up.
Maybe it hadn't been such a smart idea to bring his whole wad of cash out when he paid for the coat. And there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it now. The taxi was going too fast for him to jump out, and, even if he did, there was nowhere to hide in these inhospitable, brutally utilitarian streets. To the left, the modernistic monolith they were circling, as empty as an architect's sketch. To the right, the ambient wastelands, partly developed, partly cleared, old industrial sites, factories whose products no one wanted, stockyards, a fenced-off area where ranks of orange trucks were drawn up like mothballed tanks…
And then, as if in answer to his prayers, he saw a couple of policemen up ahead, holding those lighted red wands they used to stop traffic. They must be doing one of those routine searches that Zi'Orlando mentioned, ostensibly to check that everyone's papers are in order, but actually to pick up some easy money because they knew damn well that they weren't. He didn't care. If they wanted bribes, he would be happy to bribe them. Whatever it took.
But to John Viviani's disappointment, the two men in police uniform made no attempt to stop the taxi. On the contrary, they waved it past with vigorous gestures, as though impatient to have the street to themselves once more. But they compensated for this apparent negligence as soon as the next vehicle appeared, a few minutes later. Its hump-backed form and orange colour indicated that it was one of the municipal rubbish trucks returning to the depot, and as such might reasonably have been expected to be waved through the road-block just as the taxis had. But this time the red wand was raised, the official hand held out, the service revolver drawn, and the crew obliged to descend.
XVIII
On the Scalini del Petraio, it was already night. The steps scuttled away, a gutter between high crumbling walls overhung by gauds of greenery, sparsely lit by isolated lamps whose patches of yellowing light merely served to emphasize the topographical complexities concealed in the darkness all around and the twilit immensity above, defined by the conflictual paths of swifts and bats. The former swarmed, scooped, coiled and collided in a turbulence as continual and serene as that of electrons; the latter tirelessly maintained their preordained courses to and fro, like mechanisms in some early industrial process superseded elsewhere by more up-to-date technology but surviving here, like so much else, for want of capital investment.
Seemingly unaware of any of this, a young man made his way down the steps with a rapid, impatient stride.
From a window in the little piazzetta where the alley briefly levelled out before flowing into its final and even more precipitous plunge towards the depths below, an old man sat on a balcony looking out at the night, the moon rising behind Vesuvius, the sketchy indications of the peninsula and islands out in the bay. He leant forward as the footsteps clattered across the pitted black paving stones beneath, a look of wonderment on his face. 'Arcangelol he murmured. 'Si tuV But it wasn't, of course. Arcangelo had been killed in 1944, aged two, buried alive when a bomb collapsed a six storey building down by the port. The person speeding across the paving and down the second series of steps was Gesualdo, on his way to gather up the few belongings he had left at Don Alfonso's house, to erase this entire episode from his life as though it had never occurred.
That's all I need to do, he thought, just clear out and forget everything that's happened, and still more what hasn't. Then, just as soon as he could get a few days off, he would find out the name of the hotel where the girls were staying and hop on a plane. A couple of hours later he would be in London, knocking at their door. Orestina would come to open it, thinking maybe it was the maid come to turn down the beds, and instead…
That's what he was thinking as he slipped the key Don Alfonso had given him into the lock and twisted it masterfully. Like the cheap copy it was — three for the price of two at a stall in the Forcella market — it snapped off, leaving a jagged remnant in the lock. Filled with frustrated rage, he punched the bell button repeatedly. At length a light came on and feet descended the staircase.
'Who is it?'
A man's voice, one he doesn't recognize.
'Police! Open up!' yelled Gesualdo.
A pause, a click, and the door slid open. Iolanda stood revealed in a full-length gown buttoned decorously tight about the throat.
'Ah, it's you/ she said.
Gesualdo pushed past her and hurried upstairs. The apartment on the top floor was as he left it that morning.
He speedily gathered together his belongings and packed them into the canvas bag in which he brought them. Then he turned, to find Iolanda gazing at him.
'You're going/ she said.
Gesualdo zipped up the canvas bag and looked around to see if he had overlooked anything. With chilling precision, Iolanda spat on the tiled floor at his feet.
'Coward!'
She turned and walked out. Fine, he thought, what do I care? Better that she despises me, that way she won't come muling and whining after me. All the same, calling him a coward! What a fucking nerve! What did she know about cowardice or courage or anything else? What did she care about what he had been going through, about how tough it was for a man to do the right thing? His last remaining doubts were swept away. Bitch!
Bag in hand, he strode downstairs. Outside the door to the lower apartment, Iolanda was waiting for him. He ignored her, but she stepped in front of him, blocking his way. Once again Gesualdo tried to push past, but this time he was repulsed with disconcerting strength.
'Listen to what I have to say/ she told him, 'then leave, if you want to. You may think you know me, but you don't. Don't think I'll come running after you like your other women. I am not like other women.'
Gesualdo stood there, mesmerized by her intense, brilliant stare. It was only once she started talking again that he realized that she was not speaking broken Italian any more, but his own harsh, musky dialect.
'This is all a farce. I am not Albanian. I am not a virgin.
I am not looking for work. The man who owns this house set this up to trick you. But I'm the one who's been tricked. I've fallen in love. I know it's hopeless, but I don't care. Even though you're leaving, and I'll never see you again, I need to humiliate myself by telling you that I love you, and that I always will.'
She stepped back, leaving his way clear. For a moment neither of them moved. Then Iolanda came up to him and grazed his cheek lightly with the fingers of her left hand.
'I will be whatever you want/ she said. 'Your friend, your lover, even your wife.'
Gesualdo looked at her, his breath corning in rapid, shallow spurts.
'I don't know,' he said. 'I don't know what to do.'
'Just take me.'
He let his bag fall to the floor and covered his face with his hands.
'What's the use?' he demanded in a tone of despair.
'You know you can do anything you like with me. We men are all the same/ Iolanda gripped his wrists, pulled his hands apart and kissed his mouth briefly.
'Not quite all/ she said.
XXIX
'What part?'
