Section Seven
-So here we are: Piazza Garibaldi. -More like a vehicle zoo.
Cars screamed, taxis swerved, drivers spat and gesticulated angrily. Buses lumbered across, stopping for nothing. Nothing was stopping for anything. Metal ruled. The place was a mechanical setting for human chaos. Metallic fumes swept over:
Senegalese hawkers, all selling identical versions of Louis Vuitton handbags.
Prostitutes sidling by, snatching brief respite in the early morning sun.
Kiosk-owners, yelling their wares and probably secretly hating their husbands.
Caribinieri leaning on their cars in poses of elegant menace.
Raucous enticers to join the lottery.
So this was Naples.
This was what it was all about.
-Well now, here we seem to have a pretty dark light at the end of a pretty dark tunnel. She felt panic and relief swilling around her in equal proportions. -Well, you've done it now, kid. She picked her way aimlessly through the dizzy swirl that fought and elbowed and yelled and fizzed around her. -All done. -This is what it culminates in. -We're here now. -Time to make the best of it. -Get out there and fight.
The hot-marked air pressed down and jammed her between it and the thick, almost-solid pall of pollution that sullied the ground, making her feel as trapped as a laboratory rat, squeezed between two vice-jaws, almost unable to move.
She gazed around. There was no sweep of azure bay, no smoking volcano looming above, no network of narrow alleyways staggering down the hillside. If this was Naples, it guarded its jewels like a true miser. She reached into her pocket for the street plan. -Shit! -Must have dropped the damn thing! She made a stiletto-quick search through her pockets and bags, checking purse, passport, addresses, guide book: all the important things. Intact. -OK. -Right. -OK. -Calm down. -Take it easy. -Get things sussed out. -Let's get our bearings. -Tourist Office - Station. -Where's the station? An old man was shuffling by. "Scusi, signore, ma dov'è la stazione?"
The old man stopped, looked puzzled, intoned a guttural reply, gestured vaguely, then sloped off, spitting in the gutter.
-Bloody foreigners. -What's the matter with him? -This is supposed to be Italy, isn't it? -Why the hell can't he talk Italian, then?
She knelt down, removed a mauve folder labelled "Guide Book" from her rucksack, propped it on her holdall, opened it, and read>
Cars screamed, taxis swerved, drivers spat and gesticulated angrily. Buses lumbered across, stopping for nothing. Nothing was stopping for anything. Metal ruled. The place was a mechanical setting for human chaos. Metallic fumes swept over:
Senegalese hawkers, all selling identical versions of Louis Vuitton handbags.
Prostitutes sidling by, snatching brief respite in the early morning sun.
Kiosk-owners, yelling their wares and probably secretly hating their husbands.
Caribinieri leaning on their cars in poses of elegant menace.
Raucous enticers to join the lottery.
So this was Naples.
This was what it was all about.
-Well now, here we seem to have a pretty dark light at the end of a pretty dark tunnel. She felt panic and relief swilling around her in equal proportions. -Well, you've done it now, kid. She picked her way aimlessly through the dizzy swirl that fought and elbowed and yelled and fizzed around her. -All done. -This is what it culminates in. -We're here now. -Time to make the best of it. -Get out there and fight.
The hot-marked air pressed down and jammed her between it and the thick, almost-solid pall of pollution that sullied the ground, making her feel as trapped as a laboratory rat, squeezed between two vice-jaws, almost unable to move.
She gazed around. There was no sweep of azure bay, no smoking volcano looming above, no network of narrow alleyways staggering down the hillside. If this was Naples, it guarded its jewels like a true miser. She reached into her pocket for the street plan. -Shit! -Must have dropped the damn thing! She made a stiletto-quick search through her pockets and bags, checking purse, passport, addresses, guide book: all the important things. Intact. -OK. -Right. -OK. -Calm down. -Take it easy. -Get things sussed out. -Let's get our bearings. -Tourist Office - Station. -Where's the station? An old man was shuffling by. "Scusi, signore, ma dov'è la stazione?"
The old man stopped, looked puzzled, intoned a guttural reply, gestured vaguely, then sloped off, spitting in the gutter.
-Bloody foreigners. -What's the matter with him? -This is supposed to be Italy, isn't it? -Why the hell can't he talk Italian, then?
She knelt down, removed a mauve folder labelled "Guide Book" from her rucksack, propped it on her holdall, opened it, and read>
© 2006 by Adrian Benson
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