The Crossroads by Niccolò Ammaniti Page A

on time.’
    What the hell has got into me? Rino asked himself. Why was he telling that son of a bitch all these things? And yet he felt that it was doing him good. He picked up a paperweight made from an old brick faced with a brass plaque, and turned it over in his hands.
    â€˜Your father cared about his workers. I don’t mean he was like a father to us or any of that crap. If you didn’t do your job properly you were out on your ear. No two ways about it. But if you didn’t complain and you worked hard he respected you. If there was work, you could be sure he’d call you.
    â€˜One Christmas he turned up with panettoni and bottles of spumante and gave one to every other workman but none to me. I was upset. Then I thought I must have fucked something up and that he was angry with me. That job was important; if he sacked me I was in the shit. He called me into his office and said: “Did you see that? No panettone for you.” I asked him if I’d done something wrong and he looked at me and said yes I bloody well had – I’d brought a son into the world without having the wherewithalto give him a decent life. I told him it was none of his business. He was beginning to piss me off. Who did he think he was to pass judgement on my life?
    â€˜But he burst out laughing. “Are you planning to bring him up in some ramshackle hut? The first thing is a house; everything else comes afterwards.” And he told me to look out of the window. Well, there was nothing outside but a truck loaded with bricks. I didn’t understand. “You see those bricks?” he said “They’re for you. They were left over from the last job. If you use them sparingly you might even get two floors out of them.” And using those bricks, working at weekends, I built my house.’ Rino continued to turn the brick over in his hands. ‘They were just like this one here. I don’t expect your father has ever told you that story; he’s not the type. And when the phone calls started getting less frequent I realised Euroedil must be in trouble. There are more building firms around now than there are dog turds. The last time I saw him was about six months ago, in the little park near Corso Vittorio. He was on a bench. His head was nodding and his hands were shaking. There was a Filipino who treated him like a baby. He didn’t recognise me. I had to repeat my name three times. But in the end he understood. He smiled. And do you know what he said to me? He said there was no need to worry, you were there now. And Euroedil was in good hands. Can you believe that? In good hands.’
    Rino slammed the brick on the table, splitting it in two, and Max Marchetta shrank even further back into the huge black leather armchair.
    â€˜You’re a lucky man, you know. If I hadn’t seen that photograph you’d be in an ambulance by this time, believe you me. But you got away with it, as you always will, because the world is made for people like you.’ Rino smiled. ‘The world is made to measure for nonentities. You’re clever. You take the black slaves and those bastards from the East and you pay them peanuts. And they put up with it. Hunger’s an ugly beast. And what about the guys who’ve worked their arses off for this firm? Sod them. You don’t even waste a phone call on them. The truth is, you’ve got no respect for those sons of bitches who come to steal the bread from our mouths, or for us, or even for yourself. Look at you, you’re a clown … A clown dressed up as a manager. If I’m not going to break every bonein your body it’s only out of respect for your father. In the end, you see, it all comes down to respect.’
    Rino got up from the chair, opened the door and left the office.
27
    It took Max Marchetta about two minutes to get over the fright. His behaviour in such situations was much the same as that of a pilchard. After an