Section Fourteen

She put her cutlery down with an ill-tempered clatter. Reached for the carafe.
Her ears were ringing again.
Only when her eyes were raised did she hear the raised voices. An argument had obviously broken out between the two men.
-What's this then? -Go! -Release the dogs! -Let battle commence!
The two were skirmishing around the wagon, the pole with the bird pointing out spokewise, the wagon trembling slightly on suspension it did not appear to possess.
She blinked rapidly as she took another slug of wine, focused on the combatants magnified through her wine-glass.
One of them - she was unsure which through the translucent film of wine that had still not dripped down to its reservoir at the bottom of the glass - appeared to shrug his shoulders and half-turn away.
The other one flounced off and returned - gestured with his one free hand.
The first one wiped his hands on an apron. (The chinking of money from a waist-bag which he instantly silenced.)
The voices were: raised (just slightly); audible; incomprehensible.
She raised her glass higher, so that her eyes were just higher than the dregs-line...
-YOU CAN'T HIDE! -YOU CAN'T HIDE!
-Go away.
...and superimposed her globular stage upon the setting.
The two protagonists slid and slithered across it, entering stage left and right, exiting stage right and left within the dusty confines of the little car-packed almost-square captured within the proscenium of her wine-glass rim.
Their actions were jerkier, more violent, their voices more staccato, louder.

...screaming and shouting cloak-man looming twice the size of the tripe-man flung gesticulations eyes raised to the heavens gesticulations gesticulations where have I seen all this before gesticulations arms waved like a puppet traffic policeman huge sweeping arcs like windscreen wipers of human muscle...

...from the tripe-seller a violent double upward levering of the hands he looked like Sisyphus he looked like he was pushing aside a frozen waterfall locked onto his brain...

...and all the while the ground-out machinery hum of the traffic...

...tripe-seller leaving step-by-step sideways heaving his body like a dancer in cement overshoes deserting his wagon is this wise is this wise don't do it don't turn your back on business a final flourish as ever an operatic exit a last histrionic wave expending a final raucous sung breath a squawked top A a massive ruffling of waist fat pushing up an expended rippled energy to the larynx vanishing under a canopy labelled "Birreria" grime-bright in orange-and-black retiring from the fray never to be but back again performing a curtain call from beneath a black-and-orange bright-grime canopy roar roar phlegm rasping rasping like a double-reed wind like a wood enslaved in the roar of the gale seeming to rustle the florid cloak from metres away seeming to ruffle the feathers of the no-scape-bird slinking sliding slithering open-beaking its despair in silence...

...from the other a sweep away a step or two towards the city the cloak flapping the bird taking off and re-alighting...

...and all the while the...

...she moved the glass around like a movie camera, panning across the piazza, closing-up on one and then the other...

...tripe-seller tripe- cloaked-man cloaked- tripe cloak tripe cloak...

...tripe-man looming through the glass largely twice the size of the cloak-man...

...homing in a line of spittle joining top lip to bottom lip on the gold-filled mouth of the man in the cloak a clenching of a fist an unstated scream of triumph or frustration a shattering of the thin cylinder of spit three salivary drops flung out in echelon...

...and all the while the quiet amused tolerance of the onlookers, arms-folded, flamingo-footed...

...her wine-glass her sounding bowl magnifying isolating sound grabbing each gesture in capture she could reach out to every yelled syllable every contraction of every neck-muscle every wavelet of halitosis...

...every bad-breath gulp-out bad-mouthed its poisonous way around her reddened goldfish bowl...

...she had to wrench her head away to escape her nose from the trapped stench and put the glass down arms-length away...

...and all the while the...

...left-hand empty jerk-out gestures sewing nothing broadcast-style...

...the cloak-man striding off not storming off shrugging his shoulders as if to say "what can you do?"...

...the tripe-seller pushing his wagon up the hill, shrugging as best he can as if to say "what can you do?", the wheels squeaking with every rotation....

...each squeak clearly audible, an aural bar-line in the cacophony of the piazza...

She turned round from gazing after the tripe-seller just in time to see the apparition in the cloak disappear, seemingly into the tunnel. A well-groomed head at the table directly in front of her turned to witness the same disappearance.
She bent down deep over her pizza and sniffed deep. She could smell the basil, imagined it growing lush in parched spaces, the nosy aroma driving away the stench of car-fumes, the whiff of brimstone from the altercation. She looked up, embarrassed, to see a pair of glint-steel eyes looking at her. -English? "Scusa, sei inglese, tu?"
"I beg your pardon?. Er - I mean..."
"No, it's OK. Are you English - I mean, British?"
"Er - why, yes. English, that is. Are you?"
"Yes."
He tossed his head in the direction of the square. "Interesting side-show, don't you think?"
"Yeah. Certainly was."
"What on earth do you think that was all about? I mean, how can they argue for this long? It's just so exhausting."
"I've no idea."
"Strange pair, as well. Back in Britain they'd have stormed off or kissed and made up or come to blows ages ago. But I suppose that that's what's so exciting about the Mediterranean, don't you think?"
"Yes, I suppose so. Sorry, do you mind me talking to you?"
"Not at all. In fact, may I join you? I've almost finished."
"Yeah. Sure. Please do. They seem pretty keen to have their tables free here."
He cast another backwards glance then looked forwards as he edged over to her table, holding onto his beer glass and cupping his map and guidebook to his lap with his free hand. Both ex-combatants were now out of sight. He plonked himself down in the chair opposite and plonked his glass down on the table. The map fell across the table into her territory, temporarily smothering her pizza, and when he picked it up, it was adorned with mozzarella cheese. "Sorry. I'm terribly clumsy. Is your pizza alright?"
"Yes, it's fine. Is your map OK?"
"Yes. Don't worry. It's not a problem. I dare say that it will be dirtied a sight more before I move on."
"Really? Are you aiming to stay in Naples for long, then?"
The tristar reflection on the table of red teardrop effects from her glass of wine.
"Well, yes, I've got quite a few places to see. And the problem with cities like this is that the opening hours are so bizarre that it's jolly difficult to see everything in a short space of time. So I'm not sure how long for, and then I'll move on."
A rustle of the map. Slightly too close to her nose.
"Are you a tourist? Or are you studying something?"
"History of Art." He mopped his brow.
"Oh, right. So are you looking at lots of paintings in churches and things?"
"Yes. And the Museum. At least that keeps vaguely civilised opening hours at this time of year."
"What's there?"
A scrape of a knife against a plate through the crust of a pizza.
He winced. "Well, most of the really attractive mosaics from Pompeii are there."
A mouthful swallowed.
He mopped his brow again. Looked up and grimaced, then smiled. Slightly crooked teeth. "This damned heat..."
"Carruthers," she almost added.
"...it gets so prickly at this time of year. Now, what was I saying? Oh yes. The Museum. Yes, of course, they've got the Farnese collection there."
-Of course. "Farnese Collection. Hang on. Yes, wait a minute. I may even have heard of that. Is that where the - what's it called? - Farnos Bull is?"
"Yes, that's right. You obviously have heard of it."
"Zigaretti! Zigaretti!"
"Yes, it's not the only thing I've obviously heard of, either. Looks like here comes the Contraband Kid."
She pointed. The Englishman turned to watch him. He zigarettied and zagarettied across his domain, clutching his cellophaned lung-rot booty, pinball-bouncing from table to table.
The Englishman looked amused. "Do you know him?"
"Well, I've met him before. But not around here. At the Piazza Garibaldi. If this is part of his normal daily routine, he's got one hell of a territory." She had visions of the little operator ambling across the city like a foundling lost in the forest, prey to vicious beasts behind every tree.
The child paused in front of them. He said nothing. She looked at his face: browned, woody but clear-skinned, like a face ravaged by vegetarianism. The quick black eyes were never still, never soft either. She stared into those eyes, mesmerised, and slowly, sadly shook her head, then had to look away.
He turned aside. Mooched towards the next table.
She called him back, waved aside the cigarettes and pressed a ten thousand lira note into his bone-dry hand. He shrugged silently, then swayed away, doing a sort of two-foot limp like he was giving a restrained impression of someone with rickets.
The Englishman gestured for the bill. The waiter sashayed across, grinding a cigarette under his heel in viaggio. She looked for some sign of approval in the equally inscrutable depths of his equally dark hard eyes. There was none. She glanced across at the Englishman.
"Are you paying up? You don't fancy..."
The waiter was already shaking his head.
"Er, no. Be it dessert or coffee, they don't run to such luxuries here. But we can get a coffee across the road at that kiosk if you like."
"Oh, OK." She flashed the appropriate note at the waiter and accepted the change. "Right, let's go then, shall we?"
She sprang out of her chair, the Englishman slowly folding up his map, rising to his feet, jerking a farewell wave at the waiter, then following.
"Last one to the kiosk's a wimp," she yelled at the kerb, looking back to check that he was coming. A Fiat 126, shoe-box on wheels, came horn-blaring down the hill as she stepped out, almost scything her toes from her feet, and stuttered across towards the tunnel. Incongruously, it had a "Long Vehicle" sign, in English, on the back.
The Englishman melted in beside her. "First one to the kiosk could be dead," he ventured, guilelessly.
"Yeah, you could be right."
"The thing you have to remember," he said, patiently - standing up, he was noticeably taller than she - "is that pedestrians are a lower life-form around here but that overt murder is anathema to the Neapolitan soul. Covert murder's another kettle of fish, of course. So, in crossing the road, you have to be bold but circumspect. A bit of a paradox, but there it is."
-Yeah, tell me about it.
"Right, let's go," he said suddenly. He made off across the road, semi-beckoning, semi-ushering her with him. She thought for one giddy moment that they were going to hold hands. They made it across the road, and beached up against the yellow-wood kiosk. They leant on the counter, facing each other. He was framed by the halo of the road-tunnel. Lodged down-prevailing-wind, she became aware that his breath was not all it might be.
A gnome-like man appeared in the aperture. "Prego. Desiderate?"
"Un espresso e... what would you like?"
"A cappuccino. Is that OK? Or is that infradig?"
"No, I don't think so. Do they still care about that sort of thing? Un cappuccino."
The little old man nodded briskly then attended to his task, bending and muttering and finding an echo in the spluttering of the steam into the milk.
"And anyway," he continued, "it's not that late. It's not even eleven thirty yet."
"Is that right? Hey, they don't mess around over there, do they? That's less than half an hour for a pizza, something to eat, and an al fresco cabaret thrown in. Yes. I keep forgetting how early it is."
"You were hungry?"
"Yes, I'm just off the plane. Haven't readjusted body-clock or appetite yet. What about you?"
"Oh, I've been here for a couple of days. I'm staying at the Youth Hostel. So I don't bother with breakfast or anything and consequently I'm usually ravenous by this time."
The man held up a sugar jar. "Con zucchero?"
Two shakes of two heads.
-Obviously all upfront here. -What you get is what you ask for. -No chintzy little sachets of sugar with pictures of butterflies here. She looked up at the Englishman. Weak chin. Watery blue eyes.
He smiled. "Now then. Sorry, what were we talking about? Before we crossed the great divide."
"The Farnos Bull."
"Oh, yes - you've heard of it, you said?"
"Yes, but... I don't know from where. Have you seen it yet?"
"No. Not yet. In fact, if - if you'd like to, we could arrange to meet there. Stroll around together."
"Er, yes. I-I'd like that." -I think.
"When?"
"Well, you see, as I said, I've just arrived. I've got to get things sorted out."
He lifted up his cup and seemed to drain it in one. Almost completely adeptly: a spot of brown appeared on his chin. "How about tomorrow?"
"Well, I can't promise yet. It depends on the way things work out."
He put his espresso cup neatly back inside the brown coffee-circle on the saucer, with just the slightest clunk. "It sounds jolly mysterious to me."
"I'm sorry. I don't mean to be. You see, I've only just arrived. Sorry, I've already said that, haven't I?"
"Yes, you have. Twice. You've also got cappuccino foam on your lip." He reached out towards her face, then thought better of it and withdrew his hand. The acidity from his mouth receded with it.
An awkward pause. She found a handkerchief and wiped her mouth. "That better?"
"Yes."
"All gone?"
"Yes."
"Bright and clean and shiny now?"
He grinned. "Yes. Well, listen, if you fancy meeting, why don't you leave a message at the Youth Hostel? You know where it is? Just up the hill, near the station."
"OK, will do. What's your name?" -More typical bloody Anglo Saxon. -Introduce yourself when you part.
"It's - er, Giles, actually. Giles Attwood."
-Giles, eh? -That figures!
"And you?"
"Um, I'm Janey."
"Pleased to meet you Janey." His hand was not quite as moist as she had expected. "Hope to see you again." He waved, then walked away.

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