Seems like we're not in Kansas anymore

So the day finally dawned when everything, hopefully, was ready for the signing of the documents that would make Contrada Forone 7 mine – or rather ours under my name. I say hopefully as, from my brief but extensive dealings with Italian bureaucracy, until everyone actually turned up and everything was carried out I had no absolute faith that the deed (pun definitely intended) would be done.

We had a very early start to the proceedings though, as when we arrived at the pub last night for our usual coffee and digestivo, it was to be told that Giordano, our local friendly commercialista, wanted to see us urgently in his office. This raised two interesting questions: what could be so urgent on the eve of the signing, and what sort of reputation does Stephen have in MSP that the first place people think of looking for him is the pub?

A few minutes later we were sitting in Giordano’s office scanning a translation he’d made of the document authorising Stephen to act on my behalf. Mr Trape (that being his surname – rhyming with frappé as opposed to some sort of posh offal) was concerned that as I didn’t understand very much Italian and as the presiding official had to be sure that Stephen had my best intentions at heart, he wanted an English version to prove that I wasn’t being swindled out of my millions. And a fine job he made of it – though it must have taken him ages as he is not a fluent English speaker by any stretch of the imagination. After we had noted any corrections, updated the document, checked it again, updated again and checked for a third time we were able to make it back to the pub for a night cap, our dinners being well and truly digested by that time.

So what of the signing itself? It was, of course, conducted in the seemingly ad hoc way of everything else we have been involved with – but it also lacked any of the esoteric rituals with which solicitors in the UK like to surround their dealings to justify why they are able to charge so much and take so long.

It had been decided that the meeting would take place in the factory, as there would be more room than in Giordano’s office (I am not sure by whom – in all this process I have been like one of those extras you see downing pints or playing darts in The Rovers Return – necessary for the look of the thing but with no real involvement in the main action). Not that he has a particularly small office, it was just not big enough to accommodate eleven people comfortably and to afford the space for the wandering that Italian men like to do at every possible occasion.

The appointed time was 4pm, so at 4.45 when the cast began to assemble I was quite surprised we were only be forty-five minutes behind schedule. We gathered round a table in the large area that doubles for… well, I’m not sure what it doubles for, other than a general place to put things that nobody knows where to put (defunct lines of shoes, the recycling bins, Stephen…) and proceedings commenced. Not before, though, Mario and Luigi cornered Stephen at his desk and gave him all the keys to the house – surely that should have come after?

Chairs were found for all, though some chose not to avail themselves of this frivolous extravagance preferring, as I said, to wander about chatting. Flavia joined us briefly as an honorary official and Luca stood around eager to be involved, though giving the notary duff spellings of English words was not really that helpful. This said notary was a bluff, white-haired, jovial ex-president of some local football club (which seemed to impress the men) – but there again I could afford to be jovial if I trousered €3000 a pot for turning up, smiling and saying that yes, it was all in order and moving on to the next signing. OK maybe he didn’t trouser it, maybe he put the cheque carefully in his briefcase – but I didn’t notice if he was unnecessarily encumbered with such an irrelevant item.

We started with the document giving Stephen the right to sign on my behalf and sell my kidney to the highest bidder, which involved lots of gesticulating and pointing. Once I had made my mark, however, I sat back while, in the grand Italian way, sheet after sheet of paper passed between Stephen, Mario and Luigi for signing. Other than a cursory perusal of the documents by Mr Jovial, there was very little reading or talking – apart from between the half dozen or so other extras who, having little real part to play, chatted amongst themselves and made (no doubt) urgent calls on their mobiles.

And then it was all over – which I realised because people started shaking hands and Stephen asked me for the cash to pay the architect for saying that yes, the house was habitable. I say all over, but it wasn’t quite – this being Italy, someone had to argue about something, and on this occasion it was Luigi taking exception to his share of the costs. Fortunately, nice Mr Giordano calmly explained the whole thing to him and after some disgruntlement he grudgingly accepted that it might be right, but he was going to see the Comune about it. Good luck on that one…

There was little left to do once everyone had drifted away but for Stephen and I to take Bella and Harry and go and visit our newly acquired property. Standing together in the quiet of the early evening, the sun filtering through the trees and dappling the terrazzo, there was no place else we would rather have been than La Casa Dei Due Baffi. A happy end to a reassuringly strange day.