Naples was a stranger to discretion. In Naples people shouted. Rows and shouting over the slightest thing. All that arguing over crumbs: unbearable.
So a few months ago he had decided to take some action. He had had enough of just mulling, brooding, changing his plans every month, every week. This time he had had a really good idea. And like many good ideas, it needed patience and perseverance, and it was also extremely risky. But at the age of thirty-five Zollo had worked out that he was willing to take that risk, if he wasn’t to suffocate on that pestilential gulf, working as a driver for an unrepentant old gangster. So he had decided to go for broke.
He looked in the rear-view mirror to check that the other car was still following them, then he turned right towards the dig.
From the other car climbed, in order, Victor Trimane, a girl of Neapolitan high society who had joined them for the occasion, and one of young Anastasia’s dandy friends with his girlfriend. They walked along the path leading to the Roman city, Luciano at their head with his host. The site was officially shut, but no attendant would object to a visit from Don Luciano and his friends.
‘You see how much space there is, my friends? And the streets.
You see these big stones between one side of the street and the other? They were like our pedestrian crossings, exactly the same. So that you could cross the street without getting covered with mud. And the wheels of the carts passed in between them. Not a bad idea, is it? The ancient Romans knew what they were up to. Pompeii was a holiday resort, the wealthy came here to relax, to get away from the big city. Good weather, the sea nearby, good soil for wine and olives. The Romans liked the good life, my friends, they knew how to choose their places.’
One of the girls came up beside the old man. ‘It must have been horrible when the volcano went off and covered everything up.’
Luciano crossed his hands behind his back. ‘That’s the fascination of Pompeii, my dear. Time stopped here. All of a sudden. And no one touched anything. Just as it was. Look at this: this was a tavern. They kept the wine in these holes and sold it by the glass, like this.’
Luciano made the gesture of picking up a glass of wine from the cavity that opened up along the little low wall.
‘How civilised! Imagine this street full of people, slaves carrying things, litters and carts. And the vendors shouting. Further off there was the Forum, where the notables talked politics and business.’
The little group advanced into the middle of the ruins.
One of the girls stopped by a crossroads. ‘What’s this writing?’
‘That’s an advertisement.’
The girl looked perplexedly at the old boss. ‘Like a commercial?’
‘For the oldest profession in the world, my darling.’
The girl blushed, while the two young Americans looked up in curiosity. ‘It’s a whorehouse. Satisfied customers put up posters for the bordello.’
The two drivers followed on a few steps behind. Zollo lit a cigarette and glanced around him.
‘You know, Vic, I’ve never liked these old crocks.’
‘You don’t need to tell me, goombah.’
Luciano led the way towards the house of Priapus, after putting his arm around young Anastasia. ‘Well, my friend, the Romans sure knew how to enjoy life, not like us, constantly thinking about business. They took over the world without exhausting themselves. And those cathouses of theirs had to be very professional, very properly run, you know. They didn’t ruin their hands doing housework, you
can be sure of that.’
‘They were still whores,’ observed the young man.
‘Yes, yes, but that’s not the point.’ Luciano folded his hands behind his back once more. ‘The fact is that the level of civilisation in a society is measured by the women. That’s why I sell electrical appliances. It’s a civilising mission,’ he guffawed.
Anastasia shook his head. ‘I don’t get it.’
‘Let me explain. What’s the difference between American women and the women here in Italy?’
‘Affluence?’
Luciano gave a sly laugh and spoke in an undertone, as though revealing a major secret: ‘Electrical appliances.’
Zollo studied him with a certain admiration. There was something brilliant about him. A raging torrent, but not overstated. Amazing, if you thought that he didn’t need to speak to order someone killed, direct the trafficking of drugs from the Mediterranean to the Pacific, or throw all the races for the coming month.
‘American dames’, Don Luciano went on, ‘have electrical appliances to do their housework for them. That’s why they have the time to take care of their appearance, to read magazines, to keep up with fashion. They’re that bit freer, my friend, and that’s why they’re more beautiful and intelligent. That’s why they turn your head. Italian women, on the other hand, are housekeepers and mothers seven days out of seven. Then on Saturday evening they get dolled up and try to convince their husbands that they’ve married a fine lady. But they’re a bit pathetic. It’s not their fault. Italian men want a good child-rearer at home, a housekeeper for the whole week, and then they demand that she turn into Silvana Mangano, or even Marilyn Monroe. So it isn’t long before the husbands get fed up, and the wives feel unappreciated and stop looking after their appearance. Moraclass="underline" they get fat, they lose their figures, by the age of thirty they’re ready for the scrapheap. And nobody’s happy!’
Zollo was flabbergasted by Luciano’s reasoning: he had never thought about it before, but it was all true. What irritated him was the air of parochialism and recently scrubbed dirt that hovered around Italian girls. Their attempt to look like screen goddesses. And their obtuse and ignorant husbands were even worse. It made him shudder to think about it. He felt sad all of a sudden.
The attendant wanted to keep the girls out of the house. Luciano made a barely perceptible gesture, and Zollo slipped his hand into the inside pocket of his jacket. His hand brushed the wooden handle of the ‘alternative’, before taking out, with the tips of his fingers, the banknote he always kept ready for such occasions. As he was handing it to the attendant, he recalled old Anastasia saying, ‘You’ll never have another choice in life, Steve: pay or shoot. You’ve got to know how to do both, otherwise you’ll never be anything but a lousy little guy, however much scented brilliantine you can put on your head.’
Women were forbidden to see the enormous member of Priapus, the god of sexual potency, and the lewd frescoes on the walls. The two girls cackled, pretending to be shocked, while the young Americans exchanged whispered wisecracks.
Zollo remembered the legs of the girl he had glimpsed in the car, and noticed a sudden twitch in his trousers. He cursed the base instincts that clashed horribly with his mood, and turned his back on the group, pretending to light a cigarette, in the hope that no one would notice the hardness of his cock.