In Italy, want-ad newspapers have a dual function. They keep you abreast of all the jobs that have recently become available throughout the territory. They also spur you to not take yourself too seriously. Venice’s paper is called Il Boom. The name suggests that although you are unemployed, the publishers are not all that worried about it. Otherwise they would have not christened their publication with a headline that suggests explosives.
Granted, most of their readers are looking for a place to live and a job to do, and, apparently, unemployment inspires wreckage noise. Still, as far as I’m concerned, while they were playing with onomatopoeia, they should have chosen either Gasp’ or Sigh’. Unless they really wanted to bite the bullet and call Il Boom, Lighten Up, Sister’, which is what I say to myself every time I skim through an issue.
As I am not a metal mechanic or someone with a car who knows how to fix ice-cream-making machines, most of my leafing is fruitless. But then, boom! One day I opened up to the Offerte’ section and there it was. Mother-tongue English teacher wanted for five lessons a week. Call Mr. Tommaselli during work hours’.
It’s my lucky day. Mister T is actually in the office when I make my introductory phone call. When I say I am mother-tongue, he starts to speak in English. His is a stats company, he explains, and his five young business associates want to speak effectively one day.
>How about this Thursday?’ I ask.
>Thrusday is perfetto.’
I hang up hoping he is clear about which day of the week Thrusday’ might be. Otherwise, he might call me on Tuesday wondering why I am in the wrong place.
The job entails straight five hours of individual conversation classes, one business hot-shot per 60-minute time slot. Claudio is always the first student of the day. He is what Italians call un tranquillone, but his tranquil comportment is the product of his profession rather than his temperament. After a month with the company, I realized that men who study statistics are very good at keeping their cool: they hold back emotional reactions until all data has been adequately compiled. Then they draw their reasonable conclusions. And since proof takes so damn long to collect, stats men seldom over-react to anything. Incidentally, I plan on learning the art of detachment from Claudio while I’m teaching him the present perfect. The two skills are equally difficult to master and no doubt a fair trade.
Last Thursday, in an effort to get my student to speak, I threw controversies on the table as if they were dice. We talked of garbage control in Naples, the pope being kept out of the University at La Sapienza and the possibility of armed stewards at soccer stadiums. Then I made a declaration that was sure to cause debate: I’ve never been to a soccer game in Italy’, I told him.
Claudio paused at my statement and his jaw edged toward surprise. You’ve never seen a live match?’ he asked.
>Never’.
>It’s a pity’, he said, genuinely sorry for me. If you want, I’ll carry you to one’.
I smiled. This was, hands down, the best invitation I’d received in months. Statistically speaking, maybe even years. Claudio had just earned himself il fatto bello.
>Yes’, I accepted. Carry me to the calcio match. Carry me there, indeed.
