FURTHERMORE

Bribes don't work in Italy any more.

So neither does much else

PETRONELLA WYATT

Ihad been on holiday in Italy only a few days before an expatriate English friend complained, 'It's awful. They won't take your money any more.' Who won't?' I asked. It was hot and still. We were sitting in a cafe. Some women were swaying down the street looking like painted Watusi lead- ing a tribal dance. The Italians. They don't take bribes any more.'

There is a Cole Porter lyric which goes, 'Picture H.G. Wells without a brain, Pic- ture Averell Harriman without a train.' It was similarly impossible to picture an Ital- ian without a bribe. With most Italians, cor- ruption is both involuntary and inevitable. They can no more avoid it than one can avoid blinking an eye when a light flashes, or jumping when a bomb goes off behind one. Bribery is part of the baggage of the Italian character, a symptom of that coun- try's convulsive efforts to find a successful compromise between tradition and a mar- ket economy.

I have to say that I called my friend a liar. He was indignant. He offered me an exam- ple. He runs a small contracting company in Rome that does business with the gov- ernment. An appointment with a minister would normally involve crossing the palms of various officials with a few banknotes. The officials were happy, my friend was happy, everyone was happy. 'Now they have gone all honest,' he said. 'You can't even get through the door of the ministry.' Apparently, this is all because of Italy's newest Prime Minister, Signor Romano Prodi. Traditionally, Italy elects prime min- isters and nothing happens. In the past 40 years it has had many administrations, but never a proper government. It is the same with Italian food. Everything here is called bistecca, even if it is not made of beef. So a restaurant will advertise bistecca di vitello (veal) or bistecca di polio (chicken). Italian administrations have been bistecca di vitello.

But it would seem that Romano Prodi wants to be bistecca di bistecca. He calls himself a 'nuovo socialist'. He is, in one sense, Italy's Tony Blair. He is also a pro- fessed follower of Hegel. Most Italians are entirely without any ideology. They regard it as unhealthy. But Prodi, I was told by a colleague, believes in Hegel's 'the Absolute Idea', Prodi's Absolute Idea is 'New Italy'. This is rather like Blair's New Britain.

The parallel goes further. Before the election, Prodi spoke the language of the Right in order to win over the wealthy. The more extreme left-wingers in his party agreed to remain quiet — until, that is, after Prodi had won the election. 'People voted for Prodi because they thought there would be no policy change,' my English friend said, 'but now he finds himself the prisoner of his Left.'

That Left is generally Brussophile. This is chiefly because it favours large subsidies, fixed working hours, a minimum wage. Prodi, like a child who is promised more sweets providing he minds his manners, is anxious to dispel in Brussels his country's reputation for corruption. So more and more people are frightened to offer or accept bribes.

This is where everything has gone wrong. An essential cog has been removed from the wheel. Nothing in Italy works any more. In the past, if a man wanted to open a shop or buy some land, he paid a sum of money to the relevant person. Now the relevant person will have nothing to do with it. The result has been a large reduction in com- petitiveness and internal consumption.

Attempts to cut the budget deficit have led to taxes being put up. The average working man pays around 40 per cent on his earnings. This is the same as the aver- age wealthy man. Italy now has the most inequitable tax system in Europe. The gov- ernment introduces a new tariff nearly every day. It is a myth that Italians do not pay their taxes. As in Britain, most of them are in PAYE.

The resorts are almost empty. Boats bob forlornly in their berths. North of Rome in Porto Ercole, where I am staying, the hotels are bereft of the usual Romans on holiday. Down in the marina, an old man with a clever face was swabbing down his boat. It was the first August, he said in perfect English, he had been unable to rent it out. 'I charge 900,00 lire [$350] a day. A well- known millionaire came here last week and said that was too expensive!'

Brussels acts as a straitjacket on this coun- try. It is like trying to force a fat soprano into the brassiere of Kate Moss. The old man with the boat said, They want us to act like you Anglo-Saxons. It would kill us. For many years everything worked and we had a good black-market economy. Now because of Brussels that is collapsing and taxes are high- er than they ever were before.'

To my astonishment, he began to quote Wordsworth: 'High instincts before which our mortal nature/Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised.' One did not expect to find such erudition in a seaside resort. 'I went to Oxford before the war and read a lot of poetry,' he explained. 'But my point is this, high instincts are not for an Italian. You have a man called Blair who also talks about regeneration. It is just another word for poverty.'

This new puritanism of the Italian — this reformed neighbourhood brat — I just had to experience for myself. So I decided on an experiment. On Saturday nights, the local carabinieri put up a barrier before the entrance to Porto Ercole. This is to prevent cars from parking by the beach. One has to say that this is a custom honoured more on the beach than in the observance. 10,000 lire or even less was usually enough to let one through.

I recognised the policeman from last year. His name was Giovanni; he was Alcib- iades reborn — sun-painted, golden. He raked in the bribes like a croupier rakes in chips. I said, 'Buona sera, Giovanni.' He said, 'You can't park your car here.' I waved banknotes at him. 'What's that?' This was not the response to which one had become accustomed. I pressed the money into his hand. He released it. 'What do you think I am, a crooked?'

'But, Giovanni,' I protested, 'you were crooked last year.' He shook his head mournfully. 'Everyone was crooked last year. But now the government fines you. I can't afford to be a crooked. Sorry. Park somewhere else.'

This called for a drink. Paolo, the local barman, was sympathetic. 'It's true. You can't even build a house now. The contrac- tors throw your money back at you. You can't get a berth for your boat. My brother Luca used to find you one for some lire, but no more.'

The next day I went to see Luca. He used to be fat and prosperous-looking. Now he looked like a piece of undercooked linguine. Honesty evidently brought few rewards. 'Luca,' I began, 'I have a friend who wants a berth.' There are no berths left.' This, doubtless, was the standard for- mula. 'I know, Luca. But he has lots of lire. Can't you find him one?'

Luca opened pale, cracked lips that had once been rosy with good living. 'You English disgust me.' Oh, well. Most people here say that Prodi will probably fall within a year.