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‘Let’s bring tourists,’ and all the mayors say, ‘My town first! My town first!’ So they all try fancy ideas to bring tourists. And in Sapri, you know what the last idea was? You saw that huge, half-finished building as you come in from Maratea? Massive, isn’t it? Well, it was supposed to be a cement factory about thirty years ago, and they said, ‘No, cement is wrong. We need tourists.’ So they left the thing just standing there like it was a bombed building and they tried to get people from the North to come down and make it into a fancy resort and, oh dear, surprise, surprise! Nobody came.”
    Viva paused for breath, and I tried to change the subject again but I wasn’t quite fast enough (not even fast enough to remind her about my coffee).
    â€œMezzogiorno! All stupid!” she continued in her charminglyrailroading fashion. “And everything so corrupt. Dio cristo! You can’t trust anybody. Everybody expecting their little bustarelle [“gift envelopes,” aka bribes]. And they talk so much about the stupid ‘plans for the South.’ The Cassa per il Mezzogiorno —that was one of them. And what happened to that? They tried to stop malaria, which had always been so bad in this area. Everybody sick all the time. They built a few roads, some places for industries that never come, some public housing where the earthquakes in 1980 had collapsed some of the villages, you know, like the one recently not so far away, in Puglia—you know about that?”
    â€œYes, it was in all the international newspapers. The school that collapsed and killed more than twenty children.”
    â€œYes, that is right. And it was not a very old school either. Now they say there was corruption, stealing, and the people who built it did a very bad job because they put so much money in their pockets. Ma! Is that a surprise? No, I don’t think so, thank you very much. It happens all the time everywhere. And down here, particularly in Calabria, where they have a ‘second government’—Oh, you don’t know about that? Well, maybe it’s better you don’t. Not so long ago peoples was very frightened to travel to Calabria and Reggio. There were many robbers— briganti —in the mountains and you could be attacked or kidnapped, even killed.”
    â€œIs that so today?”
    Viva gave one of her endearingly sly, ironic smiles, and I was thinking what a great guest she would make on one of those TV talking-head shows, of which there were many in Italy. Her face, her mind were so animated and volatile. Of course, that’s not unlike most Italians, who seem to possess an inbred natural ability to express all their emotions instantaneously, using numerous body parts, from their eyes and mouths to extravagant shrugs to whirling arms and even legs. (Watch one of those talk shows and see how far apart they have to seat people to prevent serious physiological damage from the guests’ emotive outbursts.) In Viva’s case, she used mainly her face, but with the skill and dexterity of a contortionist.
    â€œWell, today they are clever. The brigands are now the ’Ndrangheta, ’ the Calabrian Mafia.”
    â€œAnd they’re the ‘second government’?”
    She laughed and raised her eyes heavenward. “Some say they’re actually the first! That all the elected peoples and the police and all the others get their little bustarelle and sit around not doing very much while the ’Ndrangheta organizes everything.”
    â€œDo you think that’s true?”
    But she was on a roll now, and although I was beginning to lose hope of ever being served my morning coffee, I had no intention of restricting the flow of her eloquent tirade.
    â€œWell, I’ll tell you what I think. I think we should tell Rome to keep all its stupid plans, and the European Union too. They say Basilicata is a ‘priority development