Ah, La Burocrazia Italiana, I come to understand it in different ways, each day.
I have decided of late that Italians wear this bureaucracy as something of a badge of pride. “Ah, questa Italia….’, ‘Ah, questa la burocrazia Italiana’… ‘Ah, benvenuta in Italia….’
Incredibly, manifestations of Italian bureaucracy find their ways into every part of Italian life… it almost seems to influence la lingua. Now, I like language and I love grammar. There, I’ve said it: I actually really love knowing how words fit together into sentences, I enjoying debating the use of the predicate of ‘to be’ in written and spoken form. But I digress. Even as a grammar-loving would-be linguist, I find Italian grammar archaic and faintly baffling. Italian verbs exist in 14 forms: seven simple tenses and seven compound tenses. In reality, Italians probably use only a handful of them on a regular basis in speech. Nevertheless, they exist and children are taught them rigorously in school, alongside a variety of verbal moods and intentions. While to get along happily speaking Italian on a daily basis is no different from learning any language by immersion, even I am tempted to set Italian grammar aside for a very rainy day. Or make that month. Teaching the correct use of the possessive apostrophe in English seems chicken feed by comparison.
This labyrinthine obfuscation is manifested beautifully in Italian law. I’ve been told that whenever new laws are passed in Italy, rather than replacing or revoking existing laws they are simply melded on, the effect of which is that for every law in Italy, there appears to exist its opposite or a contradiction. (Very possibly this is not actually that dissimilar to English Tort, but – to the outsider at least, it seems that Italians wear this obscurity with some pride.) To this end, it’s impossible to get a straight response to anything. The answer depends not only on whom you ask, but when you ask him or her and I have found, whether you ask again… and again… and again.
By way of illustration:
I went to procure Tom’s codice fiscale. Now, when I went to get the children’s and mine a while back, I was asked whether my husband needed one. No, he didn’t at the time so I didn’t get it (an oversight on my part, but I do seem to specialize here in creating extra work for myself in these situations). Thus it was, a month or so ago, that I returned to said office – and, by chance, to exactly the same officer who had served me last summer – to procure Best Beloved’s codice fiscale. This, by the way, is a computer generated reference without which it is impossible to do anything here – even, as I found out – buy a pay-as-you-go mobile phone SIM card. Seated in front of said officer I pulled out all our documents – and I mean all of them, I had gone prepared, with every certificate, passport, driving licence, proof of address we had between us. ‘Ah, non e possibile’ because he’s not present. I stalled him – hang on a minute – this had been perfectly possible just six months ago when you asked me if I wanted to generate his codice fiscale at the same time as those of the rest of the family, when he had also not been present. Apparently, on this next visit, it was absolutely not possible. The stand off began. It continued thus: me explaining that he recalled the last visit (I stand out somewhat here in this un-touristy region of Italy, being English, with three children, two of whom are very bionde, all three of whom are pretty noisy; people tend to recall us); me pointing to the three children before me (all of whom were conveniently getting hungry), reminding him that I have travelled an hour to get here… me wondering if it really was impossible to generate this code now? It’s amazing what happens when you ask the same question several times over… miraculously, I could sign Best Beloved’s name for him and procure the coveted codice fiscale. There’s something to be said for this bureaucracy then. It’s a sort of ‘computer says no, but actually I could try to find a way if I feel sympathy for you’.
There’s actually a reason for this, it seems and it’s rooted in the Robin Hood-esque behaviour of underclasses rebelling against the feudal system which strangled Italy for so many years. Herein lies the reason that to call someone ‘furbo’ – slightly cunning, is said with a slight hint of admiration. And it’s something we might need to learn, as we are about to embark on a whole new step in our Italian adventure…