Sketches from the Campagna: Soil and Rain

The man wore sunglasses and the driver wore a cap, but neither helped much. The sky was unbearably blue. Sweating through his blazer the man stared, annoyed, at the stunted brush and gnarled cactus on the roadside. The driver was talking ceaselessly, his third cigarette on his lip, and occaisonally the man replied. Every time the driver adressed the man directly he used a plural pronoun, which made the man cringe.

“I can assure you, signuri, I can personally assure you that this is a fine piece of land. You won't find better in this zone.”

“Right.”

The truck was rounding a curve by a thicket of dead cane. Evidently a creek had run through this part, but had not survived the ravages of August. The road had at one point been paved.

“I know it doesn't look like much, signuri, but that's because the summer has been very dry. If you wait for the rain you'll see how good it is. Good soil. Personally, signuri, if I was the padruni of a piece of land like this I'd have vines – vines, vines like you never saw before. All it needs is a little rain.”

The man had given up trying for an internet connection on his phone and had resumed staring through the window.

“The first thing we'll need here,” he said, “is a decent road. Do you do asphalting as well?”

“Certainly, signuri.”

“Good. Add that to the estimate. Can we do anything about the internet reception?”

“Well, to tell you the truth, signuri, I really can't answer that. I don't know. As soon as we get back to the office I'll ask the principale about fixing the internet here. I'm sure--”

“Just take the measurements,” said the man, “and write up the estimate. I'll call the director when we stop.”

They drove a while in silence. The driver glanced over at the man and licked his dry lip. He was a man of undeterminable age, the driver, in a Diadora shirt, his fingernails thick and cracked on the steering wheel.

“Bellissimo, this piece of land. Perfect soil. Madonna, the grapes you could grow here.”

“Our firm is not interested in grapes,” said the man without looking away from his cell phone, “and frankly neither am I.” He'd had quite enough. The driver raised his eyebrows, and flicked the cigarette butt out the window. Two thick brown fingers teased a new one out of his side pocket.

When they finally arrived the driver opened the passenger door, and then with his feet firmly planted he began explaining the layout of the property, where he advised building the garage, which hill to level to make room for the trucks, how much that might cost, which road led to the autostrada and which to the airport. His lecture finished, he strode around back to open the truck bed and remove his equipment. The man remained standing on the cracked yellow ground, pecking away at his phone, sweating and refusing to remove his blazer. The heat was unbearable. The blueness, the unrelenting blueness of the sky was rippling in the heat; the thistles had all lost their purple and had withered until they looked like bones.

The driver worked and the man stood pecking at his phone. The sky was heavy with heat, so heavy that its unbroken blueness was like mockery, a false promise of serene weather. The driver looked over his shoulder. “Signuri, if you'd like to call the principale in the shade the truck is still open, or you can stand in the casetta over there.” He pointed with his thumb to the faded ruin of a shed or barn, one of those skeletal hovels that pockmarked the countryside. There was no door and there didn't seem to be windows, but its roof at least was mostly intact, which promised shade; it had probably lain abandoned for some seventy years. The hovel stood on the edge of the property, choked with yellow weeds and the skeletons of thistles.

“I'll make the call from there,” said the man.

Suddenly, quietly, a dog emerged from the darkness of the casetta. Its ribs jostled against the slack skin; great fat ticks, black and gray, clung to its ears like snail shells or embroidered beads. It lowered its narrow muzzle, eyeing the man calmly and without malice, and went back in. A minute or so passed before it popped its head back into the light, retreated into the dark again, and finally padded out into the sunlight, swaying a little with each step as thin dogs do, and licking its mouth energetically. The man had not ventured to approach the whole time; the driver noticed this and laughed.

“He won't hurt you, signuri, don't worry,” and he threw a dry clod at the dog, swearing in dialect. The dog tripped downhill and disappeared into the cane.

The driver nodded and the man entered the casetta, phone in hand, blinking. He had not expected to find the ruin as dark as it was. Once inside he stood still, staring into the blind darkness. The first thing he noticed was the smell. Then as his eyes adjusted he saw the shoes, soles up, then the denim of the legs, and then the three clean holes in the back, and how the head had been nearly blown off; and then when his eyes had adjusted to the darkness he made out the bullet casings on the ground, and the congealing black pool that the dog had disturbed. It is impossible to say how much time had passed before he found himself able to move again, to take a single backward step, and then another, until he had left the darkness and stood in the unforgiving brightness of day. The driver was working some twenty meters off.

“Almost done, signuri.”

“Let's go. Let's go.”

The driver shrugged and stubbed out his cigarette. Back in the truck he threw the stick into reverse and waved a thick cracked hand at the property.

“Just needs rain. Wait for the rain and it will be beautiful.”

“Just drive,” said the man. “God damn it, just drive.”