Chapter 22
TOM INTRODUCED US TO MARCELLO Conte, who had recently been hired to run the Housing Support Office.
He was Italian but spoke excellent English, and he was all apologies as he ushered us into his office, which consisted of a metal desk and a couple of folding chairs.
“The housing situation here—as you have probably heard—it is not so good.”
“We know there’s no military housing,” Paul offered.
Marcello nodded. “Correct. We’re building some units, for officers, up at Trinità, but they won’t be ready in time to help you.”
Paul shifted in his seat.
“And it is a difficult time to find a rental.”
“Tom did say it’s a challenge, competing with the tourists,” said Paul.
“Are you interested in living in Palau or La Maddalena?” Marcello asked.
I had fallen in love with the island on that first ferry ride, and I glanced at Paul, trying to gauge his feelings. “La Maddalena, right?”
Marcello reached for a black three-ring binder. “It is just the two of you? No bambini?”
“Not yet,” said Paul with an embarrassed grin.
Marcello gave me an appraising look. “You’re not pregnant?”
It was a pretty personal question, but I came to understand what he was getting at. We’d qualify for a larger housing allowance, and thus better accommodations, if we had kids. I thought of the diaphragm I’d been fitted for before we left Charleston, shook my head, and said I wasn’t.
“Then you get about one hundred and fifty-seven thousand lire a month, which is about two hundred and forty dollars.” It sounded like a lot of money to me, but Marcello set us straight. “If you were in Sassari or Alghero, that much money would get you a palace. But not in La Maddalena.”
He spun the binder around on the desk so we could see it. “This apartment on Via Cala Chiesa, for example, rents for one hundred and twenty-five thousand lire.” He pointed at a brief description of the property. “It’s thirty square meters.”
I was completely unfamiliar with the metric system, so there was little chance I was going to do the conversion in my head. “How big is that?”
“About double the size of this room.”
Paul and I looked around the office. “Okay, so maybe not that one,” Paul said.
Marcello flipped to another page. “This one may come available in June, but it is above Café Gargiulo.”
“Is that bad?” I asked.
“Café Gargiulo is the bar all of your American sailors like best.”
“That’s bad?” I asked Paul, and the grimace he gave me said very bad.
Marcello asked if we had shipped a car, and Paul told him we had. “It should be here by the end of May.”
“There are a few places in the center of the island that come up from time to time. It’s not quite as competitive to get them because you need a car to get into town, and the tourists don’t always bring them.”
“That might work,” said Paul with some hesitation. I assumed he was thinking the same thing I was, that if he took our one car to work each morning, I’d be stranded at the house all day.
“You’re at the Excelsior?” Marcello asked.
We nodded.
“I’ll find you.”
“When?” we asked in unison.
“When I have something to show you. Until then, just try to convince yourself you’re on holiday.”
Paul let out an awkward laugh, and Marcello came around the desk and clapped him on the shoulder. “When else is someone going to pay you to stay in a nice hotel on a Mediterranean island?”
He had a point.