“You’ll have to open a bank account.”
Words more dreadful have never been spoken. I feel more or less the same regards any requirement that involves signing pieces of paper, but the reputation of Italian banks has seeped into my brain for years and nothing about it has been appealing. Many banks add to those negative impressions with entry systems worthy of the CIA, teller windows ready to withstand an assault from Daesh, and rate schedules that make filing instructions for the IRS seem childish. I don’t want to do it.
But when I’m out of the country, I’ll need to pay utility bills so there’s no choice.
I begin by asking everyone I know for recommendations. Most point to a single institution, so that’s where I go. Good first impression, the entryway is security relaxed. Second impression, the young woman leaning against it speaks English.
“No one is in right now who can open an account for you.” Okay, I’ll come back later. “But wait, let me take you to meet the branch manager.”
What? I’m an American, so obviously I’m going to invest millions on the spot?
I wish to open a checking account, I say. “Domestic or foreign?” I have no idea. Smiles between the branch manager and the other chap in the room. I don’t know what distinguishes one account from the other. “Do you have an ID card?” Like Italian? Sure. Here. “Are you registered?” Like with the anagrafe, yep, about two months ago, but no certificate yet. “Why do you want to open a checking account?” To pay rent and utilities. “Do you have a business card?” he says, reaching out his hand. I look at his hand and, Harpo Marx-like, shake it. He looks at his hand, looks at me. “Okay, I’ll give you one of mine.” He searches in his drawer. No cards. He glances at the other chap, who explores another drawer. No cards. They shrug. Oh yeah! We moved them. One is found and delivered. “No one is here who can open an account right now, come back after two-thirty.” Thanks, I’ll be back in two hours. “No, two-thirty.” The young woman explains that I meant two thirty. I meant two hours, but having no idea of the time, I agree; two-thirty.
When I arrive back at three, a gentleman is seated at a previously empty desk, and as the young woman is not in sight, I approach him and explain that I wish to open a checking account. He smiles, offers me a chair. “Domestic or foreign?” I again plead ignorance. My cards and papers are put onto the desk. He looks through them. “Why do you wish to open a checking account?” I panic just a bit, this being the second person who has asked what seems like a placeholder of a question; to pay rent, I say. “That’s it?” That’s all I can think of at the moment.
This well-spoken, very kind gentlemen then proceeds with a well-reasoned and detailed argument in favor of not opening a checking account. He compares the costs of wire transfers, bancomat charges, and account fees. When I pose questions, he immediately phones someone for an accurate answer. This goes on for what seems like twenty minutes. At the end, I’m convinced. I shouldn’t open a checking account. What a waste of money that would be! And for nothing!
At the end of this discussion, and after I promise to “investigate” alternatives – a word perhaps not often used in banks here because he chuckles and repeats it, saying that would be a very wise idea – he sums up our conversation, a summation I don’t quite get on the first pass. He calls someone on the phone to send him the translator. While we wait, he repeats his final points and I totally understand him, so when the young woman arrives he reports that I have understood, and that we have agreed I will not be opening a checking account unless further investigation deems it absolutely necessary.
The young woman demurs. “He spoke with the branch manager earlier.” The authoritative and confident man I had just spent twenty minutes with now smiles broadly, and offers that he may have misinterpreted my situation. The young woman suggests he call the branch manager and ask him to join our conversation. While the gentleman does this, she sits next to me, smiles conspiratorially, and says in English “There are certain people you must know do not understand everything.” Her eyes indicate the gentleman behind the desk. “Do you understand that we must not talk about certain people?” I nod, having now been cast in a spy movie. “You need to open an account.” This seems very final, so I nod again, indicating that I see her point and it is as obvious a fact as the sunrise.
The branch manager joins us. He speaks more rapidly than before. The gentleman behind the desk grins more and more broadly, nodding as he does. The branch manager slows down a notch and I catch “…he also has to pay utilities.” There is a moment of hushed recognition. The young woman glances at me again, indicating that the deed has been done, we have survived a hazardous journey, all obstacles have been traversed thanks to sterling leadership.
The branch manager departs. The young woman and the gentlemen explain that it will take at least a day, possibly more, to prepare the paperwork. It is Tuesday. “Please to come back on Thursday morning, all will be ready.” I rise uncertainly, thank them profusely, and weave out the door, once again drunk with confusion.
For the next twenty-four hours I replay the scene. Was the gentleman correct, after all, just beaten into submission by authority? Or was it only that I forgot to tell him about the crucial factor of utilities payments? When, at the end of the interview, the young woman handed me a slip of paper with the gentleman’s contact info on it, and all but winked at me while she explained that I could contact him at any time by phone or email, was she offering me a way out, just don’t tell the branch manager?
Scenarios rise and vanish. I imagine the language I would use to email the gentleman, tacitly acknowledging my part in the conspiracy to maintain his position, while simultaneously seeming to be neutral. I fear I had fallen into a corporate trap, one so complex that I would never quite understand its nature or function.
Wednesday morning, I glance at my phone to find the gentleman had called five times within fifteen minutes. I’m heading out anyway, and dread phone conversations, so I stop at the bank. “Ah! I just called you! How convenient!” I explain that my ringer had been off. “Do you have your social security card with you?” I have never carried my social security card in my life. It’s made of paper less sturdy than your typical bus ticket, carrying it is assured destruction. No, but I’ll find something with my number on it. “Excellent!” I locate a Medicare card, and it is deemed sufficiently official. There are more near winks and smiles and nods. I realize that I kind of like the guy, so dismiss the previous day’s confusion as cultural.
Thursday morning I return for the paperwork. I have signed fewer times buying a house than I do for that checking account. More instructions, more questions, more explanations. I notice the gentleman’s hands. Strong, short fingers – like my father’s – worn nails, dirt embedded here and there. I want to ask if he’s a gardener, but fear it will come so out of left field that another linguistic tangle will result, so I suspend my curiosity.
The young woman joins us to make sure I comprehend the subtle obligations attached to owning a checking account. That sounds snarky, and I do not intend it, for she reveals to me, among other mysteries, that I need deposit nothing into the account to make it active. I register surprise. The gentleman poses a hypothetical example. Suppose I were put a million euro into the account. (I look around to see if the branch manager is hiding somewhere, listening. Not that I can tell.) Then I come in to draw a check for a half million. It will be honored, of course. But suppose I have deposited only one euro. No cash, no carry. So why should the bank care if I have money in my account? If I don’t have money, they don’t give me any. Very simple.
I have one more question. Do I get any checks? He looks past me towards the entrance, smiles, finishes the interview without addressing the question, and stands to put on his jacket. The young woman explains about checks, in English, basically saying that if I need one, come in and ask. “But why would you ever need a check?” The gentleman rushes to meet his friends who have just entered. The young woman asks me to return on Friday for my bankcard. On my way out I see the gentleman with a man and a woman, all of them smiling, laughing, and bustling off to lunch. At 11:15? Maybe for coffee, then lunch.
Friday. More paper, more signatures, and a colorful bankcard to use on my account with no money in it. Hands are shaken. It feels as though our having survived the last four mornings together means now we will have reason to greet on the street. Indeed, the whole dance of the checking account seems, at this moment, to have had no other purpose; the bankcard is but a byproduct of a meaningful cultural ritual.
As I leave the building I notice the door handles pictured above.