In the morning there was more rain and the river ran gray with mud. The camions were mired and the caissons would need two days of good weather before we could use them again.
Spazinni had been out very early and caught three lovely trout. He layered them in his rucksack with damp rushes from the river.
“No more fish today, capitano,” Spazinni said. “The gods have made the river angry. Today we go to IKEA.”
“Yes, capitano?” Renzo said. I knew he was sick of sharing a closet with Father Dunasetta and had his eye on the Kvikne wardrobe. We both understood that the Kvikne was not fine and true, that it was mainly particleboard with a fiberboard back, but I said nothing of this. We would go to IKEA.
“Spazinni,” I said, “gas up the barattare.”
At IKEA we behaved foolishly. With the Swedish meatballs we drank too freely of wine and were asked to leave by the commissario. This embarrassed Father Dunsa, who had come along at the last moment. Then Spazinni and I shamed Renzo for favoring the Kvikne until he upgraded to the Hurdal, which is mostly solid pine.
Later in the afternoon an altercation broke out in the kitchenwares. When it was over the priest had lost a tooth and was more apologetic than before. I helped Renzo load the Hurdal into the truck and went to smooth things with the manager. Perhaps I myself would purchase a piece of furniture, she said.
I told her it would please me to take the Hemnes daybed frame with three drawers.
“Today, Rollo,” I said to Spazinni, “the Hemnes."
“Aye, capitano?” he said. “Depend on me as your second.”
In my quarters I stepped into the coveralls. It was important to maintain a line, true and pure, not to allow the coveralls to bulge or pucker. My glance fell on the Hemnes instructions and I saw the little man in the drawings maintaining just such a line.
The Hemnes had come in two flat boxes. They were heavy and smooth and cool. When we opened them there was a gentle off-gassing of Melamine.
“Rollo,” I said, “there are to be 27 of these.” I pointed beneath the little man on the instructions to what looked like a small set screw, numbered 116894. “And 22 of these.” This too looked like a small set screw but with the number 108462. “And 16 of these.” An even smaller screw, numbered 109049.
In the beginning the work went well, although Spazinni was still drunk from the night before. We made steady progress with the Hemnes. Its frame was held together by wooden dowels that Spazinni handed me with brutal, uncertain fingers.
“Bear up, Rollo,” I said, “or these Swedes will get the better of you.”
“No, capitano,” he said. “It is only this weather and that I remain a little potted.”
In the early afternoon there was cheese and beer in brown bottles that the priest had bought to soothe his embarrassment.
“I envy you,” he said to me. “You are a builder. You see results of your efforts.”
“I am a drinker of beer,” I told him. “I am no builder.”
It was not necessary to return to the room, to look again at the Hemnes, but I took two bottles and went back.
Spazinni had been out very early and caught three lovely trout. He layered them in his rucksack with damp rushes from the river.
“No more fish today, capitano,” Spazinni said. “The gods have made the river angry. Today we go to IKEA.”“Yes, capitano?” Renzo said. I knew he was sick of sharing a closet with Father Dunasetta and had his eye on the Kvikne wardrobe. We both understood that the Kvikne was not fine and true, that it was mainly particleboard with a fiberboard back, but I said nothing of this. We would go to IKEA.
“Spazinni,” I said, “gas up the barattare.”
At IKEA we behaved foolishly. With the Swedish meatballs we drank too freely of wine and were asked to leave by the commissario. This embarrassed Father Dunsa, who had come along at the last moment. Then Spazinni and I shamed Renzo for favoring the Kvikne until he upgraded to the Hurdal, which is mostly solid pine.
Later in the afternoon an altercation broke out in the kitchenwares. When it was over the priest had lost a tooth and was more apologetic than before. I helped Renzo load the Hurdal into the truck and went to smooth things with the manager. Perhaps I myself would purchase a piece of furniture, she said.
I told her it would please me to take the Hemnes daybed frame with three drawers.
- - -
The morning brought more rain. We drank coffee in the cocina. I watched two crows work the gray stubble in a field.“Today, Rollo,” I said to Spazinni, “the Hemnes."
“Aye, capitano?” he said. “Depend on me as your second.”
In my quarters I stepped into the coveralls. It was important to maintain a line, true and pure, not to allow the coveralls to bulge or pucker. My glance fell on the Hemnes instructions and I saw the little man in the drawings maintaining just such a line.
The Hemnes had come in two flat boxes. They were heavy and smooth and cool. When we opened them there was a gentle off-gassing of Melamine.
“Rollo,” I said, “there are to be 27 of these.” I pointed beneath the little man on the instructions to what looked like a small set screw, numbered 116894. “And 22 of these.” This too looked like a small set screw but with the number 108462. “And 16 of these.” An even smaller screw, numbered 109049.
In the beginning the work went well, although Spazinni was still drunk from the night before. We made steady progress with the Hemnes. Its frame was held together by wooden dowels that Spazinni handed me with brutal, uncertain fingers.
“Bear up, Rollo,” I said, “or these Swedes will get the better of you.”
“No, capitano,” he said. “It is only this weather and that I remain a little potted.”
In the early afternoon there was cheese and beer in brown bottles that the priest had bought to soothe his embarrassment.
“I envy you,” he said to me. “You are a builder. You see results of your efforts.”
“I am a drinker of beer,” I told him. “I am no builder.”
It was not necessary to return to the room, to look again at the Hemnes, but I took two bottles and went back.
by Jeff Steinbrink, McSweeny's | Read more:
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