Section Seventeen
"Speech."
-What? She almost turned to take a curtain call.
"Speech. Speech." Two youths stood there - unshaven, smelling of a mixture of sweat, garlic and - incongruously - aftershave. She blinked. They were in distorted close-up and moved in menacingly then receded slightly.
-What the hell are they saying?
One of them looked at her directly, holding out his hand. "Spicci. Spicci."
Oh, spicci. Why the hell didn't you say so? Doesn't anyone pronounce all their syllables around here?
"Spicci."
-Spicci? -Shit, what is that? -Isn't that mugging? She felt her wallet bulging in her pocket. -Why the hell didn't I get that money-belt sorted out?
They swayed before her, intoning in unison "SPICCI SPICCI SPICCI SPICCI SPICCI SPICCI SPICCI" through yellow teeth.
She flapped her hands in panic. She contemplated jumping off the sea-wall - the land of friendly cats and rats - preferable to this land of strange aggressive creatures.
"Non capisco. Non capisco," she screamed.
"Eh, non capisci, tu? - non importa." And they were gone. No invitations to sleep with them, no remarks as to how beautiful her eyes were. Nothing.
They mooched off and were quickly made small, never looking back, laughing and jostling with each other.
Relief. She felt hot and flustered. A warm flow dredged up from the battered coastline and oozed over the boulders. She hunted feverishly through the guidebook, wresting it open at the right page.
A GLOSSARY OF NEAPOLITAN TERMS
SCIPPARE: the term given to the regrettable modern - and typically Neapolitan - type of crime, a form of mugging wherein youths on scooters attempt to snatch the property of passers-by, particularly handbags, necklaces, cameras or other forms of jewellery, male or female.
-But that's the wrong word, the wrong word, you smart-arsed ponce! She grabbed her dictionary and looked up "Spicci". -Loose change. -Is that all it is? -Is that all they wanted? -Loose change? She threw the books back into her rucksack and picked up her notebook. -So is the way it's going to go on? -Have I got to chase you through this city, reading this bloody notebook forever? -Have I got to chase you through this past as well? -Is this all we have? -No future?
The warm flow receded, then drifted back in from the bay as she sat on the sea-wall, opened the notebook with shaking hands and started to read.
-What? She almost turned to take a curtain call.
"Speech. Speech." Two youths stood there - unshaven, smelling of a mixture of sweat, garlic and - incongruously - aftershave. She blinked. They were in distorted close-up and moved in menacingly then receded slightly.
-What the hell are they saying?
One of them looked at her directly, holding out his hand. "Spicci. Spicci."
Oh, spicci. Why the hell didn't you say so? Doesn't anyone pronounce all their syllables around here?
"Spicci."
-Spicci? -Shit, what is that? -Isn't that mugging? She felt her wallet bulging in her pocket. -Why the hell didn't I get that money-belt sorted out?
They swayed before her, intoning in unison "SPICCI SPICCI SPICCI SPICCI SPICCI SPICCI SPICCI" through yellow teeth.
She flapped her hands in panic. She contemplated jumping off the sea-wall - the land of friendly cats and rats - preferable to this land of strange aggressive creatures.
"Non capisco. Non capisco," she screamed.
"Eh, non capisci, tu? - non importa." And they were gone. No invitations to sleep with them, no remarks as to how beautiful her eyes were. Nothing.
They mooched off and were quickly made small, never looking back, laughing and jostling with each other.
Relief. She felt hot and flustered. A warm flow dredged up from the battered coastline and oozed over the boulders. She hunted feverishly through the guidebook, wresting it open at the right page.
A GLOSSARY OF NEAPOLITAN TERMS
SCIPPARE: the term given to the regrettable modern - and typically Neapolitan - type of crime, a form of mugging wherein youths on scooters attempt to snatch the property of passers-by, particularly handbags, necklaces, cameras or other forms of jewellery, male or female.
-But that's the wrong word, the wrong word, you smart-arsed ponce! She grabbed her dictionary and looked up "Spicci". -Loose change. -Is that all it is? -Is that all they wanted? -Loose change? She threw the books back into her rucksack and picked up her notebook. -So is the way it's going to go on? -Have I got to chase you through this city, reading this bloody notebook forever? -Have I got to chase you through this past as well? -Is this all we have? -No future?
The warm flow receded, then drifted back in from the bay as she sat on the sea-wall, opened the notebook with shaking hands and started to read.
© 2006 by Adrian Benson
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