Section Twenty Four

Notebook

I surprised John round the corner of the alley. He was trying to inject unnoticed. The bridge soared above him. In the mist, it looked like a badly-painted backdrop in an old film.
He's finding it difficult, poor sod. Though he's not alone. There are sweetmeats available all over this place, if you've got the money. Milk and sugar appear to be symbols of affluence so there's a proliferation of milky sweeties and a proliferation of obesity and diabetes to go with it.
I'm surprised the Mafia here isn't into some milk and sugar extortion racket - perhaps they are, for, the Lord knows, the grubby little cretins are into everything else - this city is veined with corruption like a gorgonzola cheese - only the corruption is the white bit. You see them give their secret signs in the street. I've learnt to recognise them now. They've got this place sewn-up, whether it's moneylending or extortion or protection-racketeering.
My guts have settled down a bit but now I can't stop hiccuping.
Just as well John didn't get the runs. He seems to be staying fairly balanced here - well physically, at any rate. I'm not sure about mentally.
He's gone really quiet. Sometimes, in my most cynical moments, which are quite often nowadays, I tend to think that he doesn't really want to do anything to help - he just wants to escape from himself.
I have to examine my own motives as well: did I come here for enlightenment or was it just morbid curiosity?
Am I just running away from the demon here as well?
There certainly doesn't seem to be much enlightenment here. Everywhere you go, you seem to be avoiding trams or street gangs: there's a lot of street violence here.
I know what John means: the same problem everywhere - open mouths, empty stomachs - gape gape gape like a baby bird - but what are we supposed to do about it? What are we doing here? What am I doing here?

The train started to slow. -Hey, where are we now? The train stopped. She checked the sign. -Piazza Cavour! -Off! -Quick!
Doors slid open. She slammed everything into the rucksack and leapt through the aperture, the rucksack bouncing on her shoulder as the words bounced around in her mind.
-What am I doing here? -What am I doing here? -Don't fret about that. -Just get on with it. -Go for whatever there is to go for. -Keep an open mind.
She strode up the dusty steps, out the dusty doors, along the dusty street past a stretch of dusty green.
She stood at the corner and gazed down the Via Toledo. She conjured up the city of Naples - it was awash with trams and crowds and secret signs. It wasn't Calcutta, but it seemed no different.
She whirled on her heel, and strode towards the museum. She came up breathless. Car-fumes tickled at the throat.
And a pause. And a catch for breath. The mighty facade boomed at her. Silently.
Too close. Two steps back. Eyes swept from left to right. Panned its immensity. It was pink and glowing and grey and faded and welcoming and forbidding and long, so long, a street of stone.
She went up the steps and entered. It all smelled of wax. A uniform at a desk. An Italian-man-in-uniform inside the uniform.
-God, here we go - the pocket caribiniero routine - will I have to empty my rucksack and let them rummage through all this stuff? But she just bought her ticket and he waved her airily through. She paused awhile at the barrier, ticket in hand.
"Signorina."
-Knew it was too good to be true. "Sì?". At the other corner, a man was beckoning her to come back. Friendly but insistent. She went over.
"Buongiorno. Deutsch?"
"No, sono inglese."
"Ah, you are English. Signorina, I am afraid that you cannot take the bag into the museum. You must leave it here." The skin at the corner of his mouth wrinkled slightly.
"Oh, OK."
"Is there anything you need from it?"
She reached into the depths of the rucksack for the guidebook. "Just this. Oh, and may I take my camera? If I use it without flash?"
He nodded and winked conspiratorially. "Flash. It doesn't matter. Don't worry about it."
"Thank you." She clicked the tiny padlock back into place, self-consciously. Handed the bag over.
"OK. I keep your bag safe. You take this." Handed over a bright yellow plastic disc. Don't lose it. Molto importante. Enjoy your visit, signorina."
She passed through the barrier, surrendering her ticket. -Well, what the airport baggage-handlers didn't get, the museum baggage-handler has. -Hope it's all right.
She floundered a while in the great hall. Lost in its space. Lost in a land of stone creatures. Was he here? She expected to see him any minute. She tried hard to concentrate but her mind kept getting side-tracked.
Her legs took matters into their own feet and strode up the main stairs. Her shoes squelched on the stone. She made her way to a mezzanine chamber. It swarmed with schoolchildren.
"Scusa," she said. The girl stood her ground, chattering to her friends. Janey shoved her aside and moved on, catcalls ringing in her ears. She waved them to the back of her mind and entered another room.
Instantly there was a change - a kind of ancient peace held sway. She looked around. The walls were paved with Pompeii mosaics; they were like windows on another time. She stopped before one. This was it, an interknit mess of fish, shellfish and marine creatures. They wore their tiled coats like armour. She could almost hear the dry friction. Towards the centre, her gaze was drawn to an octopus. She stared at it long and straight, biting the top of her folder as she did so. Nothing.
She found an empty chair and sat down, opposite the mosaic. She swung her feet. She folded the guidebook back on its staples. Looked up at the mosaic again. Nothing.
His head appeared suddenly, floating by on someone else's shoulders. Not his shoulders; not his head either. Not there. Instead, she honed in on his words. Sweet substitute.

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