Section Twelve

-Why? -Why? -Why 'Message ends'? -Why so quickly?
Out of the station, out of the tunnel, doing the long walk to the road, the huge railway arches looming above her, an unmistakable yet indiscernible whiff of the sea warping in above the car-fumes
A pack of urchins emerged - in a mass, in a huddle - playing some obscure game; three in pursuit, one pursued who pushed past her then touched a car and held on to the wing-mirror. This appeared to give him sort of immunity. He looked up at her, grinned and said "Scusa."
"Hey, non importa, ragazzo." She smiled, tousled his hair, and walked away down the hill, glancing back. Now, by some obscure system of selection, another one had become the quarry and was being chased by the other three hunters.
-So quickly. -Why are you always fleeing so quickly? -And why are you such a fucking hippy at heart still?
She galumphed down the hill. -God I'm starving. -Those airline breakfasts certainly don't last long. She stopped, dropped her holdall and adjusted her watch. -It's only then? -That early, even in Italian time?
A small, strange half-square opened to her right. She gazed across it. Diagonally. Diagonally was the only way you could gaze across it. The sight of a giant road tunnel transfixed her. Cars appeared into and disappeared from its immensity, so intimidated that they seemed dwarfed. Silenced. Slowed-down. She couldn't go any further. She had to sit down.
Tables outside a pizzeria. She sat down. -Lordy, another solitary strange table. -Another waiter.
The waiter looked at his watch and disappeared inside. She dragged her vision away from the frozen hell in the far-side and switched it to the near-side. An old man with mutton-chop whiskers and a peaked cap guarded an old push-cart covered in glass like a mobile aquarium. The cart was covered in gaudy paint like a fairground caravan or a narrow-boat. The old man was obviously selling something but making no attempt to drum up custom.
-Must have a ready-made audience, I mean customer-base. -What the hell's he selling? -Wait a minute! -Ugh! -Tripe! -I don't believe it! -Mother, thou shouldst be cooking at this hour. -Well, maybe not.
The waiter reappeared with a menu. He said something in an incomprehensible accent.
She looked at the menu.
She put her thoughts in order. -Well, what shall we have? -Pizza Margherita. -And some red wine, I think. -Sod it, so what if it's only eleven o'clock? -Why not? -Bit of Dutch courage to face the tribulations. -When in Naples...
She beckoned him over and ordered.
She opened the folder.
She put her papers in order.
-Another pathetic distraction to look busy and impatient and not alone. -So what do you have to say about this place, bud? Again she tumbled out the mauve 'Guidebook' folder. Places to eat no. 7. You could do worse than try the Piazza Sannazzaro. This is a raffish, slightly chopped-off right-angle that hardly merits the term 'Piazza'. But if you like good, simple pasta or pizza with a hefty sprinkling of carbon monoxide topping along with the oregano, go there. The wine arrived. Extremely promptly. She looked out a couple of sheets. Inadvertently smeared red wine over them.
-Shit! -Why did that have to happen? -Oh, come on, don't feel so bloody sorry for yourself; you can always rewrite it. -Come on, let's look at this thing. -Concentrate! -Now then, my little sweetie, you and me - how did it all start?

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