Section Fifteen
She watched him move up the hill, the incline exaggerating his tallness before the distance diminished him. The further away he went, the louder the hissing in her ears became. But it was unbalanced, louder from the left. She looked across in that direction, towards the road tunnel. Instantly, the volume of hissing equalised. She set off in that direction. Drawn to it, like a sailor enticed to the rocks, she carefully crossed the intertwining filaments of minor roads, quickstepping and quickstopping, unintimidated by the buzz of traffic, which was entirely subdued in comparison with the awesome bass reverberation of the tunnel.
She found herself perched at the very entrance to the place, edge-located on the tiny strip of pavement. Cars disappeared into and appeared from its vast echoing recess, now seemingly doubled in size by exposure to its grandiosity. Amplified. Accelerated. Everything larger and louder than death. She couldn't move for a minute. She leant against the sooted brickwork.
-God, how can people live like this - all this rush, all these fumes, all this blaring noise?
She slumped down, reached for one of her multifarious folders and struggled with the Guidebook. -You might at least have got this thing bound into a more usable form!
By all means go to the Phlegraean fields, visit Solfatara, go to the Sybilline Grotto. This whole volcanic area is fascinating. But if you want a whiff of the sulphur of the real modern Naples, you need do no more than cross the Piazza Sannazzaro, and there you come to the real mouth of the inferno - the Galleria della Laziale: it is indicative of a truly modern hell. Virgil is supposed to be buried above it: his essence has probably leaked into it; his bones have probably been rattled to fragments by it...
She stuffed the papers back in the folder. Angrily. -You pillock, where are you?
In the wash of noise, she thought that she heard his voice, saying "I'm in here; I have gone to ground; come and find me" interspersed with "this is my ghost voice - I have gone away" tossed on the ground bass of car engine roar.
Then nothing. An eerie silence. Her hearing seemed to have switched off for a second. Cars embarked and disembarked, slidewise, silently, wheels not turning.
She turned away. -Come on, let's get the hell out of here. -No more voices today, I think. -Oh, Mother, now I have to cross the road again.
"Last voice for a while. Go now." She went. Crossed the road unimpaired. Instinctively turned left. Walked to prove she could still do it. Stopped. Leant over the sea-wall. A dry retching rose in her throat then cleared. She looked up and examined the long sweep of the sea-edge, which curved in almost regal splendour. -What a place this must have been once. She followed the curve of the bay round with her eyes, round to the Castel dell' Ovo, as the hawkers brought out their wares, offering the smell of singed sweetcorn to the atmosphere noise-poisoned by the lateral flow of traffic noise and car radio intrusion to her left and the perpendicular flow of the tiring sea to her right; muted, kept at bay by an extra reinforcement of giant boulders.
She gazed out to sea. -All the time I'm following you. -All the while three steps behind. -You could be over there, for all I know. -Or even in there. -Pray to God that you're not.
-A BIT LATE TO START PRAYING TO GOD!
-Shut up, you stupid cow! -Leave me alone. -Oh, where are you? -If we could only connect. -No! -Not like that! -Get back get back too late this is your doing, you vindictive old harridan!
She continued to stare out to sea, attempting to conjure up islands and frozen tranquillity, but the angry voices came swimming back.
"Yeah. Yeah. Sure. Look. I just don't want to talk about it at the moment, OK?" -And I don't. -I don't!
"No. No. But then, you never do, do you? 'Communication's not really my strong point.' I think I quote you correctly."
"Listen, Mr. Let's heave the world on our shoulders, just because you want to practise your knee-jerk white-liberalism on every cripple you come across doesn't mean that I have to spend every single minute of my time in this hell-hole agonising with you. I've just about had it up to - up to the top of your Dad's bloody pith helmet with you and all this breast-beating and all this abject bloody misery." -It has gone so quiet. -A death-laden silence.
"OK. We'll talk about it later."
"No. We will not talk about it later. We will most certainly not talk about it later. I have had a bellyful of talking it over, even on an empty belly most of the time. I don't want to talk. I don't want to discuss it. I don't want to look at this squalor. I want out of this. I've had enough. I want to go home. Get me out of here, John. Be a Knight in Shining Armour for once in your life. Take me away from all this."
"Yes, Let's walk away from all this. That'll solve it all, won't it? Just go away and forget it. Pretend it never happened."
"We are not going to solve any of this. The only thing we can solve is the fact the my bowels feel like I've been eating soldering irons for breakfast, dinner and tea ever since we've been here. That's something that can be solved. And that can be solved easily - by getting the hell out of here. I don't mean out of India. We can go to - I dunno - Bangalore or somewhere, but I need a break from all this." -Please.
"These kids don't get the chance to get a break from all this."
-Don't rise to the bait. "John, I'm not going to argue with you anymore. You don't have to come. But I am going. If it's a choice between travelling alone or staying in this - this sewer - with you wallowing in your own masochism, I know which route I'm going to take."
"OK. OK. I'm sorry. I forget how hard it is for a woman ..."
"Being a woman's got nothing to do with it. Not being a 24 carat genuine dyed-in-the wool sodding martyr possibly has."
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean..."
"Hard for a woman. You patronising little shite. Don't you realise for once in your obtuse little namby-pamby life, that you are not doing anything here. You've got no medical ability. You're not a sodding investigative journalist. You're just a voyeur. That's not being a man. That's not being any sort of real human being. If you were really committed, you wouldn't just fester around, agonising, like some hand-wringing padre, deciding whether to chuck a few rupees or not. You'd sign up. You'd volunteer. You'd help out."
"Well, I don't see any sign of you doing that."
"No. You don't. Because I have no intentions of it. I don't pretend to be a saint. I just want out. And I said I wouldn't argue with you anymore."
"No. Well, I'm sorry I brought you to this."
"Oh, that's OK. I wouldn't have missed it. Really. I mean that. And I know it seems like chickening out, but I really do have to get out now." -Please!
"I do know how you feel, you know. I don't feel exactly comfortable here, either."
"So, can we go? Please?"
"Let's get some sleep. We'll think about it in the morning. We'll see."
"We will not see! We will not fucking see! There is nothing to see but my retreating backside getting the next train out of here! Please get this into your thick skull. I don't need this. I don't need you. I don't need anything but some peace and quiet. I'm fed up with slumming it. I'm travelling air-conditioned to somewhere where I can breathe, where I can rest in the shade, where I can eat without shitting red-hot liquid every day. Understand?"
"Understand. See you around."
"Well, screw you!"
She found herself perched at the very entrance to the place, edge-located on the tiny strip of pavement. Cars disappeared into and appeared from its vast echoing recess, now seemingly doubled in size by exposure to its grandiosity. Amplified. Accelerated. Everything larger and louder than death. She couldn't move for a minute. She leant against the sooted brickwork.
-God, how can people live like this - all this rush, all these fumes, all this blaring noise?
She slumped down, reached for one of her multifarious folders and struggled with the Guidebook. -You might at least have got this thing bound into a more usable form!
By all means go to the Phlegraean fields, visit Solfatara, go to the Sybilline Grotto. This whole volcanic area is fascinating. But if you want a whiff of the sulphur of the real modern Naples, you need do no more than cross the Piazza Sannazzaro, and there you come to the real mouth of the inferno - the Galleria della Laziale: it is indicative of a truly modern hell. Virgil is supposed to be buried above it: his essence has probably leaked into it; his bones have probably been rattled to fragments by it...
She stuffed the papers back in the folder. Angrily. -You pillock, where are you?
In the wash of noise, she thought that she heard his voice, saying "I'm in here; I have gone to ground; come and find me" interspersed with "this is my ghost voice - I have gone away" tossed on the ground bass of car engine roar.
Then nothing. An eerie silence. Her hearing seemed to have switched off for a second. Cars embarked and disembarked, slidewise, silently, wheels not turning.
She turned away. -Come on, let's get the hell out of here. -No more voices today, I think. -Oh, Mother, now I have to cross the road again.
"Last voice for a while. Go now." She went. Crossed the road unimpaired. Instinctively turned left. Walked to prove she could still do it. Stopped. Leant over the sea-wall. A dry retching rose in her throat then cleared. She looked up and examined the long sweep of the sea-edge, which curved in almost regal splendour. -What a place this must have been once. She followed the curve of the bay round with her eyes, round to the Castel dell' Ovo, as the hawkers brought out their wares, offering the smell of singed sweetcorn to the atmosphere noise-poisoned by the lateral flow of traffic noise and car radio intrusion to her left and the perpendicular flow of the tiring sea to her right; muted, kept at bay by an extra reinforcement of giant boulders.
She gazed out to sea. -All the time I'm following you. -All the while three steps behind. -You could be over there, for all I know. -Or even in there. -Pray to God that you're not.
-A BIT LATE TO START PRAYING TO GOD!
-Shut up, you stupid cow! -Leave me alone. -Oh, where are you? -If we could only connect. -No! -Not like that! -Get back get back too late this is your doing, you vindictive old harridan!
She continued to stare out to sea, attempting to conjure up islands and frozen tranquillity, but the angry voices came swimming back.
"Yeah. Yeah. Sure. Look. I just don't want to talk about it at the moment, OK?" -And I don't. -I don't!
"No. No. But then, you never do, do you? 'Communication's not really my strong point.' I think I quote you correctly."
"Listen, Mr. Let's heave the world on our shoulders, just because you want to practise your knee-jerk white-liberalism on every cripple you come across doesn't mean that I have to spend every single minute of my time in this hell-hole agonising with you. I've just about had it up to - up to the top of your Dad's bloody pith helmet with you and all this breast-beating and all this abject bloody misery." -It has gone so quiet. -A death-laden silence.
"OK. We'll talk about it later."
"No. We will not talk about it later. We will most certainly not talk about it later. I have had a bellyful of talking it over, even on an empty belly most of the time. I don't want to talk. I don't want to discuss it. I don't want to look at this squalor. I want out of this. I've had enough. I want to go home. Get me out of here, John. Be a Knight in Shining Armour for once in your life. Take me away from all this."
"Yes, Let's walk away from all this. That'll solve it all, won't it? Just go away and forget it. Pretend it never happened."
"We are not going to solve any of this. The only thing we can solve is the fact the my bowels feel like I've been eating soldering irons for breakfast, dinner and tea ever since we've been here. That's something that can be solved. And that can be solved easily - by getting the hell out of here. I don't mean out of India. We can go to - I dunno - Bangalore or somewhere, but I need a break from all this." -Please.
"These kids don't get the chance to get a break from all this."
-Don't rise to the bait. "John, I'm not going to argue with you anymore. You don't have to come. But I am going. If it's a choice between travelling alone or staying in this - this sewer - with you wallowing in your own masochism, I know which route I'm going to take."
"OK. OK. I'm sorry. I forget how hard it is for a woman ..."
"Being a woman's got nothing to do with it. Not being a 24 carat genuine dyed-in-the wool sodding martyr possibly has."
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean..."
"Hard for a woman. You patronising little shite. Don't you realise for once in your obtuse little namby-pamby life, that you are not doing anything here. You've got no medical ability. You're not a sodding investigative journalist. You're just a voyeur. That's not being a man. That's not being any sort of real human being. If you were really committed, you wouldn't just fester around, agonising, like some hand-wringing padre, deciding whether to chuck a few rupees or not. You'd sign up. You'd volunteer. You'd help out."
"Well, I don't see any sign of you doing that."
"No. You don't. Because I have no intentions of it. I don't pretend to be a saint. I just want out. And I said I wouldn't argue with you anymore."
"No. Well, I'm sorry I brought you to this."
"Oh, that's OK. I wouldn't have missed it. Really. I mean that. And I know it seems like chickening out, but I really do have to get out now." -Please!
"I do know how you feel, you know. I don't feel exactly comfortable here, either."
"So, can we go? Please?"
"Let's get some sleep. We'll think about it in the morning. We'll see."
"We will not see! We will not fucking see! There is nothing to see but my retreating backside getting the next train out of here! Please get this into your thick skull. I don't need this. I don't need you. I don't need anything but some peace and quiet. I'm fed up with slumming it. I'm travelling air-conditioned to somewhere where I can breathe, where I can rest in the shade, where I can eat without shitting red-hot liquid every day. Understand?"
"Understand. See you around."
"Well, screw you!"
© 2006 by Adrian Benson
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