Carlo Gadda - That Awful Mess on the via Merulana

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The poor Signora Balducci, according to the tenants' unanimous affirmations, seemed to have received no one in that house, the two last hours of her life! No one. Except her killer.

They hadn't heard any shouts, or noises, or thuds: not even la Menegazzi, who had been combing her hair, not even the two Bottafavis, husband and wife. Inquiries at the Roman office of Standard Oil, "conducted personally by Doctor Ingravallo," confirmed the fact of the transfer, to Genoa, decided upon some time ago, of Doctor Giuliano Valdarena. It had been settled that he would leave on Monday, March 21st, oh, give or take a day either way. As far as they were concerned, they had nothing but praise for the young man. A quick-witted employee, a good talker when he wanted to be, distinguished appearance: and basically, oh yes, a willing worker. He didn't have to be asked twice to take a taxi and chase after some client, some engineer, one of those who are always running around, constantly in motion, up and down the country, in trains. Some mornings, early, or some sultry afternoons, perhaps. . Well, he was young. A little laziness, at times, on some sirocco days: the office atmosphere. But with the clients, for the most part, he hit it off just fine.

"It doesn't take much," Don Ciccio grunted to himself, "Where are they going to buy their oil, anyway? From the egg-man?"

He hit it off, yes. The competition, especially when it comes to oil for transformers, that's where the real money is, tended to knock down the prices, though within the limits established by the cartel, to exploit the profit margin. . of the ten lire per quintal. He, well, he knew his way around: he had a kind of charm, his good manners, the appearance of a man who uses his head, who knows how to wait.

"You see, Doctor. . er. . Ingravallo, you won't believe it, perhaps, but a client is sort of like a woman. You think I'm joking, maybe. . You have to know how to handle them. The patience it takes, sometimes! You have to wait, to know how to wait: stay there, under the stone bench, with your eyes looking sleepy, but ready to spring, like a tomcat in heat. And then there are times instead when you have to be cagey. to make sure you get there before the next fellow, the competition, I mean. Believe me, sir, you have to keep working on them till they fall for you, at least a little bit, at least for half a day: l'éspace d'un matin. Even when they drag along old Auntie to chaperone, the big holding company who pretends to sit in a corner and knit, but is keeping a weather eye on the ledgers: and maybe has a weakness, her weakness. She has her likes and her dislikes, too, just like some old women, some mothers-in-law. . like times when you want to make the daughter fall for you, but you have to win the mother over first. That's how it is. There are the Platonic ones, mind you, and the romantic ones: the ones who dream in the moonlight, those who make a fuss over ten lire, those who hope and swallow everything, and those who like to drag it out. They make us hop, all right. Well, that's the way they like it: like a bunch of she-cats in February. Nothing you can do about it. It takes patience! Then there are the other ones, the brisk ones, who come straight to the point. I tell you, Doctor, you have to know how to handle them. Each in his own way. But, believe me, if we're going to work the way we should, first they have to fall in love! I don't mean with us exactly, we're just middlemen, although… not even a pretty doll would throw us away. . what the hell… no, not us but. . you might say, with Standard in general. They have to fall in love with Standard Oil, learn to trust Standard blindly, take what we give them! Because, we know what to give them, better than they do, the kind of bottle each one needs: this kind, and not that. Why, a world-wide organization like ours! I should hope so! Tens of thousands of gallons per year, in Europe alone, of the finest kinds of oil, that tells you something about Standard Oil, eh? Not something to kid about.

"Our great secret, you see, is the secret we like to tell everybody: the constancy of the specifications for each different kind of oil. Now, for example, take our unbeatable Transformer Oil B, Grade 11-Extra. You can ask about it here in Rome: Engineer Casalis of the Anglo-Romana Company, or Engineer Bocciarelli of the Terni." He assisted himself with the fingers of his left hand, thumb, index, middle finger, unrolling them one after the other, to list the merits of Grade 11-Extra; he reached his little finger, and remained there: "Absolutely waterless: this is the most basic essential; yes, the sine qua non: freezing point. . extremely low: viscosity. . 2.4 Wayne, at the outside: acid value, negligible: dielectric strength, amazing: flash point… the highest of all American industrial oils.

"Now, you tell me, what more can you ask from an oil for transformers? But then, as I said before, what really counts, more than anything else, is the constancy of the specifications in every grade: the characteristics that indicate the merit of a given oil. . of our Transformer B, I mean. Always the same! Always! Identical, any time and any place: from one shipment to the next." He raised his voice. "Over a period of years! The world can come to an end, the phoenix can rise from its ashes, the Colosseum can catch fire… but Standard's Transformer Oil B, 11-Extra, is what it is, and remains what it is. Our client can sleep the sleep of the just, believe me. We know what he needs. And a lot of our clients have finally caught on to this themselves. It's easy enough for them to be unfaithful to us. But then what? Here you have a transformer that's cost you a million, let's say, and you wake up one fine morning and realize that you've been pouring tomato sauce into it, instead of oil. And when your transformer has burnt out on you, the first storm that comes along, then what do you do? You can kiss any operating economy good-bye! And it's good-bye to amortizement in fifteen years, or ten years!… Or in eight months, for that matter!. . No, believe me, doctor, it isn't only the price that should determine the transaction, that's the bait… the bald fact of the amount: four, nine, six the quintal. No. The price. . well, you know. Take a watch for example: you can find one for fourteen-fifty in some little store in Via dei Greci; but a good watch sets you back two thousand lire at Catellani's. You try to buy yourself a Patek Philippe, a Longines, a Vacheron-Constantin… for fourteen-fifty. Where are you going to find anybody who'll let one go for that? If you find me one, then that'll be the day I can make a present of my Transformer B 11-Extra at the price… at the price of some of the other stuff they've got on the market!"

He sighed, "Ah, well, so it goes." Ingravallo was in a stupor. His eyelids had begun to drop forward like awnings over two shop windows: to fall down, halfway over the globe of each eye, in his poppy-seed attitude of state occasions: when the torpor of the office crowned him with a hebetude which was. . almost divinatory. And instead, this divine occasion was being created by the stupidest source. A gusher! Oil! The people back in Apulia: oil is what they live on. But this other oil. . he really didn't know how to get a grip on it.

"Make the client fall in love. That's the whole story. Hammer the truth into his head: the great nail of truth! That's all. Doctor Valdarena, when it comes to hammering, has shown plenty of talent. Then, when the day comes that they've fallen in love and have given our Transformer B a try, it's very hard, believe you me, for anybody else to seduce them away, to make them unfaithful to us! And all screwing aside, those who love us, follow us… as the Great Man says. . so. . How about a cigarette?" "Thanks." "So, I mean, they pay. They pay up, without saying another word."