The Devil You Know

The sun beat down on the hills. Count Cosimo Parigi wiped his

brow as he stood looking down on the town of San Stefano in

Umbria. The familiar grey stone turrets, left by the Normans, and

the red terracotta-tile roofs shimmered in the haze of the baking

glare. It was August, and anyone with any sense had left town. The

cool water of the azure Mediterranean sea and the light breeze on

the lakes to the North called the Italians to their annual vacanze. This

year, more than ever, most people had left. The war had just ground

to a halt and a defeated (or ‘liberated’, depending on which

propaganda you bought) Italy was picking itself up from the dust. It

was time to recoup, to snatch at the strands of a normal life. “i

For most people, that was, but not for him.

‘.

Cosimo felt no lethargy, no exhaustion. He was driven, and .he had a vision. He looked out at the rolling hills and forests and he wanted to ride through them. Brand new railway tracks that would glitter under the burning sun. An engine for Italy, to bring it out from the ashes of war.

He was a second son, which meant he was an irrelevance. The faded old palazzo of the Parigi family, mounted on the crest of a hill overlooking San Stefano, was going to pass to his brother Giuseppe, il Principe Giuseppe Parigi. Giuseppe was the heir, and that was set in stone. He would inherit the farmland that no longer offered riches, the meagre rents of the cottages they owned, the crumbling palace. Cosimo was expected to live in a small house somewhere on the estate, to assist with the farming, and generally to keep his head

down.

But he had no interest in being forgotten, like Other second and third sons before him. Cosimo wanted more, and he had an idea how to get it.

His parents and brother had not approved when he told them. Here he was, dressed in the overalls of a peasant, working with his

hands in the August sun. He as surveying the land, taking samples of the soil, ilnaginmg a new, better route for the railway that had been smashed into useless smithereens by the Royal Air Force. When construction of the railway was done, he, Cosimo, would turn to the roads. All across Italy people still travelled by horse, or donkey and cart.

This was unacceptable in 1946. It was a new world, and Italy had to be fit for it. Cosimo was already talking to bankers in the ravaged city of Milano. He was drawing up his plans, he was going to do his part.

His future was as glorious as the landscape before him.

Cosimo Parigi had drive and intelligence. He also had a good idea. Railway executives and state bureaucrats called him ‘il typhoon’ the hurricane. He blew through meetings, objections, and regulations. By I95O, Parigi Railways had been established, and it was thriving.

His parents died in 95 I. They had never approved of what their younger son was doing. Trade! For a Conte di Parigi! It was unthinkable. But their natural laziness, and their desire to enjoy la dolce vita in their last years, had kept them silent. The old Prince wanted only to tend to his vines and taste the first pressings from his olive trees. Young people like his son did crazy things, Madonn’. But he would grow up and get over it.

Cosimo wept ‘or his mother when she died, and again for his father when, unwilling to endure life without her, he followed her to the family crypt in less than a month. His sorrow was lessened, though, because of his parents’ advanced years, because his company was racing ahead, and because he had a new bride on whom to bestow his sudden wealth. Donna Lucia di Parenti was the daughter of another noble family, and marrying her was the one thing Cosimo did that Giuseppe, the new Principe, approved of.

‘Congratulations, my dear brother,’ he said to Cosimo in the rich, plummy tones he affected when speaking as the head of the family. Archbishop Fanti had just united Cosimo with his new Contessa in the chapel of the Palazzo, beneath the gaze of the busts of his ancestors, and the angels and saints carved in glorious lenaissance marble. Cosimo actually would have preferred another venue, a church in lome, perhaps even St Peter’s - nothing was good enough for his Lucia - but Giuseppe had insisted they be married

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from the Palazzo, and Cosimo had given way. In a matter like this one, it did not hurt. Family tradition, and all that.

‘Thank you, Giuseppe,’ Cosimo said. He smiled at Maria, Giuseppe’s meek little wife, who was cradling Roberto, the new heir, in her arms. ‘The little one is quiet today, it must be a good omen.

Giuseppe looked at his sleeping son. ‘You also will have children.’ ‘We hope so.’

‘And may your first child be a boy,’ Giuseppe said solemnly. ‘Thank you,’ Cosimo acknowledged, trying to suppress the thought that Giuseppe really could sound like a pompous ass sometimes.

‘When the honeymoon is over, call upon me at the Palazzo. We have much to discuss,’ Giuseppe told his brother.

‘I will,’ Cosimo promised, although he had no intention of keeping his word. Parigi Railways was about to become Parigi Transportation. He was taking over a cement-mixing and laying company. New autostrade were planned across the peninsula, and Cosimo was going to be a part of it. After the honeymoon, he would be flying to Switzerland for discussions with a consortium of investors …

Giuseppe sat brooding in the dusty halls of his once-spectacular home. The years rolled by pretty much as they had always done; some years the wine harvest was excellent, and he could repair a roof or two, other years it had blight or drought and he was out firing workers and raising rents. The Parigi estate was, under his

stewardship, much as it had been for generations beforehand.

He resented it bitterly.

Cosimo, the little upstart, had founded a firm using his family name. He was making billions of life a year. He had modern cars, an estate, an old, but beautifully restored villa outside of Rome. But was

he, Giuseppe, not the elder brother? That money should be his. He spoke of it incessantly to the Principessa.

‘What belongs to the House of Parigi belongs to the Principe, cara,’ Giuseppe told her. And Maria nodded her head and continued to embroider, for that was her hobby, and she had long since got out of the habit of listening to her husband.

But he had an audience. Four-year-old Roberto was playing with his toy wooden train while his father spoke, and the words sunk in. Consequently he grew up loathing his upstart uncle Cosimo. Over

and over, his l;ither would lift the boy on to his knee and tell him of his inheritance.

‘You are to be Prince of the Parigi,’ Giuseppe told his son. ‘All this is yours. You must never lose the rights of the family.’

I

‘Is the Count prepared?’ Giuseppe asked of the nanny. She bobbed a curtsey.

‘ Si, Principe.’

‘Very good,’ Giuseppe said, regarding his son as she placed him on the back seat of the Bugatti. The little Count 1Koberto was bundled up against the slight March wind; a true Italian, he was ultra-sensitive to cold. Maria was in the hospital with suspected tuberculosis, and Giuseppe had bills mounting. He did not trust his son to be alone with peasants, and he had decided to take him with him on this vital errand.

1Koberto bounced up and down with pleasure as his father slid the car into gear and out of the courtyard of the Palazzo, down the ancient, windy road that led into San Stefano. From there, they would take a new road, one .Parigi Enterprises, as the company was

now called, had helped build, to their destination.

‘Where are we going, Papa?’ he asked.

‘To see your uncle Cosimo,’ Giuseppe said.

‘Why, Papa?’ ‘I have very important business, tkoberto. Now you will be a good boy when we arrive, won’t you? You will go and play with some toys.’

‘I will,’ P,.oberto lied. He had no intention of missing this. His beloved father was about to set Uncle Cosimo straight, and l

Little tkoberto stepped out of the car and regarded his uncle’s house as his father took his hand.

‘What do you think, Roberto? It is very pretty, no?’ Giuseppe asked him. ‘Of course, it is not as fine as the Palazzo.’

‘No, Papa,’ Roberto agreed solemnly, even though he was lying. He was taking in Uncle Cosimo’s villa, and he thought he had never seen anything so fine. The building was old, with glorious ochre walls and sprays of climbing roses, white and yellow, but it was not crumbling like their palace; the tiled roof was new and perfect, the

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drive was gravelled, the stables perfect, like something out of the magazines his mother read. Roberto saw new and better cars in the garage; fountains which were working, not lined with moss; gardens which were professionally tended, lawns which were nearly clipped.

Roberto was a young boy, but he knew instinctively that the villa was worth five times as much as the wreck they lived in. How fine that his father was here to demand their family rights! His father was the elder brother. P, oberto examined the house with a covetous eye. He would like to play here. One day, his father said, the whole estate would be his.

‘Come along,’ his father said, tugging Roberto out of his reverie. They walked towards the door, which was opened by a butler in uniform, but before he could say anything Cosimo had run out to meet them.

‘Giuseppe! Caro.’ He kissed his brother warmly on both cheeks, hugging him. ‘And P, oberto. How big you have grown.’ Roberto hung close to his father, but Uncle Cosimo bent down and gave him a solemn handshake, which he liked. ‘Are you thirsty? Would you like a lemonade? We have Coca-Cola and chocolate biscuits.’

Roberto’s mouth watered. They never had American Coca -<2ola at the Palazzo. But already he was starting to feel resentful towards’his uncle. He wanted to wait until Uncle Cosimo had given his fatl’itar

his due as head of the family, then he would drink his Coca-Cott. ‘No thank you, I am not thirsty.’

‘Maybe later, then. But come in, come in.’

Cosimo led them through a wide corridor hung with artwork and lined with antique Roman busts into a large kitchen filled with modem appliances.

‘We can talk here, Giuseppe. Roberto, would you like to go and play in the nursery?’

Roberto looked at Papa, who nodded.

‘Yes, Uncle Cosimo.’

‘I will send for the nurse,’ Cosimo said. ‘Our Luigi is only two, and he’s napping right now, but we have many toys for bigger boys.’

‘I do not want the nurse, Uncle Cosimo,’ said Roberto. ‘I like to play by myself without my nurse.’

Cosimo laughed and raffled Roberto’s hair. ‘He’s independent, Giuseppe! Very well, she will just show you to the playroom.’

A nanny in a blue pinafore materialised and whisked Roberto away. He saw his uncle Cosimo close the kitchen door behind him.

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The nurseD was splendid, lLoberto thought jealously. His infant cousin Luigl, who was sleeping - good, because Poberto had no interest in seeing him - was lying in a bedroom several rooms away and the nurse told him to play freely, because he would not wake his cousin up.

‘Thank you,’ tLoberto said gravely, ‘you may go.’

The nurse stared at him but left without saying anything, closing

the door. 1Loberto wanted to run back down the corridor and listen at the kitchen door, but he decided to wait a few minutes, to be sure the servant woman was not hovering …

‘But, Giuseppe!’ Cosimo struggled with his amazement. His brother was stuffy and pompous and stuck in the ways that had kept the Parigi fortune declining for the last two hundred years, but he loved him.and did not want to hurt him. Laughing at him wouldbe the absolute worst thing he could do. ‘I have made this money, myself, and you and Father did not approve.’

The Prince shrugged. ‘We were wrong, and I see that now. But the fact remains, you must cede control of the majority of the company to me, as is only right and proper. I am the ‘

Outside the door, loberto smiled fiercely. He pressed his little ear to the keyhole, keeping the other open for the nanny or other intruders. Now his papa was telling Uncle Cosimo!

‘- head of the family?’ Cosimo’s patience snapped. ‘Madonnat.’ He shook his head and crossed himself, regretting the outburst. ‘You have a title, dear brother, one I care nothing for and never wanted. The world is changing. I am not a feudal vassal! I owe you nothing, nothing! You amaze me. You do no stroke of work, then arrive and demand.., demand my estate, the estate of my son? You live in the twentieth century! Are you insane?’

Giuseppe scowled. ‘You refuse to do your duty, then?’

‘By not finding work, selling off the dead wood, revitalising the

Palazzo, perhaps you have failed to do yours.’ That hit home, and Cosimo saw the hurt on his big brother’s face. He clasped him by the shoulder. ‘Ah, come now. We must not fight. You have your way