Section Thirty Three

She faded back into focus. The ripples were dancing on the sea, multi-fragments of light refracting from the surface. There was a tightening of her stomach. The strap of her money-belt dug in. An acid belch rippled up. Pure guilt. The American was gazing out to sea. She surreptitiously loosened the money-belt a notch or two.
He turned towards her. "Welcome back to Planet Earth."
"Sorry, I was miles away."
"So I noticed. Sorry if I fascinate you so much."
"No, it's not that. I just sort of jumped off into the past, that's all."
"What triggered that off?"
"Oh, - what you said about 'hours' - and - the wine, perhaps - and - and this as well, I guess." She showed him her guidebook.
He perused it, frowning slightly as he turned the pages. "What sort of guidebook is this?"
"One in a state of germination."
"Can I read some of it?"
"Sure."
"Interesting - is it just about Naples and the region around here? That's really unusual because people don't usually bother about Naples. Who wrote it?"
"He did." She pushed a photograph across the table. Unsteadily.
"And who's he?"
"Someone I used to know. Called John Morris. He came to Naples. Doesn't seem familiar at all, does he?"
He frowned again. "No, can't say he does. Doesn't connect at the moment. But I'll ask around. I've got plenty of contacts. What was he doing here?" He turned his attention back to the guidebook, and began to leaf through it again.
"Oh, you know - bit of this, bit of that."
"Is he hoping to get this published?" he asked, without looking up.
"I don't know what he's trying to do. I'd just like to see the little shit again."
-DO IT! -DO IT! -DO IT! -YOU SAID IT! -IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT!
-Fuck off!
The other bottle appeared, with the same waiter. The American filled his glass then picked it up. Raised it through 180 degrees so it was inverted above his mouth. It seemed to trap his nose. He placed the empty glass on the table with gusto. The guidebook lay unattended on the white cloth.
She looked up. The Contraband Kid was heading towards their table. The American waved, vigorously. The Kid disappeared. She decided to hold her counsel. She finished the last morsel of fish, mopped up the remaining sauce with the final piece of toast. It was cold.
"Anything else?"
"No, nothing for me thanks. Totally stuffed now. Is that really supposed to be just a starter?"
"Well, yes and no. Officially, that's a starter. But that's enough for me. You, I wasn't so sure about. A bit like that sibylline grotto in your guidebook, your appetite."
"Oh, no, I'm totally replete, now."
"Some more wine?"
"Yeah, set 'em up, Walt. No - sorry. Forgetting my manners. You're paying for all this. I'm sorry. I've been very thoughtless. Very very thoughtless. It was terribly rude of me, ordering this second bottle."
"Hey. No, that's OK. No sweat. Please, really. No sweat." He reached out to pat her arm.
She didn't respond, but she didn't withdraw her arm, either. She lifted her wine with the other hand. The glasses clinked in "cheers", chiming in with the tinkling of halyard on mast. She made a sudden decision. Thrust her feet back into her shoes. Stood up. "Excuse me, I've got to go to the toilet - er, bathroom."
"Sure," he shrugged.
"Dove'è il gabinetto?" she asked a passing waiter.
"Là - in fondo." He gestured to the back.
-Now to walk the gauntlet - plump citizens, you may stare at me. -The death of a thousand cutting glances. -I don't care - screw you. She stepped inside - the floor bounced underfoot; it was like the timbers of a boat.
And suddenly cool. White shimmering. Voluptuous tablecloths. Starch-white shirts. Nothing jagged to jar the eye. A new gauntlet, of waiters. A small phalanx of them stood in line to one side as she passed by. It was if she were marrying a waiter and his mates were forming a guard of honour and she was in half of the photograph. She half expected them to form half-an-arch of empty wine bottles over her head as she passed. -No, they'd probably bring them down on my head instead.
She made it to the toilet. -Good, decent toilet bowl to sit on. -Good, proper lock that works.
She pulled the skirt of her dress up around her in a rumpled frieze and sat down, opening the rucksack. -Now, what shall I do?
She looked at the notebook. She remembered the guidebook, lying at someone else's mercy on an alien tablecloth. She looked at the sealed envelope. It was flecked with speckles of her blood. She made a decision. Ripped open the envelope.
It was strange to see the familiar, ant-track handwriting sitting there in its raw state rather than tidied-up into a sisterly typescript.
She scanned it from top to bottom then readjusted her eyes. -Don't give away the ending. -This isn't a mystery story, you moron. -This is a life! -So check it out thoroughly. -Discipline!
Discipline.

Sorry about the melodrama. Sealed envelopes are a tad melodramatic, aren't they? I just wanted to emphasise the importance of keeping this thing under wraps. I don't want my sister to know. She'll be worried knowing I'm keeping something from her, but not as worried as if she knew the truth.
Which is...
I'm OK. I'm still here. Just.
They finally got to me. I had to do their dirty work. No choice. In the land of the junky, the needle man is king.
So here I am. And this is what I'm doing: their dirty business. It's this until I can save some money to get away from here. Safely. Permanently.
Oh, I made the odd, pathetic, sporadic attempt at flight. But I got brought back. Every time. Beaten up. Every time. But don't worry. I'm still in one piece.
It's difficult to save, though. The price of insulin's certainly gone up. I get my blood-sugar antidote on the black market now. If I tried to go anywhere near a hospital, I wouldn't come out of it - I'd be in the knee-cap ward.
So. There you have it. I've changed jobs. No choice in that. No choice in that whatsoever. But not only have I got to do the new job, I can't do the old one either. I'm just shunned. Bad-mouthed. Silently. The word was out on the street. And I was out of it.
I don't have anywhere to turn now. I used to have a bolt-hole. I used to confide in a priest in the neighbourhood. He couldn't do much practically. Medically, I mean. But he was a good person to talk to. A good friend. He got a gentle reminder. Nothing harsh. Just a brick through the window. He was determined to see it through, not to be intimidated. But I couldn't do that: there seemed to be enough people in danger.
So, I now spend my time working for the man.
Ah, Camorra. Camorrista. Camorrismo. These things were unknown to me and now they're part of every breath - sleeping and waking. Serves me right. I should have stayed a tourist. If you stay a tourist, you don't get involved.
I do my rounds, like any postman or milkman or meter-reader.
I go into places I wasn't allowed into before.
I also go into places I always used to go into before and the looks of contempt I get make my blood run cold.
But it is still running. In my veins, not in the gutter, I mean. That's the bottom line. And it's running pretty clean. Ironically, I'm probably as healthy as at any time since I've been here.
So, I'm a lackey for the man, yeah. But if I didn't do it, someone else would, blah blah blah. None of these moral distinctions makes any difference at the moment. All I've learnt is that defiance doesn't pay.
So, apart from my immortal soul, please don't worry about me. As long as I keep my nose clean, I'm OK. I've learnt my lesson. All my bruises have healed. I'm in good health, if in less than good spirits. I keep on trucking.
If I save enough money, I'll be out of here.
Take care.
Keep the faith.
All my love,
John.

She put the papers away in the envelope. She put the envelope away in the rucksack. She put her head in her hands. -Oh, John! -You bastard, where are you? -For God's sake hang on in there!
She had emptied her body without realising it. She stood up. Wiped herself. Washed her hands. Tightened her money-belt. Picked up her rucksack.
She stepped back out to the culinary backstage, to the bustling antechamber. -He's going to be wondering where the hell I am.
And out again to the glaring light. He was not at their table. The folder still lay there, its flap curling in the breeze. He was engaged in a conversation with the waiter. -Oh ho, conspiracies is it?
Seeing her coming, he patted the waiter on the shoulder and came over to her. "You OK?"
"Yeah, all done. Sorry I was so long."
"That's no problem."
"No. You seemed to be able to fill your time quite adequately."
"Yeah."
"You seem to know almost everybody."
"No, no: just waiters. I was just taking pains to compliment the food, service, speed. I know these people - don't forget I used to be a chef. Did I tell you that?"
"No, I don't believe you did."
"Yeah. Don't now how many cases of Naples belly I caused. You OK on that score?"
"Yes, my stools seem solid enough. Thank you for asking, doctor." -And once more - unnecessary offence caused. -Get a grip. -You need something - someone - to hold onto.
He didn't look offended. They sat back down at the table. Almost all the wine had gone. "Anyway," he drawled, "the bill's all fixed. Got a good deal, as well. You want a last glass of wine?"
"Yes. Thank you."
He beckoned to the waiter with an auction-room wink whilst re-filling both glasses. "You want a dessert? Or a coffee?". The waiter stood at her side, almost audibly purring, like an Alfa Romeo getaway car.
"No dessert, thanks, but would it be possible to have a cappuccino?" She did her best to smile ingratiatingly. The American looked enquiringly at the waiter.
"No, signore, mi dispiace; non è possibile."
"Sorry. they don't normally like messing around with milk and stuff at this time of night. It's just one of those things that isn't done. An espresso?"
"OK. Thanks."
"Due espressi."
A stiff nod. A retreat. She suddenly wished she had false teeth, so she could spit them into the small of his retreating back, like a demented porcupine. A small glass of river-mud-coloured liquid was close to his hand. "What's that?" she asked.
"A fernet branca. Want to try one?"
She took a suspicious sip. It was like furniture polish laced with creme de menthe. She slid it back. "Is finishing an Italian meal always like trawling through the medicine cabinet?"
He grinned, then grinned even more widely when the waiter arrived and she looked exaggeratedly penitent.
She looked in her coffee cup. Another thimbleful of brown liquid - bottom of the river. She took a sip. Grimaced. Ripped open the bag of sugar. Poured it in. Downed the coffee in one. -John, my son, who'd be a diabetic in Italy? -Stick with it. -Stick with it! A blizzard of cold pinpricks swept through her skin. She blinked rapidly a few times.
The American stared at her. "Right, shall we go?" he asked.
"Yes, sure."
"You OK?"
"Yes, thank you."
She picked up the guidebook folder and put it in her rucksack. They moved off.

"please don't worry about me as long as i keep my nose clean i'm ok"

-No, no, shut it away, shut it away! She paused again on the causeway. Gazed at the water's edge. The remains of the sickly sun bounced and corrugated in reflection.
A mist seemed to ooze and billow, to sharpen and drown the focus on the specks of fisherboats incising a homeward curve across the bay from shore to horizon, filing through the defile of the harbour, brushing the wall like sheep going into a pen.
She allowed her eyes to close and zoomed in and saw them on board: sullen-lipped by exhaustion. They were no islanders these. They had no tiny beach to go back to. They were not those she had encountered before - in-grown, stubborn in habit, slow to change, entrenched, slow to pull into shore and throw the watery life away.
No, these were part of a bigger, almost nautical flotilla. Fused into their own solidity. They were not servanted by duty-wives: no-one waited in roster on the shore. They staggered home alone like drunken artillery, fleeing slowly - taking wary measure of the land. Not wanting the sea. Not wanting the life that went with it. Wanting home, a permanent home, a home on the soil with a facade of disintegrating stucco and an unravelling relationship as a foundation. Preferring the threat of eruption or earthquake to death by water.
She thought about nudging him and bringing them to his attention. She thought better of it.
"What are you thinking?" he asked.
"Oh, no, sir, we are not on that sort of footing."
"Beg pardon?"
"Our relationship. We've only just met. Can't have you asking questions of that degree of intimacy. No, dear me, no, sir."
"Are you still drunk?"
She pondered this. The suds of wine still rinsed around her head. "A mite tipsy, that's all. Just a little frazzled around the edges."
"Crazy broad."
"Now, now, you really must stop being the clichéd American abroad, you know. 'Crazy broad' indeed!"
"Listen, Lady..."
"You see? 'Listen, Lady.' Highway Patrolman, black and white movie circa 1965."
"Janey..."
"That's better. Name your victim. Label the butterfly under the pin."
"Victim? Why do you say victim?"
"Hm. I don't know. Why do I, I wonder?"
"That's dandy, I must say. I welcome you to the city. I show you how to get around. I buy you a meal. And you lay all this sacrificial victim shit on me. What does that make me?"
"What indeed? Mind you - you used the word 'sacrificial'; I didn't. So where does that leave me?"
He peered at her, bloodshotly. Scratched a furrow between his eyes. "Hey, this is bullshit. C'mon, let's go!" A no-nonsense wheel around. Follow me if you want.
"Where are you going?"
He stood, turned, waited for her to catch up. A gull sped landward. Almost scuffed his hair. "Home. The long way, perhaps. Drink in the atmosphere - in viaggio, as they say. I don't know. See the sea. See the view."
"The view?"
"The view. Across the bay."
-The view, hey? "Well, I really ought to be back at the hotel reasonably early."
"Well, we can arrange that, if that's what you want."
"If that's what I want? What's that supposed to mean? What other plans did you have in mind, buster?"
"What? Nothing. Nothing at all. I'm sorry. I think."
"So I should think so. Right. Let's see this view. You coming? 'Cos ready or not, here I go."
"After you, then."
"Which way do I go?"
They giggled and jostled and set off.

"i'm in good health if in less than good spirits"


-No, please stay away for a bit. -I've got to try to find you. -I've got to stay in control of this.


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