Man By The Pool

Chapter One – Angelo

Asilky voice on Paolo’s phone guided him through the narrow stone lanes of Frascati, a charming hill town just outside of Rome, famous for its crisp white wine.  Paolo’s head was pounding in the intense midday sun. He hadn’t realized jet lag would be so pronounced and wished he had scheduled his meeting with Angelo for the day after his arrival.  All he wanted to do was go to his hotel room, crank up the AC, and fall asleep.   

Ah, here it is, he murmured to himself, pressing the buzzer.  He heard a lock click open in the antique wooden door and pushed it open, walking into an airy courtyard filled with bright red geraniums and a small fountain.  He heard footsteps coming down a marble staircase to his right and glanced up. 

"Devi essere Paolo, the man said warmly as he traversed the final two steps, introducing himself. Sono Angelo."

Paolo extended his hand to Angelo and said, Paul.  Paul Minetti.

Nice to meet you, Paoul, he said, shifting from Paolo to Paul, raising his brows in surprise at the anglicizing of his name. 

As was his habit, he scrutinized his new client carefully.  From their correspondence, Angelo knew Paolo was forty-seven.  He wasn’t bad looking.  He had a handsome face, but he wasn’t in great shape.  Paolo’s light blue polo shirt showed no evidence of bulging biceps, defined pecs, or even broad shoulders.  He seemed nervous or frustrated as beads of sweat formed on his forehead.  His dark brown eyes darted back and forth, betraying his restlessness.

Let’s go upstairs to my office.

Paolo followed Angelo up the steep staircase into a spacious room.  He breathed a sigh of relief as he felt cool air blowing from an air conditioner.  Have a seat, Angelo said, pointing to a comfortable leather chair.  Can I offer you some espresso, mineral water, wine?

Some water, Paolo replied.  He glanced around the luminous room.  Large windows faced breathtaking views of the surrounding countryside just outside the city center.  Wood beams held up a vaulted ceiling, tall bookshelves lined the inside wall, and a rich, red Turkish carpet covered the brown tile floor.

Angelo opened a small refrigerator, pulled out a bottle of water, and poured them each a generous glass.  Angelo sat at the large desk facing the center of the room.  So, how was your trip from Boston?  You must be exhausted.

Without incident.  I’m a little tired, but glad to be here so that I can take care of things.  The sooner the better.  Paolo sat facing Angelo as if in an examination.  Lawyers made him nervous and being in Italy added to his uneasiness.  Angelo was roughly his parents’ age.  Angelo had known Paolo’s grandfather and had come highly recommended as a real estate lawyer and notary, but he didn’t make a good first impression. He was overweight, his clothes were wrinkled, and it appeared he was a heavy smoker, as an ashtray on his desk was filled with butts.  In a disorganized frenzy, he rummaged through a mishmash of papers on his desk. 

Well, I’m glad to be of assistance.  I want to go over a few things, and then we can go visit the property. 

He glanced inside a file and pulled out an official-looking document.  He continued, The title to the land and house was in your grandfather’s name.  Through the fine work of the attorneys in Boston and here in Italy, the title is now registered in yours.  I guess your power-of-attorney status worked in bypassing your parents’ right to inherit the property.  So, once we get an offer, it will be easy to complete the paperwork for a sale.

Paolo sighed and relaxed his shoulders.  Yes, my parents are in bad shape.  It’s good to hear the title is clear and there’s no obstacle to unloading it.

Are you sure you want to sell it?

Paolo nodded.  I’m certain.  There’s nothing for me here, he said without equivocation. He stared emotionlessly at Angelo, tapping the side of his chair impatiently.  

Angelo furrowed his forehead and cleared his throat.  It’s a beautiful property, one most would give an arm and a leg for, he added, hoping to elicit some sentiment from his client.  Paolo’s grandfather, Carlo, was a larger-than-life kind of person.  He loved Italy and the Roman countryside and would be horrified to know that his only grandson wanted to get rid of his little slice of heaven.  Angelo wondered why Paolo seemed so disinterested in the property or in maintaining any connection with his heritage.

Well, then, it shouldn’t be difficult to sell.  I want to get rid of it as quickly as possible.  Paolo leaned forward in his chair.

About that, Angelo said, raising a brow.  As I shared in several emails, the property has significant back taxes and bills that haven’t been paid.  Those have to be cleared up before you can put it on the market.  Then there is the matter of the property itself.  The plumbing and electricity are not up to code, and the house needs a lot of repairs.  While some people may be willing to buy something and fix it up, you would have to sell the property at a very low price because of the defects.  In my opinion, a quick renovation will be advantageous.

I don’t want to invest time or money.  It’s a headache, and I want to settle the estate as soon as I can.  Let’s just put it on the market.  How much in back taxes and other bills do I owe?

Angelo shuffled several folders on his desk and pulled one out of the stack.  He glanced inside and shook his head.  He leaned over the desk and showed Paolo the tax bill from the local municipality.  Here’s the latest invoice, and that doesn’t include utilities and other accounts.

You’re kidding! Paolo exclaimed, his heart skipping a beat at the large sum. He knew his grandfather couldn’t keep up with things at the end of his life, but he never imagined the magnitude he faced. 

I wish I were.  I think it was during the bank debacle in 2008 that your grandfather started letting things slide.  He had been selling parcels of the property to pay for taxes and upkeep.  But after 2008, no one wanted to buy land.  He was getting old.  He must have been overwhelmed.

What a fucking mess. I’ll need the revenue from the sale of the property to cover all of this, Paolo said, wiping perspiration off his forehead.

I’m afraid you’ll have to get a short-term loan, then.  That’s why it makes sense to make repairs so that you know it will sell quickly and for a good price.  You don’t want to take out a loan to pay bills and then have things sit around because people are dissuaded by the work they would have to do.

I don’t have time for all of this, Paolo said angrily.  He fidgeted in his chair and shook his head in frustration. 

Angelo nervously sorted more papers and looked off into the distance, avoiding Paolo’s agitated eyes.

Paolo stood abruptly.  He began to pace back and forth, pressing his hand against his forehead.  Argh! he exclaimed in frustration.  And what if I just walked away from it?  I don’t want it, and I can’t imagine there will be much of a profit after paying taxes, bills, and repairs.

Looking up apprehensively at Paolo pacing back and forth, Angelo said, You can’t.  No one will buy the property with the title in your name and unresolved financial issues.

But the buyers could take care of those matters.

They could, but most don’t want to take on something like that.  They imagine other problems that might be lurking under the surface and would be afraid to sign papers.  And if no one buys it in the short-term, you are still liable for taxes and for any problems that might arise – such as accidents, squatters, or environmental problems.

What a shit show!

What about your father?

What about him?

Does he have funds to pay for things?

Paolo glared at Angelo and then said, He and my mother are ill.  All of their savings are going to their medical care.

I’m sorry.

There must be some other option.  I’ve got my own work to take care of back in Boston.  I can’t afford to waste a lot of time here.

A crew is ready to begin work.  They promised me they can finish in two months.  I assure you, once the repairs have been made and overdue bills paid, you won’t have any trouble selling the land and the house.

I’ve heard that before.  Renovations always take longer than promised, and no one can guarantee real estate sales.  It’s a crap shoot.

I’ve been in the business for a long time.  I know what I’m talking about.  It will sell quickly.

When could the crew begin?

The day after tomorrow.

Paolo looked quizzically at Angelo. 

Yes. I tentatively lined things up, knowing you were in a hurry.

Well, thanks, Paolo said without much enthusiasm or warmth.

I think you should see the property so you can appreciate what needs to be done. Shall we take a look?

Paolo looked at his watch.  How long will it take?  I’m tired and not in the mood to spend a lot of time looking at the house this afternoon.

It’s a short ride outside of town.  It won’t take long.

Paolo looked at his watch again and nodded reluctantly.

I’ll drive us.  Are you ready?

Sure. Let’s get this over with.

Angelo reached into his desk for the car keys and led Paolo down the stairs and out onto the street to his car.

It’s not a long drive. You must know the route.

I haven’t been here in a while.

Angelo gazed at Paolo incredulously. 

Your grandfather loved it here.

Yes, he did.  All he could talk about was Italy this and Italy that. I never understood why he didn’t just move back here.

Angelo rolled his eyes.  He shifted gears as he made several sharp turns on the winding road that led east of the city.  The countryside was idyllic — vineyards clinging to the hillsides, cypress trees lining historic roads, groves of olive trees surrounding historic presses, and beautiful villas set on knolls with panoramic views of the surrounding landscape.  Angelo glanced over and shook his head in disbelief as he noticed Paolo checking emails on his phone rather than enjoying the passing scenery. 

Soon, Angelo turned down a gravel road.  It was shaded by umbrella pines and lined with rows of unkept grape vines.  They pulled up to the front of the house, and Paolo quickly got out of the front seat and placed his hands on his hips as he studied the house. Angelo walked up behind him, placed a hand on his shoulder and said, "Eccoci qua!"

Paolo stared at Angelo as if to convey he didn’t understand what he just said.  He hated that people presumed he spoke Italian.  His grandparents had spoken Italian to him since he was an infant, and he was fluent. But he detested the language and had no interest in using it.

Angelo gave him a curious look and repeated the phrase in English, Here we are!

Paolo took a few steps forward, gazing at the sight in front of him.  Shit, he said ponderously.  The stone and plaster building had once been quite handsome – with a pitched terra cotta tile roof, wood beamed eaves, and stone framed windows.  Frighteningly wide cracks had formed on the plaster façade and broken terra cotta roof tiles were scattered in the dead bushes and overgrown grass in the front garden. 

As you can see, the house needs substantial work, Angelo noted.

Are there foundation problems? Paolo asked as he gazed at the facade and shook his head in disbelief.

We won’t know until we get into the project.

Is it better just to tear it down?  Just sell the land?

Unfortunately, structures of this age are protected by historical regulations.

I’m not believing this! Paolo exclaimed with anger.

Hmm, yes. I’m sorry.

Let’s see the rest of the place.

Angelo led him past what had once been a verdant herb and vegetable garden and was now a mishmash of toppled stone walls and weeds.  A faded plaster statue of the Virgin Mary surprisingly remained upright on a cement pedestal. Paolo could almost imagine his grandmother picking herbs for sauce and clipping flowers for a vase she kept in the kitchen window. The garden is an easy fix, Angelo noted as they traversed it on a narrow stone walkway.  They continued forward and Angelo added, As you may recall, there is a spring-fed pool over there.

Paolo gazed down the hill toward a row of shade trees and spotted the dark green algae-filled basin.   They walked toward it and pushed aside several rusty lounge chairs lining an old stone deck.  It’s difficult to know what condition the pool is in. It needs to be emptied and cleaned.

Paolo felt his chest constrict.  A flood of conflicting emotions coursed through him. The pool had been a refuge from his grandparents, a place where he escaped to recline in the sun, sip lemonade, listen to American music on his portable CD player, and close his eyes, hoping he would wake up back in Boston. It was also the setting of his first sexual fantasies, thoughts that haunted him still. He thought he had locked them all deep inside, but now, standing at the edge of the stagnant water, he was startled by how vivid and alive they were.

Angelo nudged him out of his daze and said, Let’s walk around the back and see the barn and cellar.

They traversed a walkway behind the house, where more tiles were missing from the roof and larger cracks had formed on the walls.  About 50 meters from the house, they approached a structure built into the hillside. 

You must remember this combination barn and cellar where your grandfather kept his tractor and tools and made wine, Angelo noted as he searched for a key hidden behind some stones.  He found it and opened the rusty lock, prying open the large antique wooden doors.  He reached for a flashlight on a nearby shelf, turned it on, and beamed light into the cavernous space.  By the way, the electricity has been turned off.  The work crew will have a generator.  Once the electrician does his work, we can request that the utilities be restored.  Come this way.

Angelo led Paolo into the cellar.  It smelled of hay, oil, and earth. A faint aroma of fermented grapes floated through the air.  On the left side of the entrance was an old tractor.  Paolo believed it was the same vehicle he had driven nearly 30 years ago.  He shook his head in disbelief. 

Angelo pivoted to the other side of the space and gestured toward several tall stainless-steel vats. Here is the equipment for making wine.  From what I’m told, it is in relatively good shape.

They continued deeper into the cellar.  Angelo continued, These are the barrels your grandfather used to age the wine, and over there is what remains of his collection. The bottles are at least 10 years old.

Do you think the wine is any good? Paolo asked, trying to bring into focus the racks of bottles concealed by the shadows Angelo’s flashlight created on the moist stone walls. Paolo feared they were intruding into the domain of mice and feral animals who, at any moment, might jump out and race past them. 

You’ll have to try them.

Paolo raised his brows.

What do you think? Angelo asked, worried about Paolo’s reaction.

The cellar seems to be in relatively good shape, but let’s go see the house.  I have a feeling it’s not going to be a pretty picture.

They retraced their steps and walked toward the back entry of the villa.  Angelo had a key and unlocked the weathered wooden door. They walked into the kitchen.  There was a dead mouse on the plain tile floor near the refrigerator.  Paolo opened its door and smelled the mold inside.  Shit! he exclaimed. 

He opened a couple of cabinets, discovering old cans of vegetables, jars of spices, and olive oil.  It’s like everything is frozen in time, Paolo remarked.

I imagine your grandparents thought they were coming back, and at some point, didn’t.  No one came afterwards to clear things out.

Paolo looked around the space and imagined the cost of replacing appliances, cabinetry, countertops, and flooring. He shook his head, fearing he was embarking on a terribly expensive renovation.  They walked into the adjoining dining area filled with an antique table, chest, and rickety chairs. Paolo ran his finger through a heavy layer of dust covering the oak surface.  He could almost imagine his parents and grandparents gathered for a formal meal – passing pasta, salad, grilled vegetables, and crusty