My first job could seamlessly flow into an episode of Mr. Bean. I had just finished my first year at Uni., when the Italian Department rang to ask me whether I was interested in a holiday job as secretary to the Italian Chamber of Commerce. I pointed out that I couldn’t type, knew no shorthand, my only qualification being that I made a mean cup of coffee.
“They don’t want secretarial skills; they want someone fluent in Italian”
The Italian Chamber of Commerce sounded grand, and I boasted to my nearest and dearest and those neither near nor dear that I had just scored a job working there. My illusions were soon shattered. The Italian Chamber of Commerce operated from a dingy room in a dingy building somewhere at the top of Little Collins Street. There were two of us working there: me as secretary, and Signor Rossi, Secretary of The Italian Chamber of Commerce, this being his official job title. Signor Rossi is not his real name. After so many years I have forgotten his name, his face, and only remember that he had a permanently stressed look.
Signor Rossi wanted to return to Italy, his family did not. I suspect that part of this longing was because he did not speak a word of English, which made this job somewhat complicated and finding another one impossible. He was charming, unassuming and we made a formidable duo. He did all the typing, I translated the letters, answered the phone and fobbed off pesky people with awkward questions. Once someone rang up wanting to know where he could find a spare part for his Italian motor bike. Signor Rossi looked up ‘motor bike mechanics’ in the yellow pages and randomly picked a name. This was 1971, pre computers. Within half an hour the man rang back, he was very cross:
“The number was a garage in Frankston, didn’t have a clue what I was talking about. You just made it up, didn’t you?”
I responded in a suitably obsequious fashion, explaining that obviously our records needed updating, and unfortunately at this point in time, we could not help.
Then there was a time when a button fell off my blouse. No problem, Signor Rossi would sew it back on. I went to the kitchen, took off my blouse and handed it to him while remaining chastely hidden behind the door; same routine for its prompt return.
Can one add more perfection to the already perfect job? In this case yes. Directly opposite our building was Penn’s Bookshop, an icon of the antiquarian book trade. In those days, antiquarian booksellers sold a large range of books at affordable prices. Each Thursday, when I got paid in cash (Remember those days?), I would wonder across and blow my wages. Bliss, until one day Mr. Penn took me aside and gave me a stern, fatherly lecture about saving and how it might be a good idea if I stopped coming and banked my wages instead. Spoilsport I say.
Another spoilsport was the President of the Italian Chamber of Commerce. He was large and unpleasant and made it clear that he thought I was an unnecessary extravagance.
All good things must come to an end, in this case not because of Mr. Penn’s admonition and Mr. President’s unpleasantness, but because Uni was due to start again.
Signor Rossi and I stayed in touch for only few months after I left, so I will never know if he returned to Italy or not. Whatever happened, I hope everything worked out for him. He was a good man whose induction to my life as a wage slave could not have been more benign.
Delfina Manor,
June 2024
“They don’t want secretarial skills; they want someone fluent in Italian”
The Italian Chamber of Commerce sounded grand, and I boasted to my nearest and dearest and those neither near nor dear that I had just scored a job working there. My illusions were soon shattered. The Italian Chamber of Commerce operated from a dingy room in a dingy building somewhere at the top of Little Collins Street. There were two of us working there: me as secretary, and Signor Rossi, Secretary of The Italian Chamber of Commerce, this being his official job title. Signor Rossi is not his real name. After so many years I have forgotten his name, his face, and only remember that he had a permanently stressed look.
Signor Rossi wanted to return to Italy, his family did not. I suspect that part of this longing was because he did not speak a word of English, which made this job somewhat complicated and finding another one impossible. He was charming, unassuming and we made a formidable duo. He did all the typing, I translated the letters, answered the phone and fobbed off pesky people with awkward questions. Once someone rang up wanting to know where he could find a spare part for his Italian motor bike. Signor Rossi looked up ‘motor bike mechanics’ in the yellow pages and randomly picked a name. This was 1971, pre computers. Within half an hour the man rang back, he was very cross:
“The number was a garage in Frankston, didn’t have a clue what I was talking about. You just made it up, didn’t you?”
I responded in a suitably obsequious fashion, explaining that obviously our records needed updating, and unfortunately at this point in time, we could not help.
Then there was a time when a button fell off my blouse. No problem, Signor Rossi would sew it back on. I went to the kitchen, took off my blouse and handed it to him while remaining chastely hidden behind the door; same routine for its prompt return.
Can one add more perfection to the already perfect job? In this case yes. Directly opposite our building was Penn’s Bookshop, an icon of the antiquarian book trade. In those days, antiquarian booksellers sold a large range of books at affordable prices. Each Thursday, when I got paid in cash (Remember those days?), I would wonder across and blow my wages. Bliss, until one day Mr. Penn took me aside and gave me a stern, fatherly lecture about saving and how it might be a good idea if I stopped coming and banked my wages instead. Spoilsport I say.
Another spoilsport was the President of the Italian Chamber of Commerce. He was large and unpleasant and made it clear that he thought I was an unnecessary extravagance.
All good things must come to an end, in this case not because of Mr. Penn’s admonition and Mr. President’s unpleasantness, but because Uni was due to start again.
Signor Rossi and I stayed in touch for only few months after I left, so I will never know if he returned to Italy or not. Whatever happened, I hope everything worked out for him. He was a good man whose induction to my life as a wage slave could not have been more benign.
Delfina Manor,
June 2024
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