Chapter 49
AT MY NEXT ITALIAN LESSON, I asked Francesca about the City Council meeting. She said she hadn’t gone but her nephew had been there. Apparently, he worked for La Spedizione, which was a small newspaper that covered northern Sardinia.
“What do you want to know?” she asked.
We were sitting on her balcony, demi cups of espresso in front of us, and she was reviewing my homework, which I had put an absurd amount of time into because I desperately wanted to impress her. “Is it true that everyone wants us out?”
She smiled. “Not everyone.”
I rolled my eyes at her because I was pretty sure she was splitting hairs.
“Okay, okay. The PCI and the PSI definitely want you out.”
“Those are the communists and the socialists,” I said, proud of myself for remembering the acronyms.
“Yes, but there’s also the PSDI and the PSIUP, and they’re also socialists.”
“Are all of them on La Maddalena’s City Council?”
“No, no,” she said. “There are so many political parties in Italy, it’d be impossible to have them all on City Council.”
“But the PCI and the PSI are there?”
She took a sip of espresso. “Mmm-hmm.”
“And it’s the PCI that called the City Council meeting?”
Francesca acknowledged that this was true. “The communists want the mayor to reconsider his position on the American base.”
“And who’s the mayor?”
“A man named Gregorio Manzoni. He’s a member of the Democrazia Cristiana party, which holds a majority both here and in Rome, but only because the DC is in bed with the Americans.”
At the time, I thought Francesca was being a little harsh, but now I realize she was actually holding back.
“We have an election, the DC loses seats. The U.S. throws more money at them, they win seats. And the cycle repeats itself.”
It was clear Francesca was disgusted, which made me wonder about her own political allegiances. “So, you’re not a supporter?”
“Of Manzoni?” she said. I had meant the party, but I got the sense that she’d intentionally misinterpreted the question. “He’s fine. But he’s got to stop letting the Americans walk all over him.”
“In what way do the Americans walk all over him?”
“Well, take the environmental testing your husband does,” she said. “We keep telling Manzoni that he must insist on seeing the numbers, that we need some kind of confirmation the water is safe.”
“And does he do that? Demand to see the numbers?”
“Of course not,” she said. “He tells us he doesn’t need to see them because he has assurances that the U.S. Navy is following the same safety precautions and procedures they observe in their own ports.”
I recalled what Paul had told me that first afternoon at the hotel. “Aren’t they?”
“How would we know?” she said, clearly frustrated.
“We’re just asked to take the Americans’ word for it.
All the time. It’s why everyone’s so outraged.
We didn’t get a say in the submarine tender coming to La Maddalena, and now we’ve got all these submarines coming and going, and we’re not even allowed to ask questions. ”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“It’s not your fault,” she said, brusquely. “But if you want to know why the PCI called the meeting, it’s because they feel—quite strongly—that Sardinians should get to decide what happens in Sardinia.”