look a bit of a dangerous
bastard.” She chuckles. “Or maybe it’s something else . Perhaps he just has herpes .”
Is that a sourness creeping into her voice? She is my best friend; I don’t want her
to be jealous or upset at what I’ve told her. So far her reaction has been good humored,
cynical, and laced with amusing sarcasm, typical Jessica, which is perfect. She is
what I want to keep me stable. Otherwise I might just lose it.
“Then again”—she blows a smoke ring—“it could be something to do with his wife. Her
death.”
We have been discussing him all night, in this little pizzeria down by the port. Jessica is indulging me with
these conversations—and I am grateful. But then, she got to choose the venue.
The pizzeria is open to the sultry night air. We are outside, but I can see inside,
where big men with slightly malign haircuts drink shots of rough grappa at the bar.
They knock it back in one swaggering toss, then turn around, as if expecting applause.
Some of them have scars on their arms—burns and cut marks.
Jessica likes these seedy places; she thinks they are soulful, and true, and authentic.
Sometimes I agree; sometimes I don’t. Right now I don’t care too much. I am not at
all far from bewildered, and I am in the vicinity of Very Unhappy. I am still rattled
by the assault in the Spanish Quarters, yet that terror has been eclipsed by the clamor
of confusion in my heart.
Marc Roscarrick feels the same as me, and yet he cannot allow himself to be with me?
Yet he also offers me a car—and a driver. Giuseppe. Why would he do that if he never
wants this to go any further?
I gaze across the napkin-littered table at Jessica.
“Am I being stupid, Jess? Do you think I should just forget him?”
She gazes right back at me.
“Yes.”
I am bitterly disappointed; I also know she is right.
“However . . . .” Jess adds, stubbing out her cigarette with relish. Her words are
smoke in the warm evening air. “I know you won’t.”
“Sorry?”
“You can’t forget about him, can you, hon? It’s already gone too far, hasn’t it?”
Her voice is uncharacteristically tender. Jessica’s expression is accepting and clever.
Sometimes I wonder if she sees deeper into me than I can see myself.
“What do you mean?”
“Come on. You’re falling in love with him, X. I’ve never seen you like this before, all doomy and mooning . . . Catherine-and-Heathcliffy.”
“But—”
“This isn’t Deck-Shoe Mathematician, is it? This is the Real Thing. You’re practically
crying a river ’cause of some lunch . I mean, think about it.”
Her hands cross the table and she squeezes my hand; it reminds me of the way he touched
me at lunch. “Listen, you wanted an adventure, you wanted to take a few risks, you
came to Italy to find something new and exciting and, well, this is it. No? He might
break your heart, but you might break his.”
“But what if he is involved in . . . something ?”
“So if he is, deal with it. This kind of stuff comes with the territory. When in Rome,
sleep with Romans.”
“Is that a saying?”
“No.” She laughs, lowly. “But it’s true. Besides, I’ll say one thing for the Mob:
they keep all the bloody tourists away. Naples is the last real Italian city, the
last city not overrun with fat foreigners taking photos.”
“If he is. I . . . I can’t . . . you know.”
Helpless. This is helpless. And useless. Marc Roscarrick has made me boring. What
can I do?
I glance at the bar again. Half the men in here are probably Camorristi . Of course they look like plain dockers and longshoremen, burly and tattooed. But
they probably spend their days scamming profits, altering dockets, smuggling contraband,
and sending presents to the wives of customs officers. Maybe they get a little violent
in a back alley by the Capua gate every so often, beating up on some rival.
Yes, I am sure they do.
And I am
bastard.” She chuckles. “Or maybe it’s something else . Perhaps he just has herpes .”
Is that a sourness creeping into her voice? She is my best friend; I don’t want her
to be jealous or upset at what I’ve told her. So far her reaction has been good humored,
cynical, and laced with amusing sarcasm, typical Jessica, which is perfect. She is
what I want to keep me stable. Otherwise I might just lose it.
“Then again”—she blows a smoke ring—“it could be something to do with his wife. Her
death.”
We have been discussing him all night, in this little pizzeria down by the port. Jessica is indulging me with
these conversations—and I am grateful. But then, she got to choose the venue.
The pizzeria is open to the sultry night air. We are outside, but I can see inside,
where big men with slightly malign haircuts drink shots of rough grappa at the bar.
They knock it back in one swaggering toss, then turn around, as if expecting applause.
Some of them have scars on their arms—burns and cut marks.
Jessica likes these seedy places; she thinks they are soulful, and true, and authentic.
Sometimes I agree; sometimes I don’t. Right now I don’t care too much. I am not at
all far from bewildered, and I am in the vicinity of Very Unhappy. I am still rattled
by the assault in the Spanish Quarters, yet that terror has been eclipsed by the clamor
of confusion in my heart.
Marc Roscarrick feels the same as me, and yet he cannot allow himself to be with me?
Yet he also offers me a car—and a driver. Giuseppe. Why would he do that if he never
wants this to go any further?
I gaze across the napkin-littered table at Jessica.
“Am I being stupid, Jess? Do you think I should just forget him?”
She gazes right back at me.
“Yes.”
I am bitterly disappointed; I also know she is right.
“However . . . .” Jess adds, stubbing out her cigarette with relish. Her words are
smoke in the warm evening air. “I know you won’t.”
“Sorry?”
“You can’t forget about him, can you, hon? It’s already gone too far, hasn’t it?”
Her voice is uncharacteristically tender. Jessica’s expression is accepting and clever.
Sometimes I wonder if she sees deeper into me than I can see myself.
“What do you mean?”
“Come on. You’re falling in love with him, X. I’ve never seen you like this before, all doomy and mooning . . . Catherine-and-Heathcliffy.”
“But—”
“This isn’t Deck-Shoe Mathematician, is it? This is the Real Thing. You’re practically
crying a river ’cause of some lunch . I mean, think about it.”
Her hands cross the table and she squeezes my hand; it reminds me of the way he touched
me at lunch. “Listen, you wanted an adventure, you wanted to take a few risks, you
came to Italy to find something new and exciting and, well, this is it. No? He might
break your heart, but you might break his.”
“But what if he is involved in . . . something ?”
“So if he is, deal with it. This kind of stuff comes with the territory. When in Rome,
sleep with Romans.”
“Is that a saying?”
“No.” She laughs, lowly. “But it’s true. Besides, I’ll say one thing for the Mob:
they keep all the bloody tourists away. Naples is the last real Italian city, the
last city not overrun with fat foreigners taking photos.”
“If he is. I . . . I can’t . . . you know.”
Helpless. This is helpless. And useless. Marc Roscarrick has made me boring. What
can I do?
I glance at the bar again. Half the men in here are probably Camorristi . Of course they look like plain dockers and longshoremen, burly and tattooed. But
they probably spend their days scamming profits, altering dockets, smuggling contraband,
and sending presents to the wives of customs officers. Maybe they get a little violent
in a back alley by the Capua gate every so often, beating up on some rival.
Yes, I am sure they do.
And I am
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