giorgio didn’t answer, but Federico smiled at him and put on a CD that he had brought to play for his boss. He laughed when he heard the lyrics of the song. He explained its meaning to his Managing Director, who didn’t know the Abruzzese dialect.
“Why is this music so funny?” Manfredi asked.
“It’s a song from Abruzzo; the words make me smile.”
“And what is it talking about?”
“It’s about a hut that reminds me of a stone building made by your great-grandfather. I used to hide there when I was a boy.”
He started the song again and sipped the coffee, cursing silently: Giorgio had let the Moka pot boil. Federico hated the taste of burnt rubber in the coffee. He masked an expression of disgust, but he didn’t comment. He realized he hadn’t thoroughly enjoyed the song, not even this second time. So, he took the remote control and started it again.
He looked at Giorgio, who walked into his home office next to the living room. Federico gulped his coffee and followed him.
Giorgio was looking out the window. The cloud of dust was still hiding the view of the mountains: “My friend, the world is changing. Faster than we think.”
Federico hated when he called him ‘my friend’ but avoided to start being argumentative. He knew his sarcasm would have only caused him more trouble: “What do you mean? What’s the problem? My production plants are doing well. That’s why I wanted to celebrate.”
“Sometimes things are bad for everyone, but good for you. Other times, they are bad for you, but good for everyone else.”
Federico’s mobile vibrated. Stefania texted to remind him not to feed Manfredi meat or cheese, but only fruit and vegetables—plus a thousand other recommendations. And to ‘remember to send the alimony check and to cover the medical expenses of last month.’
“What’s up?” Giorgio asked.
Federico put the phone back in his pocket and returned to the earlier discussion: “Will you tell me how we are doing?”
“I guess you haven’t seen the latest oil prices.”
“No, I had to take care of a personal matter.”
“So, relax for now. We can’t do anything today. It’s Sunday. Come to my office tomorrow at nine, and I’ll show you the numbers. I’ll get them tonight. There could also be important updates for you. But now, let’s get back to your son, who has been drawing for a while all by himself.”
Federico already knew about what Giorgio called “updates.” He hoped he wouldn’t have to justify himself again for not having accepted the secondment to Germany. He had refused, so he didn’t have to move away from his son, but even if his boss understood the reason, Giorgio had changed his attitude towards him. They were on good terms and continued to see each other outside of work. But Federico had noticed that Giorgio was trusting him less and less, although Federico had turned a disastrous situation around. He applied his logic and mathematical knowledge to such an extent that the plants he was responsible for were now profitable and efficient. That had helped Giorgio’s career, even if the Managing Director had always been skeptical about numbers. He never congratulated Federico, who now looked Giorgio in the eyes and felt the same bitterness in his throat as when he refused the ex-pat’s proposal.
Giorgio shook his head and then nodded: “I’ll tell you more tomorrow. Take it easy.”
“‘Take-it-easy’ died, stabbed in the back by ‘trust-me.’”
Giorgio smiled as he pursed his lips and patted him on the shoulder, while he motioned with his other hand for Federico to return to his son.
2. A WORLD OF COLORS
Milan, 11 May 2008 – Sunday
Manfredi stood up to close the curtains, dimming the light in the living room. He sat down and returned to his coloring:
“I like the sun so much. Would you pass me the color of the sun, Papi?”
“Sure, Manfredi, here it is.”
He always called him Manfredi, without diminutives. When people asked him about that, he said that if he wanted to call him Freddie or Manfry—as Stefania did—he would have named him so.
“What are you drawing?”
“I am working on a story. The teacher asked us to draw a treasure we may have heard about. I chose the bandit’s treasure; the story of my great-grandfather.”
Federico had told Manfredi how his grandfather once let it slip that, ‘one of these days,’ he would look for that ‘little paper’ that had instructions on where to locate the treasure. He had put the note in the cellar and had hidden it so well that the last time he looked for it, he could not find it anymore. Federico had searched for it several times among the piles of tools, sawdust, screws, and nails. To no avail. After his grandfather died, everyone agreed that the ‘little paper’ was just a story made up by a loving grandfather to entertain his grandchildren.
Manfredi continued with his homework: “Papi, would you pass me the color of the golden eagle’s feathers?”
He said ‘eagle’ with emphasis, swelling his chest and mimicking a flight with spread wings. Manfredi had drawn the mountains, a boot full of gold coins, and a flying eagle. Then he took the blue crayon from the box and colored another part of the sky.
“Papi, when are you taking me to Abruzzo?”
“One day, I will.”
“You always say that, but then you never do it.”
Federico hoped to put off explaining why until Manfredi was old enough to understand. However, he suspected that it was he who had to grow up and find the courage to tell his son the cause of his hesitation—a reason he had hated for almost thirty years.
Federico unclenched his jaw while looking over at Giorgio, who was staring at him as if he were reading his mind.
Manfredi continued: “Papi, the teacher said that many hidden treasures are found every year. I would like us to be the ones who uncover the bandits’ treasure.”
Federico caressed his son’s head, messing up his hair. He would love to go back and become a child again like Manfredi and be able to lose himself in such wild daydreaming. For Federico, these stories were a way to fantasize about a world that no longer existed: hidden caves, chests of gold, ferocious bandits.
“And are we going back to see the hawks again?”
Giorgio was surprised: “What?”
Federico clarified: “Yes, we have been watching the urban nesting of hawks for eight years now. In Bologna, a pair of peregrine falcons have a nest on the thirteenth floor of one of the Kenzō towers in the Fair district.”
“Dad once saved one of them. He saw it in the high grass. We took it to the hotel. We gave it food and water. It stayed on the balcony for the night, and then he flew away”.
Giorgio shook his head: “Who knows if they will ever come to Milan?”
For Giorgio, Milan was the center of the world. Relevant things happened only in Milan. He would have had to wait another nine years before the renovation of the Pirelli skyscraper revealed, at its top, a nest with two peregrine falcons, Giulia and Giò.
Manfredi asked for another color:
“Papi, I want to work on the grass of the hill. Would you pass me the green, please?”
While he was texting his reply to Stefania, Federico passed Manfredi the crayon. Manfredi colored the grass and then showed his father the drawing: “Papi, look: how is it coming along?”
Federico took the picture and examined it with his own eyes. The sky was a cloudless blue, with a shining sun. On the hill sat a boot full of gold coins. But when he looked down, his eyes widened, and when he saw the grass, his jaw fell. The drawing made no sense; it seemed that blood was pouring out all over the hill: “Manfredi, what crayon did you use to color the grass?”
“The green one, Papi. The grass is green; what kind of questions are you asking me?”
Federico realized that, distracted by his cell phone, he had accidentally passed him the red crayon and that Manfredi had used it thinking it was green. He looked at his son and held his breath. He remembered how Manfredi had taken only the blue from the box. And that was after he had already used it. He had then always asked him for the other colors. Federico kept his cool and put his suspicion to the test:
“And what color do we make the car?”
“Yellow, of course. Like New York cabs.”
Federico deliberately passed him the green, and Manfredi, without hesitation, used it to color the car. The confirmation he was looking for made him wince; he stood up and pushed his chair behind him, bringing his hand to his mouth while he leaned his other hand against the edge of the table.
“What’s wrong, Papi?”
Federico looked at Manfredi and felt the weight of his discovery sink onto his shoulders. He let his chest fall, together with all of himself, and sank into the armchair.
“I hoped that by now it was over.”
Giorgio came closer: “What are you talking about?”
“The family curse. It has just found its next victim.”
“A curse?”
“I can’t believe I didn’t see it coming. What kind of father am I?”
“Federico, what do you mean?”
“My son. He is losing his eyesight.”
3. A CRUMBLING CASTLE
Milan, Monday – 12 May 2008
Federico had brought Manfredi back to Stefania after the weekend. He had not yet told her anything about his vision problems, but only that he would schedule a routine eye examination. He went to bed with Giorgio’s words, ‘there is important news, also for you,’ and thoughts of Manfredi’s illness, which turned and twisted his mind and body all night.
The following morning, he woke up only after his third coffee. He took another one in the bar outside his office building, where he had stopped to read selected articles carefully from the newspapers. He read about the explosion they had witnessed the day before. A new neighborhood would take place, including three skyscrapers by Isozaki, Hadid, and Libeskind. The journalist reported that the last tower had been much debated, and so they decided that they would reduce its curvature.
Another article discussed the need to fire ‘lazy employees’; it said that new rules were already available, just waiting to be applied.
He went to the stock exchange. Last Friday, oil broke through at $126.59 per barrel and closed at $125.64. In January, it was quoted at 91.6. Almost a 40% increase in less than five months. A crazy race.
That’s why Giorgio was so worried.
Federico tried vainly to put aside his concern for Manfredi and climbed the steps into the building. Federico entered his boss’s office when the second hand touched the minute hand. At 9 o’clock, sharp.
He was annoyed by the presence of the human resources manager and stopped halfway between the door and Giorgio’s desk. The boss remained serious and blinked only once before speaking: “Have a seat. Coffee?”
“Yes. Black, please.”
Giorgio called the secretary, ordered coffee, and continued:
“Yesterday, you asked me how we were doing. Were you able to look at the stock exchange this morning?”
“Yes. Oil’s price broke through at one hundred and twenty-six dollars a barrel. As my model predicted, I believe it will reach almost one hundred fifty, and then it will fall back.”
“But meanwhile, we are paying it far too much. The processing costs us even more, so the products we sell are too expensive.”
Federico smiled. “That’s why we have included those clauses that allow us to adjust our prices to the increase in the cost of oil and fuel.”
“You may remember that we have accepted a special condition with some customers. It provides that they can terminate the contract if the oil price goes above one hundred and twenty-five dollars.”
“I didn’t know about this clause. Who granted it?”
“I didn’t remember it, either. Our largest customers refreshed my memory on Friday night. And the other two clients have already left us. We lost a hundred million in revenues.”
“Wasn’t the Contracts’ office the super smart department we were supposed to emulate? How could you have accepted such a clause?”
After he spoke, Federico rubbed the four fingers of his left hand along the scar on his left cheek, where he could feel his tongue pushing it out.
“Don’t be the usual argumentative know-it-all. They convinced me that oil would never reach that price. A chain reaction has been triggered. We must reduce our costs.”
“Then let’s cut the Contracts office, and with the saved money, give me a bonus since I predicted what would have happened. I also deserve a promotion since I suggested you put in those safety clauses.”
“You don’t seem to understand that the situation is much more serious. It’s a domino effect. Other customers will exercise the option, and even those who don’t have it will still not be able to sell products that have become unaffordable. Our parent company has decided to reduce fixed costs to be more competitive. It is the law of the market. These things are bigger than us; we can’t do anything about it.”
“What does it mean specifically?”
At that point, Giorgio was brutal: “They are closing half the factories. The ones assigned to you. Your position is eliminated. You are liberated, along with all the members of your department.”
Federico turned his head as if he had taken a slap, put his thumbnail between his teeth, and looked out the window. The Milan cathedral appeared white, as if sprinkled with salt dust. He saw the spires turn into tongues of fire; he imagined himself taking the golden halberd of the Holy Mother and pitching it into Giorgio’s chest.
Instead, he stood up, combed his hair with his hand, and turned back towards his boss, raising his voice: “Liberated? What kind of word is that? Come on; I can’t believe it. It can’t possibly be true. You have pushed us for years with that story of quality and processes. I have improved the operation of all my plants. I have put in the right clauses to absorb the impact of adverse scenarios. And now I’m hearing that the smart-asses, who have always claimed to be the model of how everybody had to work, have accepted clauses that can make us close the shop. And you support them and fire me?”
“The consequences will be there for them as well, as for everyone. I’m sorry, it’s not my decision.”
Federico raised his voice even louder; the HR manager pressed herself against the back of the chair she had pushed against the wall with her feet.
“All excuses. Don’t they know that in Italy, you can’t dismiss people so easily?”
In the face of Federico’s angry cries, Giorgio maintained his composure: “Do you know how many companies went bankrupt in Italy in the first quarter of 2008? One thousand per month. The worst results since 2000. And fewer new companies are forming, evidently discouraged by the business climate and the fact that banks are beginning to grant credit with much mistrust. And do you know how many jobs have been lost? Did you think you were immune to it? You, the only genius who, during the job interview, was able to answer the question: ‘how many ping pong balls can fit in a Boeing 747?’”
“In Lombardy, companies don’t go bankrupt that easily.”
“Then learn to deal with the real world, not just abstruse intellectual challenges. In the first quarter of this year, more than seven thousand people in Lombardy had been laid off. In each of those companies, there were people like you and me, and each had a low probability of losing their job. Let’s say two out of a thousand; maybe you don’t know even one of them. What do you say? Is it a low number? But what if you are one of those two? Think of the stadium during the last game. One hundred sixty people watching it will lose their jobs within three months. These are the current, actual numbers.
Federico understood that he couldn’t do anything; he had nothing more to say. He had always seen Giorgio as an ally, perhaps even a friend.
“We were at your place just yesterday. You already knew everything. You saw that my son is going blind. And you dump me like this?”
“I couldn’t tell you in advance. Nothing personal.”
It’s always personal.
Federico looked at the human resources manager.
“So why don’t you call your department ‘in-human resources’ from now on?”
And at that, words stopped in his throat. He felt the taste of the coffee coming up in his mouth, pushed by his heartbeat. He tried to swallow and dropped. Unconscious.
When he recovered his senses, he saw Giorgio’s secretary checking his blood pressure. Giorgio continued, and his voice was dry, like a morsel of stale bread, although the words were meant to be comforting.
“Federico, it’s a difficult moment; we do realize it. We are in a crisis. We have to prepare ourselves for a new era. But you have to keep calm.”
“Calm? I am ruined. I need my job; I have a small child, a debt on my shoulders bigger than the house I bought it with, and an alimony check to pay.”
“We are sorry.”
Giorgio put everything on the table, almost as if he enjoyed diving into the muddy waters of reality.
“You asked for an advance from the pension fund, almost all of it, to buy your house. And in these cases, there are no additional severance payments.”
“What? Nothing at all? Have we become so immoral?”
“Did you believe that severance payments are given out of a sense of honor? Big companies treated those they sent away well because they would rather not discourage those who came after, since they would expect at least the same guarantees. Here, however, we are shaken at our foundations; we don’t even know if there will be an ‘after.’ However, I got one week’s salary for every year you worked with us.”
“But I’ve only been here for three years. I won’t even make it to the end of the month. You are killing me.”
The human resources manager tried to reassure him:
“With your skills, you will find a new job. We will support you with an outplacement company.”
Federico didn’t feel any relief at those words. He only felt the taste of coffee, the weight on his chest choking him, and the grip of despair in his gut. He put his things away in a few boxes. They had already prepared them; he wrote his address on them in handwriting that looked like the report of a seismograph. They would have these sent to him. He went to get his coat in the closet near the reception, and when he saw the gray locker where Giorgio kept his gym bag, he punched it. The metal resonated throughout the office and took the shape of his knuckles. The secretary looked away, returning to file her nails.
Stefania reacted with resentment:
“And your best response was to hurt your hand?”
“What else could I have done? They have eliminated the role. The crisis, which started in America last summer, is spreading worldwide. First, with unpaid mortgages, now with oil. The worst recession in decades is expected.”
“And are you telling me you didn’t have any clues?”
“I knew it, but I didn’t consider it serious.”
“And now, what do we do? You are so selfish.”
“What does being selfish have to do with it?”
“If you had not been so self-centered, you would have been more careful; you would have done something; you would have pushed them back. And instead, you are being slapped by everyone. You couldn’t even fight for your son. Manfredi needs you, and what do you do? You get yourself fired like the last of the fools.”
“It’s not that ‘I got myself fired.’ THEY fired me.”
“Because THEY know that you are weak. You should have been smarter.”
“What is that supposed to mean? I don’t have a handbook for that.”
“These are not things you learn in a manual.”
“So, where do you learn them?”
“These are things that a man knows. Especially a father.”
Federico returned home on trembling legs. He sat down and had a mental review of the situation. Among the few savings, the alimony he owed Stefania every month, and the mortgage to pay, he had enough to last about three months. He felt his bowels tighten again.
He would have to look for a fallback job.
He had to move fast.
Meanwhile, he may have been lucky enough to sell the house before the crisis hit other sectors. Maybe from the sale, he would have had something left to move forward. With little strength, he immediately set appointments with the ophthalmologist, a real estate agency, and a headhunter.
When he hung up after the last call, he tried to encourage himself: while there’s life, there is hope.
But life had become more concrete than a sidewalk on which that hope had just slammed its face after stumbling.