Evicted From Eternity_ The Restructuring of Modern Rome - Michael Herzfeld [178]
The bailiff's role was both conventional and inventive. He was from the Marche, and in this he followed a well-established tradition; at least from the very early days of the Italian state, allegedly in order to escape the pressures and even possible reprisals that locally born officials might have had to face in a position that was described to me as "a socially objectionable job," bailiffs had almost always hailed from that region-so much so that a local proverb claims, "Better a corpse in the house than a Marchigiano waiting outside the door." Joking allusions to this proverb and the bailiff's distinctive Marche speech aside, his long engagement with the local community was a resource for both sides. This particular bailiff had been a friend and customer of Loredana's father, so that there was already a social relationship in place. From time to time, said Paolo, they met socially: "I go there [to my parentsin-law] for lunch and we chat, he [the bailiff] explains things to us." While this occasionally allowed them to anticipate trouble, the bailiff had no real power. Rather, his usefulness to both sides lay in the fact that by giving the residents time to organize their political support he helped to deflect situations in which the police might have used physical force. It became clear over time that no one really wanted such a development-least of all the bank, which probably feared that it might alienate local investors.
The bailiff's moral sympathies seemed to lie largely with the residents. Although his powers of obstruction were limited, he could sometimes be quite effective simply by refusing to make himself available. Since evictions could not be executed without his presence and signature, his conveniently busy schedule saved the day for the residents on at least one occasion in 1996. In the same way, whenever the bank's lawyer requested the intervention of forza pubblica, the police commissioner could always claim-as happened several times-that he did not have sufficient men at his disposal to enforce the eviction. He, too, contributed to the delays, usually under the logic of avoiding a violent scene that might have embarrassing consequences and perhaps become the basis of legal action against the bank.
Although the bank occasionally threatened to sue the authorities for their failure to act, the caution displayed by the various officials was both legally and politically wise. To evict an entire popular building (palazzo popolare)-a living metonym for a whole social segment of the Roman population-would have provoked serious unrest and perhaps unleashed more violence in other parts of the city. The more famous the case became, the more difficult was the task of those charged with carrying out the eventual clearing (sgombero) of the inhabitants and their possessions. And they were also under political pressure; Senator De Luca, for example, never one to let the grass grow under his feet and by now palpably concerned about the growing threat to the residents, had apparently warned the authorities against precipitate action. A parliamentary inquiry was the last thing they wanted, and the local publicity was by now intense; the two newspapers that had extensive coverage of the first major stand-off, in late January of the jubilee year, sold out rapidly at the newsstand in Monti's main square.
The legal requirement that notice be given in advance also contributed to the long duration of the struggle. On each occasion, it gave the residents enough time to organize their defense, both legal and political. In anticipation of one attempt to evict the tenants, one of them told me-this was on 14 October 1999-that the first eviction