‘Tell us a story,’ says Alexandra. She is by no means the first woman to make this demand of me. I can think of nothing but sexuality so I begin to tell them of the beggar girl I met in Naples three years ago. It remains one of my strangest experiences. I had been walking alone by the sea just before nightfall when one deep shade of blue merges with the other; over the water I had been able to detect the lights of Capri and Ischia and had come to this area of the front in the hope of meeting an attractive whore since my mistress of the moment had elected to spend an evening with her husband. The air was filled with the music of hurdy-gurdies and accordions coming from the little cafés where the working classes enjoyed themselves at supper. The few whores I encountered were not pretty—Neopolitan women of that sort are generally too plump and lewd for my taste—and I began to long for Clichy or Montmartre. Pimps approached me and were waved away with my stick. The air, I remember, was very humid. I was conscious of the sweat on my back, wondering if it would begin to show through the linen of my jacket. The music kept me cheerful enough and I was preparing to go home unsatisfied when a black-haired little thing with ringlets falling over her oval face appeared before me, deliberately blocking my path. She was slender, in ragged pinafore and petticoats and probably no more than fourteen. Her expression was singularly attractive, that mixture of innocence and defiance. Her boyish stance and figure were very much to my preference and although I could scarcely understand a single word of her voluble patois I humoured her, smiling. This seemed to make her lose her temper. She gesticulated, this little Carmen of the waterfront, rubbing her fingers together in that universal sign for money and pointing over her shoulder with her thumb. ‘Do you wish me to go home with you?’ I enquired in my polite Roman Italian. This question was unexpected and caused her to frown. Realising I was a foreigner she spoke more clearly. ‘I need money,’ she said. ‘You are rich. I want a few lire, that’s all. Are you French?’ I told her I was German and this seemed to disappoint her. ‘You do not have the look of a German.’ She began to turn away but I stopped her, putting my hand on her shoulder. The feel of her tensing muscles under my grasp increased my desire for her. She was lovely. ‘Why do you want money?’ I asked her. ‘It is for my father,’ she replied. ‘Is he ill?’ I said, willing to show sympathy. She became angrier. ‘Of course he is ill. He has been ill for years. He fought with Garibaldi. He was one of the conquerors of Naples and was wounded by the Austrians. He has lived on the charity of others ever since. He has educated me. He has supported me. And now he is too ill even to beg.’ I was not entirely convinced by her story, even if I did not doubt her sincerity. ‘So you beg for him now?’ She had rounded on me. ‘I ask for Christian help, that is all.’
I smiled at this. It was a phrase often heard in Naples. ‘I am willing to give it,’ I told her. ‘But what will you or your father give me? You see I am not a believer in charity. Giving it or receiving it reduces human dignity. Look at you now. You are angry because you are forced to ask a stranger for help. You resent me and would resent me if I gave or if I refused. This in itself, I will admit, makes you an unusual beggar-girl. However, if your father has something to sell, I’ll be pleased to consider a bargain.’
She frowned. ‘We have nothing.’ I shook my head. ‘On the contrary. You possess one of the most wonderful treasures in the world.’ She pouted, but I had engaged her attention. ‘You sound like a priest,’ she said. ‘I assure you,’ I told her, ‘that I am no priest. I have no interest at all in your soul. It is yours and should remain yours. The treasure to which I refer has yet to be discovered by you. It has to be brought out into the light and then it has to be polished before you will believe how beautiful and valuable it is.’ I caressed her dirty neck and she did not draw away. Her curiosity held her. I believe she guessed my meaning but wished her suspicion to be confirmed. If I confirmed it at once I would probably lose her. It was up to me to maintain her interest a little longer. ‘If you take me to your father I will explain what I mean,’ I said. Again she was surprised. ‘My father? He is a good man. Few are as saintly. He has taught me virtue, signer.’ I offered her my arm, bowing to her. ‘I am sure that he has. What father would not? You are a lovely young woman. It is easy to see you are of a different class to most. Was your mother a refined woman?’ The girl nodded. ‘She was. She owned land. She gave up everything to support Garibaldi and my father. She was a Sicilian. From a very old family.’
‘Just as I thought,’ I said. ‘Well, let me escort you to your home.’ She consented, of course, because she had little to fear. She took me into a warren of alleys where children, dogs, women and old people seemed in perpetual conflict, and down the steps of a cellar from which came the faint smell of urine. She pushed open the door. Everything was damp and the mould gave off such a pervasive stench that it almost took on the character of perfume; it excited me. She lit a little oil-lamp, nothing but a floating wick, which made flickering shadows and revealed the sleeping face of a man who in health must have been a giant. I was surprised by the face. It had far more character than I might have expected. I could see that my attempt to buy his daughter from him would not be as easy as I had thought. He opened clear blue eyes and looked at me as if he had seen an old friend. An expression of irony crossed his face. ‘Signor,’ he said. ‘I am glad to see you.’ He spoke with easy familiarity and it was plain this was not his normal tone with strangers, for his daughter looked from one to the other and said: ‘Are you acquainted?’ Her father lay amongst rags. It was impossible to tell what was his body and what its coverings. He shook his head. ‘Not really,’ he said. ‘But I hoped it would be this way. You are a gentleman, signer?’ There was considerable meaning to the question. ‘I hope that I am,’ I said. ‘And you are wealthy?’ I inclined my head. ‘I am modestly well-to-do. But, of course, I am carrying virtually nothing on my person.’ He nodded. ‘I can see that you are also no fool.’ He knew exactly my reason for being there. ‘Well, have you come to offer my Gina the chance to appear on the stage? Or is it to be service in a fine house? Or do you wish to take her away to educate her, signer?’ Gina was still too surprised by all this to speak. She went to the far side of the cellar and sat down on a mattress, her elbows on her knees, her face in her hands, watching us. I smiled at him. ‘None of those things,’ I said. ‘I think it would be insulting to you if I pretended to any but the real feelings which brought me here. I have indicated as much to your daughter. You know what I wish to buy. But I will promise you this. If you sell, I will leave you both with something of increased value, and your daughter will still be yours. I will not take her away.’ Gina heard this. ‘I would not go!’ she said. ‘She would not,’ said her father, ‘unless I insisted upon it. I have some power left, do you see?’ I acknowledged this. ‘You have considerable power, signer.’ I felt almost humbled by his dignity. ‘And I am willing to negotiate, as I believe, now, you are.’