judit's roman holiday -- REFUGEE STATUS

JUDIT’S ROMAN HOLIDAY, REFUGEE STATUS

Last Monday I awoke at 2 AM because there was a kind of tick-tick-tick sound in my room, as though there were a nearby woodpecker, except in Rome in February woodpeckers are highly improbable bedroom visitors. As it turned out, it was a leak. Many leaks. From the ceiling.

I live hard by the Vatican (il Pappa is my neighbor, and so, until very recently was a spindly, threadbare Christmas tree and man-sized crèche figures of sublime hideousness that the Pope decided to remove from St Peter’s Square only on February 6th).

Floods in the bedroom are not supposed to happen in my neck of the woods. Anyway, the drip-drip finished off the night for me along with any prospect of sleep, as I raced around grabbing large pots and placing and re-placing them under the offending leaks. The leaks seemed to move, whenever I thought I had one cornered. You’d put a pot under one drip, and a brand-new plop would appear across the room. It was strange.

At 8:30 in the morning I put in an emergency call to what John Cabot University euphemistically calls the “maintenance crew.” I had previously been in contact with them when I discovered that the words ‘Internet access available’ mean so such thing. Eventually, that problem was rectified. So naturally, I thought they were competent.

“Ah Sara, we need this fixed. Today,” I emphasized. (In Rome you sort of have to emphasize words like today, because, although there isn’t a chance in hell that things will fall into place that quickly, it does give a kind of urgency to the message. Failure to mention this word results in the listener believing what you really mean is Fix this for me next year, please or even more probably, Whenever during the coming decade you actually feel up to it.)

Sara promised that her full attention would be devoted to this matter, and this matter only, and would even discuss it with the capo di tutti capi, Letitzia.
Nothing happened.
Well except that night. That night moisture and rot had spread all over the bedroom ceiling where there were now about 12 holes, and alongside the drips were neighboring tiny streams. Pots, pans, cups strategically place all over the bedroom floor: nothing helped. It was like 20 woodpeckers with diarrhea had come home to roost. No sleep again.

“Sara, I would like to speak to the capo di tutti capi Letitzia, please. This is an emergency,” I said at 8 am.

“Oh Judy, sorry. Letitzia speaks no English.”

I told her that was fine. I speak Italian, but Sara claimed that for some reason conversation with her boss was impossible. Anyway, there was good news, she said. The landlord was actually going to pay me a visit and watch the water fall from the ceiling.

Sara, I said, what we need is a plumber. There’s some broken pipe somewhere.

Landlord comes. “Allora,” he said, gazing fascinated at the ceiling. “Ti piace questo apartemento?”

I told him I liked the place far better when the water was coming out of the faucet.
Landlord says not to worry about a thing. It’ll be fixed in no time. EXCEPT, there’s a piccolo problemo. Apparently, says the landlord, there’s some elderly woman upstairs in the apartment with the horrible broken pipe, and she’s refusing to let anyone in. Maybe he, the landlord will have to sue her to gain access.

This could take some time.

On cue, the old bat from upstairs appears at my door, and slips in unannounced. She is a tiny thing in a dark crepe dress of Fifties vintage that brushes against bare wrinkled knees. Her eyes are bright with malice and dementia. She says something I fail to understand, the landlord points to the stain across the ceiling which by this time has spread to the living-dining area . And the next thing I know, she is balling up her claws and thumping him – hard—on the chest. He retreats, and I try to make soothing noises in Italian to calm things down. Old bat subsides, but landlord looks pale with anger.

That night I had to rummage for more pots. By Thursday in the early morning hours, when the water was gushing everywhere, I had moved the bed as best I could, to the corner of the bedroom. Nonetheless, by daylight the mattress was soaked. There was also plaster all over the floor.

Let’s get this clear, I told Sara in what had become our thrice-daily conversation, I know you think I’m some idiotic American who’s going to take all this without complaint. But time’s up. You get me a new apartment. Now. I can’t believe you’re working for the university.

“Well actually, Judy, we aren’t working for the university,” says Sara. “We are working for the landlords. A lot of landlords, in fact.”

So that’s when I knew I was fucked.

Sara, whoever you’re working for, I’m going to sue you. And Letitzia. And if I die because the ceiling’s caved in, my heirs will sue you.

Magical words, as it turns out.

Next thing I know, a really handsome architect in a beautifully tailored grey suit appears at my door. Smiles charmingly. Promises to fix everything. Tells me to call him Pino (nickname for Giuseppe). Assures me, jokingly, that “Almeno l’aqua e potabile,” and I can drink what I can’t mop up. Will return in 3 hours after he’s settled on the pipe that needs fixing. Gives me his cell number.

Ummm, Pino, I say after dialing his number at 2 PM, one hour earlier than anticipated. Actually, the streams of water from the ceiling? They’ve turned into a kind of flood….L’apartemento e inondato.

Pino dashes back. Looks around. Stares at the floor, which is getting another bath. Stares at me.

“Allora signora, deve andare via subito!” Get out of here right away!

He makes one phone call to Letitzia who, shockingly, is available to speak to him, and tells her what’s up. I am given the name and number of a new apartment in the center of Rome, next to the Piazza Barberini and the beautiful Tritone fountain sculpted by Bernini, and exactly 10 minutes to pack a small bag and flee.

Architect drives me to a taxi, swearing this has never happened ever before. Taxi drives me to Piazza Barberini and apartment house. I lug the bag up 4 flights of stairs (no elevator) – to the most gorgeous apartment: balcony, large bathroom, pretty bedroom, nice kichen, water only in the faucet. It’s great.

Only problem is, you can hear everything along the via Tritone. The next morning I am woken by the sounds of “Neve! Neve!” (snow!) from downstairs. Thrilled Romans taking pictures of the white stuff.

I’m told by the university’s housing department that the invisible Letitzia says I have to get out of this new place by March.

I said I won’t. Not unless my Vatican apartment is fixed, beautifully clean, and equipped with a new mattress. Oh – and they have to pay for my move.

“Ma Professoressa,” says Giorgio of the housing department, literally wringing his hands, “Theees things happen. No one pays to move you. No one cares if the mattress eees wet. Theees ees Eeeetalie!”