A visit to the notary

Today's project was getting a proxy for our friend Pam so that she could complete the sale of the apartment even if the closing occurs after I head back to the U.S. To do that we had to travel to the nearby town of Busseto, where Verdi lived as a young man and where il notaio chosen by Massimo's firm has her offices.

My impression of Italian notaries, insofar as I have one, is based on those men in odd-shaped hats (or housemaids pretending to be men in odd-shaped hats) who inhabit Italian operas. (See example at left.) Notaries here aren't just people who get $25 to certify that it was you who signed that document; they are dottori (that is, have doctorates of some sort) and appear to have more the function and prestige of attorneys.

Even so, I was taken aback by the sumptuousness of this particular notary's offices. They were lodged in what had once been the summer palace of some Parma noble, and suddenly our little real estate transaction took on an air of operatic grandeur. This was the first reception area:

From there we were led to a more intimate waiting room, where Danny, Romano, Pam, Massimo's boss (not pictured), and I cooled our heels for a few minutes.

The notary, when she appeared, did not disappoint. She had wild blonde curls and was dressed in a chic update of the traditional notaio garb pictured above, a boldly patterned black-and-white gown over black, with metal-studded black ankle boots. She ushered us to a long table and sat at its head in a throne-like chair, the huge rings on each hand making her seem even more like a doge holding court. And she spoke with hilariously Italian volubility, waving her hands and flinging her curls around as she complained, in Italian too rapid for me to understand, about certain aspects of how the transaction was being handled.

Allora, we then settled in to sign the proxy. She certainly seemed to take her due-diligence responsibilities seriously, warning us at one point that the weather in Fidenza is very different from that in California, being cold and foggy. (Noted., though I do wonder if Danny has really internalized this fact.)

At some point I noticed the large sculpture of a silver leopard behind her chair and, next to it, a little dog bed in which a diminutive black-and-white terrier was sound asleep. I snuck a photo while she was explaining something or other. It really does not do her or the room justice.

When we were done and I said something about how good her dog was, she told us that the little thing was 16 years old and dying; that afternoon she was going to take it to the veterinarian and have it put out of its misery. The dog had been very ill for a while, and she was very sad about losing it. A reminder that even immense glamour doesn't immunize anyone from the sorrows of life.

Afterwards, in defiance of life's transience and, arguably, common sense, we went to Mercatopoli and Ikea and bought a lot of furniture. A lot. I hope we still like it when we see it in situ. I also hope it will help sell the apartment when some day our children put the place on the market with all our stuff still crammed into it.