by Alaric DeArment
“It’s off the books,” Amadeo grumbled over a pile of papers without looking at me when I visited his office to ask where I could get more information about the housing project. “I will tell you when I have more time.”
A couple of days later, I Tempi di Ragusa published a breathless article in the politics section about the Trappano housing project, featuring gleaming, modern apartment buildings surrounded by trees and featuring several quotes from Ginevra.
I was livid, as I had pitched the idea of using the project as a way to promote the government and its policies, but it looked like Amadeo had decided to go around me.
“She is better for this because she knows the language,” was Amadeo’s explanation. “I am sorry, and I understand why you upset. But you can find a better project.”
I stammered a bit, trying to say something before he interrupted me. “I notice there are no withdrawals from your bank account. Take some money and to the beach or shopping in Venice or something. Maybe it makes you feel better.”
It was bad enough that he was taking away projects from me. Now, I discovered he was monitoring my bank account too.
Struggling to resist the urge to scream, I returned to my desk and sat, staring down at the photograph in the newspaper. When I was in Trappano, it was hilly like the rest of Stagno. I took a closer look at the photo and saw that this apartment building was in an area that was completely flat. Moreover, there were shops around it that appeared to have been there for some time – not abandoned, as the village was supposed to be.
I thought back to Marco Saraca’s strange remark in Lesina. “What he says is for the people,” I recited to myself.
I sat back and wondered what I was looking at. Had the reporter used a photo of some other housing development, or had Ginevra’s office provided this one?
When the weekend arrived, and with neither Amadeo nor Ginevra telling me anything, I decided to find out for myself. I told Amadeo I would take his advice and go to the beach resort in Porto Gippana, but instead donned my Signoria suit and boarded a train to Trappano. On the walk across the square to the train station, I saw holes in the ground where the metal poles had been, meaning Amadeo had made good on his promise to stop the burnings.
Upon my arrival in Trappano, I rented a car at the station to drive to the village. But exiting the station, I saw metal poles in front of the city’s church, surrounded by dark spots from ashes recently swept away.
When I got to the outskirts, I found the toll gate heavily guarded, but saw no trace of the apartment building in the photo, instead seeing a cinder block building surrounded by barbed wire and bearing a sign that read “Job Training Center” in Dalmatian.
The guards initially refused to let me through the gate, but allowed me to enter with a bow of the head and “Mio Signore” once I told them who I was, with an ID card to prove it, and lied that I was here on official business.
The building was painted tan and had almost no windows, with only a loading dock and a small doorway, but there were surveillance cameras everywhere. It was oddly silent when I stepped out of my car, at least until someone opened the door for me, a man in a gray suit whom I did not recognize. He hardly looked happy to see me, but greeted me nonetheless and invited me in.
“Is early. You are here to pick up delivery, for Rettore?” he asked in broken English, rolling his eyes as we walked down a narrow white hallway lit by fluorescent lights, akin to a hospital.
“Yes, that’s right,” I replied, looking forward.
He took me to a door at the end of the hallway, which led to a poorly lit stairwell. Up one level was another hallway, this time with a series of cells on either side with metal doors and glass windows, each with one person – man, woman or child – who sat silently on a small bed, staring at the wall. Farther down was a large open area where technicians were throwing bodies into vats of acid and draining the mixture into buckets.
Don’t react, I thought to myself.
