files from the various offices in the city. This way, one central office, ours, will have copies of the complete documentation regarding every apartment on the list. In the end, this centralized system will save enormous amounts of time.’
Two weeks ago, Brunetti reflected, observing the smile of satisfaction Rossi gave as he said this, Il Gazzettino had carried an article announcing that, because of lack of funds, the dredging of the canals in the city had stopped. ‘How many apartments are there?’ he asked.
‘Oh, we have no idea. That’s one of the reasons this survey is being done.’
‘How long ago was the survey begun?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Eleven months,’ Rossi answered at once, leaving Brunetti little doubt that, if asked, he could supply the exact date, as well.
‘And how many of these composite files have you compiled so far?’
‘Well, because some of us have volunteered to work on Saturdays, we’ve done more than a hundred,’ Rossi said, making no attempt to disguise his pride.
‘And how many of you are working on this project?’
Rossi looked down at his right hand and, beginning with his thumb, began to count out his fellow workers. ‘Eight, I think.’
‘Eight,’ Brunetti repeated. He turned his mind away from the calculations he had been making and asked, ‘What does all of this mean? For me, specifically?’
Rossi’s answer was immediate. ‘When we don’t have the papers for an apartment, the first thing we do is ask the owner to supply them, but there’s nothing suitable in this file.’ He indicated the slim folder. ‘All you have is the deed of transfer, so we have to assume you weren’t given any records the previous owners may have had concerning the original construction.’ Before Brunetti could interrupt, he continued, ‘And that means they are either lost, which is to suggest that they once existed, or else they never did. Exist, that is.’ He looked across at Brunetti, who said nothing. Rossi continued: ‘If they are lost, and if you say you never had them, then they must be lost in one of the city offices.’
‘In that case,’ Brunetti asked, ‘what will you do to find them?’
‘Ah,’ Rossi began, ‘it’s not as simple as that. We have no obligation to keep copies of those documents. The Civil Code makes it clear that this is the responsibility of the person who owns the property under consideration. Without your copies, you can’t argue that we’ve lost ours, if you see what I mean,’ he said with another small smile. ‘And it’s impossible for us to initiate a search for the papers because we can’t afford to use manpower in a search that might prove futile.’ Seeing Brunetti’s look, he explained, ‘Because they might not exist, you see.’
Brunetti bit his lower lip and then asked, ‘And if they haven’t been lost and, instead, they never existed?’
Rossi looked down and prodded at the face of his wristwatch, centring it on his wrist. ‘In that case, Signore,’ he finally explained, glancing up at Brunetti, ‘it means that permits were never granted and the final work was never approved.’
‘That’s possible, isn’t it?’ Brunetti asked. “There was a tremendous amount of building just after the war.’
‘Yes, there was,’ Rossi said with the feigned modesty of one who spent his working life dealing with just these things. ‘But most of those projects, whether they were minor restorations or extensive renovations, most of them have received the condono edilizio and so have gained legal status, at least with our office. The problem here is that no condono exists,’ he said and waved a hand to encompass the offending walls, floor, ceiling.
‘If I might repeat my question, Signor Rossi,’ Brunetti said, forcing sweet calm and Olympian reasonableness into his voice, ‘what does this mean for me and for my apartment, specifically?’
‘I’m afraid I
Two weeks ago, Brunetti reflected, observing the smile of satisfaction Rossi gave as he said this, Il Gazzettino had carried an article announcing that, because of lack of funds, the dredging of the canals in the city had stopped. ‘How many apartments are there?’ he asked.
‘Oh, we have no idea. That’s one of the reasons this survey is being done.’
‘How long ago was the survey begun?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Eleven months,’ Rossi answered at once, leaving Brunetti little doubt that, if asked, he could supply the exact date, as well.
‘And how many of these composite files have you compiled so far?’
‘Well, because some of us have volunteered to work on Saturdays, we’ve done more than a hundred,’ Rossi said, making no attempt to disguise his pride.
‘And how many of you are working on this project?’
Rossi looked down at his right hand and, beginning with his thumb, began to count out his fellow workers. ‘Eight, I think.’
‘Eight,’ Brunetti repeated. He turned his mind away from the calculations he had been making and asked, ‘What does all of this mean? For me, specifically?’
Rossi’s answer was immediate. ‘When we don’t have the papers for an apartment, the first thing we do is ask the owner to supply them, but there’s nothing suitable in this file.’ He indicated the slim folder. ‘All you have is the deed of transfer, so we have to assume you weren’t given any records the previous owners may have had concerning the original construction.’ Before Brunetti could interrupt, he continued, ‘And that means they are either lost, which is to suggest that they once existed, or else they never did. Exist, that is.’ He looked across at Brunetti, who said nothing. Rossi continued: ‘If they are lost, and if you say you never had them, then they must be lost in one of the city offices.’
‘In that case,’ Brunetti asked, ‘what will you do to find them?’
‘Ah,’ Rossi began, ‘it’s not as simple as that. We have no obligation to keep copies of those documents. The Civil Code makes it clear that this is the responsibility of the person who owns the property under consideration. Without your copies, you can’t argue that we’ve lost ours, if you see what I mean,’ he said with another small smile. ‘And it’s impossible for us to initiate a search for the papers because we can’t afford to use manpower in a search that might prove futile.’ Seeing Brunetti’s look, he explained, ‘Because they might not exist, you see.’
Brunetti bit his lower lip and then asked, ‘And if they haven’t been lost and, instead, they never existed?’
Rossi looked down and prodded at the face of his wristwatch, centring it on his wrist. ‘In that case, Signore,’ he finally explained, glancing up at Brunetti, ‘it means that permits were never granted and the final work was never approved.’
‘That’s possible, isn’t it?’ Brunetti asked. “There was a tremendous amount of building just after the war.’
‘Yes, there was,’ Rossi said with the feigned modesty of one who spent his working life dealing with just these things. ‘But most of those projects, whether they were minor restorations or extensive renovations, most of them have received the condono edilizio and so have gained legal status, at least with our office. The problem here is that no condono exists,’ he said and waved a hand to encompass the offending walls, floor, ceiling.
‘If I might repeat my question, Signor Rossi,’ Brunetti said, forcing sweet calm and Olympian reasonableness into his voice, ‘what does this mean for me and for my apartment, specifically?’
‘I’m afraid I
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