Section Thirty Five

Around here we're all bad.
Around here we don't do proper work, we don't go to school and we don't die of natural causes.
Around here we don't write essays, we just sign police statements.
Around here we don't like authority - that's why we liked Maradona.
Around here we've got gold on our fingers but decay in our teeth.
Around here we might have to learn how to walk with no kneecaps.
Around here the drugs are purer then the water.
Around here you can say a million words without using your tongue.
Around here you can lose your tongue for saying one word wrong.
Around here we're all too fat or too thin.
Around here life is hard, but the money's easy.
Around here the lifts don't work and neither do we.
Around here the priests are as ornamental as the traffic lights.

I don't want to live around here.
I don't want to have a family dealing drugs.
I don't want to have to breathe exhaust fumes.
I don't want to dodge the Camorristas in the alleys.

But I don't want to go to Italy.
And I don't want to make FIATS in Turin.
And I don't want to study Dante - I've had enough infernos for one life.
I want it all - the money and the freedom and the peace - nothing else will do.

She finished reading. She was shaking slightly. Voices on balconies sounded as loud inside as out as they banged their shutters to.
He was busying himself with the whisky things. He glanced across. "Fancy another drink?"
"Yeah."
"Whisky?"
"Yeah, whisky, don't piss about."
"No, milady." He handed her the glass. She took it. Took a sip. He held his hand out for the book. "May I read it again?"
"Sure." She handed it to him. Glanced around the room.
He let the book close around his finger, and wafted it around, like an aberrant table-tennis bat. "Yeah, that's pretty typical of around here, I'm afraid. They're not usually that articulate, though. Or that honest. Sign of the times, honey. Sign of the times." He lay the book down gently. Face down on the shelf. Like someone else's broken butterfly.
He turned through 180 degrees. The bulk of his body hid the book from her. The noise of scraped powder filled her ears as he sagged down on a box between her and the shelf. The room went quiet, as if a guillotine of silence had descended and stayed down.
She levered his chin up with her forefinger. "You OK?"
"Yeah. Just a bit tired." A faint fleck of spittle joined his upper and lower lips as he spoke. "It just gets to me sometimes, is all." He sighed.
"What does?"
"What does what?"
"Get to you."
"Oh, everything around here." He slumped further down on his makeshift seat. He looked at her. Then looked away.
"So, what's your connection, Walt?"
"My connection? What do you mean, my connection?"
"Where do you fit in with everything around here? What's with all this secret signs stuff? Are we all playing freemasons here or something?"
"No, sweetheart, we're not talking freemasons." He blew out his cheeks, looked away, propped his head on his hand. Looked down.
"Certain? Sure you don't go home and roll up your trousers and put on wacko aprons?"
He blinked once or twice. As if trying to focus. "No, nobody puts on any aprons. And it's not normally trousers that get rolled-up. Unless you're really far gone, that is."
"Is there an Italian equivalent of the freemasons?"
"Well, yes, there sure is, but that's not what we're talking about here. As far as I know."
"So, who? The Camorra?" She seemed to have pronounced the word too loudly, like the time she had said "IRA" too loud in a Dublin pub.
"Yeah, that's the word. You've heard of them, then," he muttered.
"Oh, yeah, I've heard of them."
He was silent.
"What about those men in the street, what's their connection?" she asked.
"What about them?"
"Don't tell me they were just talking amongst themselves, that you weren't part of this jolly little silent conversation?"
"No, what makes you say that?"
"OK, we'll drop it."
"No, I don't think we will drop it. What are you trying to infer?"
"Imply."
"Imply, then. Don't come that superior shit with me."
"I'm not coming that superior shit with you. I just want to know who the hell I've been trucking around this town with. I mean, what do you do? And don't give me this 'bit of this, bit of that' bullshit. Is it legal? Are you dealing drugs? Are you some sort of Yankee Camorrista Mr. Big, or what? Level with me, Walt, baby, so I know whether to walk out of the door or not."
He looked down. He banged his clenched fists together. Stopped. Stroked his stubble with the knuckles of his thumbs. "Let's just say it's more complicated than that. But you're quite safe, I do assure you." His eyes widened to one-and-a-half times their original size.
"And that's it."
"Yeah."
"That's all you're going to say on the matter."
"Yeah."
"No further comment."
"No."
She paused. She heard a fall of soot down a chimney, the mewling of a bat outside. "OK, then. Tell me something else."
"What?"
"What was all that going on with that old man?"
"When?"
"When you gave - or rather didn't give - him some money."
"Oh, him. He's always around. He gets by. Makes a nice little living if you ask me."
"But what's with the game-playing stuff? All this coin-tossing?"
"Oh, sometimes I give him something, sometimes I don't. Doesn't make a a blind bit of difference - he survives. Jungle law, sweetheart, jungle law - and five hundred lira's worth fuck all anyway."
"So, you write the rules, you're in control, and it doesn't matter to you whether he wins or loses."
"Yeah, if you like." He scratched the top of the box he was sitting on with his fingernail. "So what? What's it to you?"
"It just seems like a pretty shabby thing to do."
"Really? Oh, really? Is that a fact, now?" He had raised a long splinter from the box and impaled his finger on it. He tugged it out and examined the tip of his finger for barbs left behind.
"Are you all right?"
"Yeah. The furniture's not all it might be. Someone's stolen the Chippendale."
"Is this typical of the conditions that people live in around here?"
"Probably. Impressed, huh?"
"No, I'm not impressed; it's quite disgusting."
"Welcome to the real world, little girl. You think it was going to be sweetness and light, peaches and cream?"
"Well, doesn't it bother you? Don't you feel like a parasite on the backs of these people's poverty?"
He leapt to his feet. "It's all right for you," he yelled. "Coming over here with your refined English Rose nose-in-the-air, shooting your mouth off about something you know fuck all about!" He reached out to the book on the shelf and hurled it into a darkened corner.
"It's all right for you as well - you just wallow in it. You're just some dumb yank gone native. You don't know what these people are really going through. You're just passing through for a few months or years on your great pilgrimage. All you are is a fucking hippy!" She got to her feet and tried to move towards the book. He stood up and kept the bulk of his body in her way. She tried to dodge left, dodge right to get round him. He dodged in her way. Held her by the shoulders. Pushed her back. Gently. She started to cry. A sudden stabbing pain hit her midriff. She bent double.
"What's the matter?"
"I have to go to the toilet."
"Be my guest." He gestured her to it. Stand-off. He grinned.
"Would you mind turning your back?"
"No."
"Thank you."
"I meant - no, I won't turn my back."
"Fucking bastard!" She strode towards him. He recoiled slightly. Stepped back two paces. Still defended his corner. She poured herself a stiff whisky. Downed it in one.
She flounced up to the toilet. Wrinkled her nose again in disgust at the brown crustiness beneath the rim. She pulled down her knickers. Pulled up her skirt. Hovered above the bowl, clutching her rucksack to her. Did what she had to do. The whole building chose that moment to go completely quiet. The only noise was the tinkle of her urine into the water.
Suddenly, she couldn't move. The skirt of her dress draped around the chipped white throne, providing a sort of crinoline of decency, hiding her from him. She couldn't move. Closed her eyes. The world went to black.

"camorra camorrista camorrismo stay a tourist stay a tourist"

She glanced across. He was leaning against the wall, next to the door. She reached inside her rucksack, replacing the guidebook. She felt something rough and rubbery. Removed it. It was her toy-troll keyring. She held onto it for good luck. She squeezed it so hard she could imagine it squealing for mercy. She kept it in her left hand as she pulled up her knickers. Stood up. Yanked on the chain with her free hand. Nothing. Tried and failed three times. Yanked ever harder. Nothing.
"Not working?" asked the American.
"No. Just one dumb yank after another!"
"Try pulling it gently," he purred.
She did so. Water - brownish, brackish - swirled into the bowl. A streaming noise erupted as the cistern filled up. Pipes started to vibrate. She looked around for a wash-basin. There was a bucket of cold water between her and the cooker. She dipped her hands in, tentatively. She forgot she was holding the troll. The plastic squelched in her fingers. She looked across. He was still watching her, still leaning against the same patch of wall.
"Enjoy the view?" she snapped.
"Very much so."
She stood up. Realised to her chagrin that the skirt of her dress was tucked into her knickers. Pulled it out quickly. "You like humiliating people?"
"No. I just like the sight of a very attractive woman pulling her panties down."
"Well if you like them so much, perhaps I should hang them up outside with all the others!"
"Oh, no, I think they look fine on you."
"Oh yeah? Turns you on, does it?"
"Yeah. nothing like the flash of a comely derriere."
"Well, perhaps you'd like the flash of the comely derriere of a very attractive woman leaving." She flung the rucksack over her shoulder and made to move towards the door.
He gestured. "There it is. Always open. Never locked."
She strode to it. Reached for the door-knob with her right hand. Cracked him from ear-lobe to nostril with one slap with the other, the brass of the keyring scoring his cheek. "If you'd have been more observant, you'd have remembered I was left-handed."
He kissed her. Bit her top lip.
She scratched him. Thumb-nailed his eyelid.
His eyes flared he made a fist he pushed it towards her slowly. He pushed her chin back slowly slowly.
She tried to move away. Bit her own bottom lip again.
Her grabbed her throat and pushed her back against the door.
Her ears started to sing again. She grabbed fistfuls of the flesh above his belt and clung on, squeezing it to dryness.
He put the palm of his hand on her face and threatened to push her skull-backwards through the splintered ravaged mess of the door. Then released.
She slumped to the floor. She still clutched her troll. She looked up. There was an inscription above the door. At first she couldn't make it out, then the candle-flame extinguished its own smoke for long enough for the view to clear enough to enable her to read. "Lasciate ogni speranza voi che cercate a scappare." A Blake engraving from the Tate floated into her head. Was she in hell?
The American squatted beside her. He exhaled noisily. "Jeez, this is stupid. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry..."
She looked across at him. His eyes flared, as if some presence had taken him over. There was some form of kindness in those eyes she had seen no evidence of before. He coughed, sputum seemingly welling-up from his windpipe. She closed her eyes.

his voice squeezing in from the blackness

"Listen. Hey, I'm sorry. I forget. Things blank out on me. Swoop in and out. In and out of my brain. Don't know what happens to me."

his knees cracking as he stooped further

"Listen. Don't know what happens to me. Price of survival, I guess. Price of survival."

the powder grinding beneath him as he sat down

"Listen. I'm on the run. The dogs are at my heels."

his head nodding spastically

"Listen. I've shuffled across this Europe from head to ass. Part-time jobs. Temporary jobs. Same thing all the while: washing-up, chef, errand-boy - you name it. And you get sucked in. Lousy hours. Lousy pay. And you survive. Believe me, you survive. Believe me, I'm not the only past-tense-chef with a present-tense-taste-for-whisky. Not a lot to live for; let's face it. And you never think things'll get better. You just don't have that option. And there is no way out and there is no way out and there is no way forward and we are just bait. Bait to their fish-hooks. Ground-bait tossed to them real big fish that lurk in the shallows and flaunt their teeth like jewellery."

a violent fanning with his left hand

"Listen. I used to go fishing way back when. Big wide rivers. Gravel. Trout. I used to love it. When I was a kid. Wide open spaces. Daylight. That was me. I was Huck Finn from dawn to dusk I was a real daytime person. I had the sun and wind on my face all the time. That was my time. Up with the lark. But time shifted and time went on and the lark rose and never came down again and the owl flew in across my path and and I fell in with a bad crowd."

pushing the skin of the side of his face back so it looked like a skull

"Listen. Listen what I tell you. Bad crowd. Night crowd. So I turned to the night. And I developed a taste for the night. And its ladies. That's it. That's all there is. Hooks and hookers. Story of my life. Fish-bait and jail-bait. Fishing-lines and state-lines and immoral purposes and statutory rape. Prison-bars like fishing-poles. Oh yeah, I done time. I woke up next to some sweaty muscle-bound faggot with shit for brains and a picture of his sister on the wall and a tattoo of the Statue of Liberty on his right buttock. Smooth to the touch. 'Go rough with me' he'd scream, scream in a whisper in the night. So I had to make a break. Had to jail-break the whole motherfucking country. Had to break the tie with old glory, the grand old party, the grand old opry... Old. Old. Old. God damn America. Everything about the place was old. I mean, for such a new country..."

taking a breath so deep
he looked like he was going to freeze that way
forever

"Listen. I was its jailbait. I was its molested minor. The whole thing. The whole thing. Just one streak of past tense. My fault, I guess, not its. It was just the place where I grew up. Just like every other place where people grow up. Time-expired. So it had to go. I had to go. I wanted to flee the past-tense flee the gun-law flee the scummy little exploiters but what's the use they're everywhere. Unless you rise above it. No chance for me. Everywhere you go. Same old scam. Same old hook in the skin. Same old pull through your brain. Drags you home again. Here it's just the same. Here, the Camorra's everywhere. You just get hooked in and sucked in. Kids all around are being sucked in and strung out. Suckers, all of them. Just looking for some Mr. Big Fisherman to come and hook them. Like some fish you see that get so big so bright so slow so stupid they just come looking for the one to snare 'em. No regrets. No remorse. Nothing but survival."

his eyes turning to her but not registering

"Listen. They know you're vulnerable - innocent, even - even I was innocent once. And then they get their sordid little barbs into you. Some of these kids, their eyes are so dead you could hook 'em straight between the eyes they wouldn't notice. And they'll get hooked. They'll get hooked, sure as winking. These kids are on the scrap-heap. Already. Eight years old. Half-way dead. No Peter Pans here. In this town, Captain Hook wins every time. These kids... These kids are on the treadmill - death-sentence on them already. Yeah. Know your sentence: your crime is being born."

his left hand reaching to his throat
wiping his adam's apple

"Listen. This space. This is all space. Chokes you. I was used to space, but this is different. This is all dead space. This is just a built-up bomb-site."

clenching a right fist and punching a left palm

"Listen. Let's hear it for them on the treadmill. Get up in the morning, find your hell-hole today. Make a wrong move and you end up with your knee-caps in the gutter. Yeah. I'll drink to that. Yeah, let's drink to money. Money fills the stomach, buys the drugs. Gets you a slum around your bones. So, yeah, let's drink to money. Part-time jobs. Temporary jobs. Part-time temporary human being. That's me. I done 'em all. Hustled for hotels, sold illicit booze, sold contraband cigarettes. Done 'em all. Almost. Sold everything but my body. No. Never stooped that low. Not for a crust to eat or a full whisky glass or a roof above my head. To be without a home it does not bother me that much."

a deep breath, a shake of the head

"Listen. The cold. The lack of permanence. These are not big things with me. I can survive. I'm not that far gone. I don't need that. Though there's plenty of it goes on. Rule of thumb. Fact of life. I'll drink to that. But from a distance."

closing his eyes, breaking into song

"Gone fishing. No-one's working anymore. Gone fishing. Like the sign upon my door?"

staring at the inscription

"You like that? 'Abandon every hope all you who seek to escape.' That's my sign. That's my motto. Stay in here you're safe - get out there you're done for. Don't scan too well, but I don't care. We have no rhyme or reason left."

He slumped down to the vertical. He was silent. She could feel atoms of pure cold sucking into her skin. She reached over and tousled his hair. A wall of odour blocked into her mouth. She looked down. She released the pressure on the troll. She felt that if she didn't get some air, she was going to puke.

She staggered to the door and opened it. Outside it was as black as the inside of a chimney. She thought she caught a rumble of Vesuvius in the too-close distance. She breathed deeply. She thought she saw a wolf slinking by. It prowled from view.
A voice snared out from the dark. "Welcome to my sordid jungle."
-Who said that?

-Well? -Not speaking?
"You are my pungent wilderness."
-Who are you?
"I am the monkey on your back."
She slammed the door and turned back in.

next...

0 Comments:

Post a Comment

<< Home