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Flying into Naplesa short story by Nicholas RoyleFlying into Naples the 737 hits some turbulence and gets thrown about abit. It's dark outside but I can't even see any lights on the ground. I'ma nervous flyer anyway and this doesn't make me feel any better. It'staking off and landing that bother me.But when we're down and I'm crossing the tarmac to the airport buildingsthere's a warm humid stillness in the air that makes me wonder about theturbulence. I wander through passport control and customs like someone ina dream. The officials seem covered in a fine layer of dust as if they'vebeen standing there for years just waiting.No one speaks to me and I get on the bus marked "Centro Napoli". I'm onholiday. All I've got in Naples is a name, a photograph and a wrongnumber. The name is a woman's -- Flavia -- and the photograph is of theview from her apartment. The phone number I tried last week to say I wascoming turned out to belong to someone else entirely.I've worked out from the photograph and my map that the apartment is on ahill on the west side of the city. There's not much more to go on. It'stoo late to go and look for it tonight. Flavia won't be expecting me --beyond occasional vague invitations nothing has been arranged -- and shecould take a long time to locate.I knew her years ago when she visited London and stayed in the hotel whereI was working the bar. We knew each other briefly -- a holiday romance, ifyou like -- but something ensured I would not forget her. Whether it wasthe sunrise we saw together or the shock of her body in the quiet shadowof my room over the kitchens, or a combination of these and other factors-- her smile, my particular vulnerability, her tumbling curls -- I don'tknow, but something fixed her in my mind. So when I found myself with aweek's holiday at the end of three difficult months in a new, stressfuljob, I dug out her letters -- two or three only over eight years,including this recent photograph of the view from her apartment -- andbooked a last-minute flight to Naples.I'd never been there though I'd heard so much about it -- how violent anddangerous it could be for foreigners, yet how beautiful -- and I wouldenjoy the effort required to get along in Italian.I'm alone on the bus apart from one other man -- a local who spends the20-minute ride talking on a cellphone to his mistress in Rome -- and thetaciturn driver. I've come before the start of the season, but it'salready warm enough not to need my linen jacket.I'm divorced. I don't know about Flavia. She never mentioned anybody, justas she never revealed her address when she wrote to me. I've been divorcedtwo years and a period of contented bachelorhood has only recently come toa natural end, and with the arrival of spring in London I have foundmyself watching women once again: following a hemline through the humantraffic of Kensington, turning to see the face of a woman in Green Parkwhose hair looked so striking from behind. It may be spring in BerkeleySquare but it feels like midsummer in Naples. The air is still and hot andhumid when I leave the bus at the main railway station and begin walkinginto the centre of the city in search of a cheap hotel. I imagine I'mprobably quite conspicuous in what must be one of the most dangerous areasbut the hotels in the immediate vicinity -- the pavement outside theEuropa is clogged with upturned rubbish bins; the tall, dark, narrowEsedra looks as if it's about to topple sideways -- look unwelcoming so Ipress on. It's late, after 10.30pm, and even the bars and restaurants areclosed. Youths buzz past on Vespas and Piaggios unhelmeted despite theapparent dedication of the motorists here to the legend "live fast, dieyoung". I hold my bag close and try to look confident but after 15 minutesor so the hotels have disappeared. I reach a large empty square and headdeeper into the city. I ask a gun-holstered security guard if there is apension in the neighbourhood but he shrugs and walks away. I climb astreet that has lights burning but they turn out to be a late night barand a fruit stand. Two boys call to me from a doorway and as I don'tunderstand I just carry on, but at the top is a barrier and beyond that aprivate apartment complex, so I have to turn back and the two boys arelaughing as I walk past them.I try in another direction but there are only banks and food stores, alllocked up. Soon I realise I'm going to have to go back down to the arearound the railway station. I cross the road to avoid the prostitutes onthe corner of Via Seggio del Popolo, not because of any spurious moraljudgement but just because it seems I should go out of my way to avoidtrouble, so easy is it innocently to court disaster in a foreign country.But in crossing the road I walk into a problem. There's a young womanstanding in a doorway whom in the darkness I had failed to see. She movesswiftly out of the doorway into my path and I gasp in surprise. Thestreetlamp throws the dark bruises around her eyes into even deeperperspective. Her eyes are sunken, almost lost in her skull, and under herchin are the dark, tough bristles of a juvenile beard. She speaks quicklydemanding something and before I've collected my wits she's produced aglittering blade from her jacket pocket which she thrusts towards me likea torch at an animal. I react too slowly and feel a sudden hot scratch onmy bare arm.My jacket's over my other arm so I'm lucky that I don't drop it and givethe woman the chance to strike again. She lunges but I'm away down thestreet running for my life. When it's clear she's not chasing me I stopfor breath. One or two passers-by look at me with mild curiosity. I headback in the direction of the railway station. Down a side street on myright I recognise one of the hotels I saw earlier -- the Esedra. Then Ihadn't liked the look of it, but now it's my haven from the streets. Iapproach the glass doors and hesitate when I realise there are several menin the lobby. But the thought of the drugged-up woman makes me go on. So Ipush open the door and the men look up from their card game. I'm about toask for a room when one of the men, who's had a good long look at me, sayssomething to the man behind the little counter and this man reaches for akey from room 17's pigeon hole. I realise what's happening -- they'vemistaken me for someone who's already a guest -- and there was a time whenI would have been tempted to accept the key in the desire to save money,but these days I'm not short of cash. So, I hesitate only for a momentbefore saying that I'm looking for a room. The man is momentarily confusedbut gets me another key -- room 19 -- from a hook and quotes a price. It'scheap; the hotel is probably a haunt of prostitutes but right now I don'tcare. I just need a bed for the night."It's on the third floor," the man says. I pay him and walk up. There arelightbulbs but they're so heavily shaded the stairs are darker than thestreet outside. On each landing there are four doors: three bedrooms andone toilet cum shower. I unlock the door to room 19 and close it behindme.I have a routine with hotel rooms: I lock myself in and switch on all thelights and open all the cupboards and drawers until I feel I know the roomas well as I can. And I always check the window.There are two single beds, some sticks of furniture, a bidet and awashbasin -- I open the cold tap and clean up the scratch on my arm. Thewindow is shuttered. I pull on the cord to raise the shutter. I'moverlooking the Corso Uberto I which runs up to the railway station. Istep on to the tiny balcony and my hands get covered in dust from thewrought iron railing. The cars in the street below are filmed with dustalso. The winds blow sand here from the deserts of North Africa and itfalls with the rain. I pull a chair on to the balcony and sit for a whilethinking about Flavia. Somewhere in this city she's sitting watchingtelevision or eating in a restaurant and she doesn't know I'm here.Tomorrow I will try to find her.I watch the road and I'm glad I'm no longer out there looking for shelter.Small knots of young men unravel on street corners and cross streets thatdon't need crossing. After a while I start to feel an uncomfortablesolidity creeping into my limbs, so I take the chair back inside and dropthe shutter. I'd prefer to leave it open but the open window might looklike an invitation.I'm lying in bed hoping that sleep will come but there's a scuttling,rustling noise keeping me awake. It's coming from the far side of the roomnear the washbasin and the framed print of the ancient city of Pompeii. Itsounds like an insect, probably a cockroach. I'm not alarmed. I've sharedhot... [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]