“Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.”
Dante’s Inferno
“Long is the way and hard, that out of Hell leads up to light.”
John Milton, Paradise Lost
Part I
7 Years Ago
Florence, Italy
Chapter 1
Marcello
I was 21 years old when I met the devil.
Turned out he lived in paradise.
A man in a tailored black suit and tie picked me up outside my university dorm in Florence. An hour later, I was sitting on the back patio of a centuries-old Tuscan mansion. An immaculate lawn led to a swimming pool lined with lemon trees, and there was a topiary garden and vineyards nearby.
But I barely paid attention to my surroundings. I kept my eyes on the devil, who was sitting across the patio table from me.
He was an older man in his early 50s. His expensive three-piece suit couldn’t quite hide his middle-aged gut. He had a mustache and goatee flecked with silver, and his black hair was greying at the temples.
Beside him sat a guy about my age, maybe a bit younger. Unlike the older man, he wasn’t wearing a suit – just dark slacks and a white linen shirt. The entire time, he never said a word, but peered at me as though he could see into my mind.
The devil smiled at me as he stirred a silver spoon in his porcelain coffee cup. “Thank you for meeting with us today, Marcello.”
I wanted to say, Like I had a choice, but I knew enough to keep my trap shut.
“My name is Fausto Rosolini,” he continued. “This is my nephew. Don’t mind him; he’s just sitting in.”
I looked at the young guy warily, then back at the devil.
“Your father has caused a great deal of trouble for me, as I’m sure you know,” the older man said.
Yeah, I knew, all right.
Papa was a judge in Florence. He and Mama had gotten divorced a year ago, and it had been nasty, messy, and very expensive for my father.
Mama was a stay-at-home wife who’d given up a career to raise three children. She kept the house in the divorce. She also got custody of my younger brother and sister, who were both still teenagers and living at home. In addition, she got half of all my father’s assets and salary.
Papa moved into a cramped apartment with his much younger mistress, who was only a few years older than me. She was very pretty, very dumb, and had very expensive tastes.
A few months later, my father bought a house in Fiesole, a posh neighborhood north of Florence. He started driving a Jaguar, too.
All of which should’ve been impossible on half a judge’s salary.
Either he was burying himself in massive debt…
Or something much worse was going on.
Turned out it was something much worse.
I remembered the night I met him at a café.
I hadn’t talked to him in months; I was super pissed off about him cheating on Mama and breaking up our family. But when he’d called, his voice had been frantic as he begged to see me.
When I met him in the café, he had a black eye and one arm in a cast.
What the hell happened to you? I asked in alarm.
Never mind that, he told me in a low, frightened whisper. I need your help.
It turned out that he’d financed his new house and car by taking money from ‘some people’ who’d approached him.
Initially, they’d only wanted a few favors here and there –
Things only a judge could do.
Suppress some evidence in a case.
Rule against the prosecutor’s motions in favor of the defense.
You got in bed with the mafia, I said in horror.
Quiet, he hissed, looking furtively around the café as though afraid who might hear.
Things had gone fine at first, he said. But then they wanted him to dismiss a case – an open-and-shut one where the defendant was guilty of killing someone.
Papa said he’d balked at doing that – that it would have been obvious he was on the take.
So he got the prosecutor to reduce the charges to manslaughter instead of murder. But he presided over the trial fairly, and the defendant was found guilty.
He got nine years in prison.
Papa’s new ‘friends’ didn’t like that at all.
They told me I have to make restitution, my father said miserably. And part of that is they want to meet with you.
What the hell do they want from ME?!
I don’t know. All I know is a meeting with you is the only thing they’ll take as repayment.
Forget it, I said as I stood up. You got yourself into this jam – YOU get yourself out of it.
Marcello, please, he begged as he grabbed my arm. If it was just me, I wouldn’t ask – but they’ve threatened your mother, too… and Edoardo and Gemma.
My little brother and sister.
I stared at him in horror.
What the fuck have you done, Papa?! I asked, furious.
I’m sorry… please, Marcello, he whimpered. Please.
And that was how I found myself sitting across from the devil at his mansion in Tuscany.
“Your father’s been a very naughty boy,” Fausto Rosolini continued. “Taking my money, then not fulfilling the obligations that come with it.”
I just sat there in silence.
“Your father tells me you’re a very intelligent young man,” Fausto said. “What are you studying at university?
“Business,” I muttered.
“I see. You’re a handsome fellow – do you have a girlfriend?”
“Not at the moment.”
“Good.”
I had no idea why the hell he would say that, but before I could ask, he continued. “You’re in excellent physical shape. Are you a footballer?”
He meant soccer.
“Just an intramural league,” I said. “I wasn’t good enough to make the team.”
Fausto gave me a smile. “Well, where you’re going, your interest in the sport will serve you well.”
I narrowed my eyes. “And where am I going?”
“Naples.”
My stomach twisted nervously – but I knew I had to speak up, or I would risk becoming a slave like my father had.
That was one thing about me: when things were stressful, I tended to go quiet rather than freak out. The more stressful things became, the calmer I got.
I don’t know why. It was just how I was wired, ever since I was a little kid.
I shook my head. “I’m not going to carry drugs or money for you, if that’s what you’re – ”
Fausto raised a hand to stop me.
I immediately shut up.
“You misunderstand,” he said pleasantly. “You’re going there to live.”
I frowned. “Why would I do that?!”
“What do you know about organized crime in Naples?”
“I know it’s run by the Camorra.”
It was a well-known fact – like the Cosa Nostra used to run Sicily before the government imprisoned them all in the 1990s.
“Yes, exactly,” Fausto said. “The Camorra runs Naples and the surrounding areas. They’re not a monolithic structure, though. More a loose association of clans that control various territories.
“The Camorra are something of a… competitor of mine, you might say. And I need people on the inside to let me know what my competitors are doing.”
It took a second for his meaning to sink in.
“You want me to infiltrate the Camorra for you?” I asked in shock.
“That’s an excellent way of putting it.”
“But I’m not a gangster!”
“Which is why you’re perfect. No criminal record, and no way for them to trace you back to me.”
“But I don’t know how to do any gangster stuff! I’ve never shot a gun – ”
“And you quite possibly never will. There are many positions available within the Camorra. Drivers… accountants… dock workers…” Fausto paused, then smiled. “Street-level drug dealers…”
My face betrayed the disgust I felt. “I’m not doing that.”
Fausto’s smile disappeared. “You’ll do whatever you need to do.”
“How am I supposed to get them to hire me?!” I asked angrily.
“Once you move to Naples, you’ll eventually get a feel for the lay of the land. As you do, start hanging out in places the Camorra are likely to frequent. Certain neighborhoods, restaurants, bars, clubs. You’ll know. New acquaintances will likely warn you away from those places, so that’s exactly where you’ll go.
“Keep your eyes open. Eventually an opportunity will present itself – and when it does, take it.”
I glared at him. “Why me?”
Fausto leaned over the table and folded his hands together. “Because I need someone who will be 100%, unquestionably loyal.”
“And why would I be loyal to you?”
Fausto reached inside his jacket.
I tensed, waiting for him to pull out a gun –
But it was something far worse.
He placed a small stack of 3x5 photographs on the table.
They were pictures of my family, taken from far away without their knowledge.
Mama shopping at street markets…
Edoardo hanging out with his friends…
Gemma exiting her high school…
And a final photograph, taken through a window at night.
My mother, brother, and sister together, eating dinner at the kitchen table.
The message was clear: Fausto and his thugs knew exactly where to find my family… anyplace, anytime.
I felt nauseated.
Fausto smiled. “I doubted pictures of your father would have quite the same effect. I’m pleased to see I was correct.”
I glowered at him. “Say I do go to Naples and do what you want. You’ll leave them alone?”
“Of course. They will continue to live their lives in complete safety.”
“Your people won’t hurt them?”
“There will be no need… as long as you do what I tell you to do.”
“What about my father?”
“We’ve already impressed upon him how important it is to comply with our wishes. He seems to agree. After all… he sent you.”
I hated my father even more than I previously had.
“Alright,” I said, defeated. “After I graduate, I can – ”
“No,” Fausto interrupted. “You won’t be graduating.”
I stared at him. “But I’m less than two years away!”
“I don’t care. Your degree is of no importance to the Camorra, and therefore it is of no importance to me.”
I wanted to kill him – but instead of getting angry, I went cold. “It sounds like you have it all planned out.”
“I do. You’ll leave for Naples tonight. The man who drove you here will – ”
For the first time, I lost my cool. “I have to say goodbye to my family!”
“No, you don’t,” Fausto replied. “They’ll ask questions – why you’re leaving, where you’re going – and your mother won’t take ‘no’ for an answer. Trust me, it will be far easier if you just leave town tonight.”
“But – ”
Fausto picked up the picture of Mama, Gemma, and Edoardo eating dinner and crinkled it slowly in his fist. “It will be far easier on everyone if you just leave town tonight.”
He didn’t have to say it out loud for me to get the message:
Do as we say, or we’ll hurt them.
We OWN you now.
“I’m never supposed to speak to them again?” I asked coldly, back in control.
“Send them a postcard,” Fausto sneered.
When I didn’t react, he continued. “As I was saying: the man who drove you here will take you back to your dormitory. You will gather your things and take a train to Naples. Find an inexpensive hotel for the week, one suited to an unemployed young man such as yourself. Then go find a job – a regular job – and an apartment. I would suggest the historic center of Naples, someplace college students tend to live.
“Try to blend in. Once you’ve got a job, find out where the Camorra congregate. Start hanging out there. Don’t ask too many questions, and don’t be too eager, but do your best to make progress. I’m a patient man, but I have my limits. Any questions?”
“How long do I have to keep this up?”
“As long as it takes for you to get information of world-shaking importance. If you succeed at that – if you get me something enormous that I can use to my advantage – then I’ll think about letting you go.”
“What kind of information is of ‘world-shaking importance’?” I asked in bewilderment.
“I’ll know it when I hear it, and not until then.”
“But – ”
“Any other questions?” he interrupted rudely.
“Yeah – I have about 37 euros to my name. How am I supposed to – ”
Fausto reached inside his jacket again and flicked his hand.
A wad of money, as thick as my wrist and bound with a rubber band, hit the table and rolled across to me.
“That’s 3000 euros in small bills,” Fausto said. “It should be enough to situate you for the first few months. If you find yourself in a bind and can’t make rent, I’ll make sure you get what you need. Now give me your phone.”
“Why?”
“Give me your phone,” he snarled.
I took out my phone and placed it on the table.
He grabbed it and handed it to his nephew.
“Hey!” I snapped. “How am I supposed to call anybody?!”
“You’re not. That’s the point.”
As I fumed, Fausto reached into his jacket again and placed an iPhone on the table.
“I’m listed in your contacts as ‘Uncle.’ Memorize the number in case you lose the phone. Do not call me unless you need money, or you have important information about the Camorra. Do not ever text me unless I text you first. NEVER put anything incriminating into a voicemail or text. Never mention my name, where I live, your father, anything. Do you understand?”
I just sat there glaring at him. I didn’t care if he was a mafia bigwig; I hated him with every fiber of my being.
If I’d had a pistol, I would have gladly killed him, even though I’d never handled a gun before in my life.
The only reason I would do what he wanted was because I knew he would hurt my family if I didn’t.
When I say ‘my family,’ I meant my mother, brother, and sister.
If he’d killed my father, I wouldn’t have minded too much.
“Do… you… understand?” Fausto asked in a threatening voice.
“Yes,” I shot back.
“Repeat it to me.”
“Don’t call unless I need money or I have info. Don’t text unless you text me first, and never put anything incriminating in a voicemail or text.”
Fausto settled back in his chair. “Good. I should make one thing abundantly clear: if you try to subvert my will… if you contact any of your family or friends… if you stall and waste time… if you don’t join the Camorra… or if you tell anyone about this conversation, I will know, and terrible things will happen. I’ll start with your little sister. Your first infraction will merit a broken arm. You don’t want to know what the second punishment will be. Understood?”
I swallowed hard. “Can I at least email my mother goodbye? I won’t tell her why I’m leaving – just that I’m leaving.”
Fausto regarded me coldly. “One email. No more.”
“…thank you.” The words tasted like bile in my mouth, but I forced myself to say them.
“Here,” Fausto said. “Take something to remind you why you’re doing this.”
He slid a photo across the table towards me, and I picked it up.
It was a picture of them eating gelato at a local shop. We all used to go there when I still lived at home.
My mother, brother, and sister were all laughing at some joke.
They were happy…
Something I felt like would never happen to me again.
“That’s all,” Fausto said dismissively. “You may leave.”
I glared at him as I stood up. I pocketed the phone and the money, but held onto the photograph as I turned to go.
“One last piece of advice,” Fausto said.
I turned back sullenly to look at him.
“I told you earlier that there are many jobs you could do for the Camorra. But truthfully, if you become a dock worker or a driver, you’ll probably never get the kind of information I require to let you walk away.
“The kind of information I seek is more likely to be found in the higher ranks of whatever Camorra clan you end up infiltrating.
“Unfortunately, the closer you are to the center of power, the more dangerous your situation will be. And you may be forced to do things you find morally objectionable. Abhorrent, even.
“You’ll find yourself questioning whether it’s all worth it.” Fausto held up a photo of my sister Gemma. “I assure you, it is. If you want your mother and siblings to continue their lives… unmolested.”
I clenched my jaw, but didn’t say anything.
“Are you familiar with the poet Dante Alighieri?” Fausto asked.
“Of course,” I said contemptuously.
Dante was Italy’s Shakespeare. He was originally from Florence before he was exiled in the 1300s because of politics. He was one of the most famous inhabitants of the city – as famous as Michelangelo or Leonardo da Vinci, who came centuries after him. Every school child in Florence learned about him at an early age.
“Then you’ll know that in the Inferno,” Fausto said, “Dante is approached by the Roman poet Virgil, who guides him through Hell and shows him all the horrors therein.
“I suggest you find your own Virgil in Naples, someone who can guide you.
“Even though he entered Hell, Dante was still alive. I suggest you consider yourself to already be dead… a departed soul whose only aim is to make sure your family remains safe.
“That might make it easier for you when you inevitably have to make some… unpleasant choices in the underworld of the Camorra.”
When I didn’t say anything, Fausto flapped his hand dismissively. “Go on. You have a train to catch.”
Chapter 2
When I left Florence, all I had was a suitcase and a laptop. The mafia asshole who drove me back to my dorm didn’t give me much time to pack, so I just stuffed as many clothes as I could into a bag.
My roommate wasn’t around when I left, so I wrote him a note:
Had to leave town. I won’t be back.
Take whatever stuff of mine you want and throw the rest away.
Marcello
Since it was a dorm room, he wasn’t responsible for my half of the rent. All he had to do was tell the university I’d skipped town, so I wasn’t concerned about leaving him in the lurch.
And while it would piss me off to lose my friends at university, I wasn’t that torn up about it. They were mostly just drinking buddies.
I’d broken up with my girlfriend two weeks ago after only dating for a couple of months. We hadn’t spoken since, so that was no big deal.
It was losing Mama, Gemma, and Edoardo that killed me.
Fausto had agreed I could send one email. Once I was aboard the train, I connected to my new iPhone as a hot spot. During the three-hour trip from Florence to Naples, I stared at my laptop and tried to figure out what to say.
Hi Mama,
Guess what? You weren’t the only one Papa screwed over.
A mafia thug said I had to leave town or he’d kill you, Gemma, and Edoardo.
See you one day… hopefully.
That was the gallows humor version I didn’t write.
There were a thousand other variations I eventually decided against.
In the end, as the train was approaching Naples, I finally settled on what I wanted to say.
Hi Mama,
I got into some trouble and had to leave Florence.
You can’t help me, so don’t bother trying.
I don’t have my phone anymore, so there’s no point calling.
And I won’t be answering any emails.
Just know I love you.
Tell Gemma and Edoardo I love them, too.
Marcello
Before I sent it, I stared at the photograph Fausto had given me – the picture of the three of them eating gelato and laughing.
The asshole’s words echoed in my memory:
If you contact any of your family… terrible things will happen. I’ll start with your little sister. Your first infraction will merit a broken arm. You don’t want to know what the second infraction will be. Understood?
This email was the only thing my mother would ever get from me… the only closure she would ever have.
I hoped it would be enough.
As the train rolled into the station, I tucked the picture inside my jacket pocket…
Finally pressed ‘Send’…
Closed my laptop…
And shut the door on everything I’d left behind.
Ten minutes later, I stumbled out onto the streets of Naples…
And into my new life.
Chapter 3
As I stood outside Garibaldi Station, it finally sunk in just how much my life was about to change.
Naples was nothing like home.
Living in the historic center of Florence was like living in an outdoor museum. There were 600-year-old statues everywhere you looked. All the buildings were centuries old. The side streets were from the Middle Ages – just big enough for a horse and cart – and were pedestrian-only.
In contrast, Naples had wide boulevards filled with non-stop traffic.
The buildings were relatively new – maybe 80 years old, with lots of five-story apartment buildings.
I could smell the salt air from the harbor half a mile away.
And there was graffiti everywhere. That was the thing that threw me the most.
If Florence was an outdoor museum, then it was kept up like a museum: clean and tourist-friendly.
Naples looked like they didn’t give a damn if you spray-painted anything you wanted.
I’d never been to New York City, but I’d seen it in American movies.
Naples reminded me of New York, just with a lot more beige buildings.
Dirty –
Crowded –
Alive.
There was an energy to the place I’d never felt back home.
Florence was old Italy –
Naples was new.
And now that I was here, it was time to figure out what the hell I was going to do.
I used Google Maps on my iPhone to search for cheap hotels.
I considered youth hostels for a second, but decided against it. I didn’t want to sleep in a room with a bunch of strangers in bunkbeds. If my laptop got stolen, I’d be screwed.
Yeah, TOTALLY screwed. It’s not like you got forced by the mafia to leave your family and move to a completely different city to infiltrate a bunch of rival gangsters or anything.
I finally settled on a hotel that was only 50 euros a night. The reviews said it was ‘relatively clean’ and ‘relatively safe.’
‘Relatively’ would have to do.
Unfortunately, it was a mile and a half away.
I didn’t want to waste my limited cash on a taxi, so I hoofed it instead.
As I walked, I realized I’d been wrong about Naples. There was plenty of old stuff – it just wasn’t near Garibaldi station, that was all.
I passed narrow cobblestone alleys. Old buildings with crumbling exteriors loomed on either side of me. Every now and then, I saw a faded mural – of the Virgin Mary or a saint – that looked like it was hundreds of years old.
The more touristy areas were brightly decorated, with strands of colored lights crisscrossing the streets. Even though it was March, it looked like Christmas.
Other buildings had clotheslines strung between them with banners hanging down. Some of the banners had mottos like 4Ever Napoli. Others had pictures of football stars who played for SSC Napoli – Società Sportiva Calcio Napoli, or Football Sports Club Napoli. Soccer fans simply called them ‘Napoli.’
I didn’t know much about Naples, but I knew they were crazy about football. Napoli had one of the most fanatical followings in all of Italy.
If I hadn’t known that before, I would have figured it out from all the paintings of Maradona.
Diego Maradona was an Argentinian who played for Napoli from 1984-1991. Widely considered to be one of the all-time greats, he led Naples to its first league championship in ’87, then again in ’90. While he played for them, Napoli also won the 1987 Coppa Italia, the 1990 Supercoppa Italiana, and the 1989 UEFA Cup – their only European trophy.
What Michael Jordan is to Chicago, Maradona is to Naples.
And in a city where football is a religion, Maradona was God.
That was reflected in the pizza shops I passed. Almost every single one had framed photographs of him over the counter, and at least a dozen had giant paintings of Maradona with a halo over his head, just like Jesus or the Virgin Mary.
There were dozens more paintings of Maradona out in the street – but they weren’t as eye-catching, because they were surrounded by the most street art I’d ever seen in my life. There was still plenty of graffiti and gang signs, but there were also hundreds of brightly colored paintings done with incredible artistry.
Lots of politically themed pictures, like a black-and-white mural of men behind iron bars.
There was a 20-foot-tall image of a woman’s face with a hand tilting her chin up…
Cartoon images with anti-corporate slogans, like a masked figure punching Ronald McDonald…
And mermaids. Lots and lots of mermaids.
Some looked like pretty pictures out of storybooks –
And others looked like tattooed rocker chicks.
There were also thousands of papers plastered to the stone walls with a combination of artwork and slogans.
Hands off my body!
Make love not war!
Fuck fascism!
At least, I think that’s what they said.
Some of the posters were in Italian…
But others seemed like a jumble of Italian and something else.
I knew Naples had its own dialect, distinct from the rest of Italy, but some of the stuff on the posters was nearly indecipherable. I got the gist, but that was about it.
Not only had I come to a new city…
But it felt like a new country with a language I didn’t understand.
Great.
Just great.
I was starving, so along the way, I stopped in a shop and got a couple of slices of Margherita pizza – just crushed tomatoes, buffalo mozzarella, and basil.
And DAMN it was good.
Neapolitan pizza had lighter and aerier crust than what I was used to in Florence, and the cheese and tomatoes were incredibly fresh.
For the first time ever, I thought, If I can eat like this every day, maybe Naples won’t be so bad.
I finally reached the hotel. It was down a grimy alleyway in one of the worst parts of historic Naples.
As advertised, it was only 50 euros a night.
You get what you pay for.
The ‘lobby’ was ten by twelve feet with scuffed, dirty linoleum on the floor.
The walls were dingy white with a picture of – what else – Maradona in his light blue Napoli jersey.
The check-in counter was basically just a closet with a desk in the doorway.
The unshaven old man behind the counter was watching a football game on his cell phone. I could hear the announcer and the roar of the crowd.
“I’d like a room, please,” I said.
“How long?” he asked without looking up.
“I don’t know. I just moved here and I’ve got to find a job.”
He absolutely did not care. “Credit card.”
“I don’t have one.”
It was true; they’re not that common for college students in Italy.
“Hundred euro deposit along with 50 for the night. You’ll get the hundred back when you check out – if you don’t mess up the room.”
If the room was in the same shape as the rest of the place, I wondered what the hell you had to do to mess it up.
I turned away from him to count off 150 euros from the wad Fausto had given me. I didn’t want anybody in a sketchy place like this knowing I had several grand.
After the old guy took the money, he checked my student ID from Florence, wrote my name in a coffee-stained notebook, and gave me a big brass skeleton key.
“401,” he said, then went back to watching football on his cell phone.
“Where’s the elevator?” I asked.
“No elevator,” he said without looking up. “Just the stairs.”
“Is there somebody who can take my bag for me?” I asked.
“No.”
Okay, then.
I walked over to the stairwell, which was marble and spiraled up the center of the building.
‘Marble’ makes it sound fancy.
It wasn’t. Just old.
The dingy stone stairs had been worn down in the center by centuries of footsteps.
Turned out, the stairwell was the nicest thing about the place.
As I lugged my suitcase behind me, every floor looked worse the higher up I went.
The hallways had threadbare carpet. Paint was chipping off the walls. Fluorescent lights gave everything a sickly pallor.
When I finally got to the fourth floor and opened my room, it smelled like the cleaning staff had lost a war against mildew.
If there even was a cleaning staff.
There was a twin bed that creaked noisily, an ancient desk with a rickety chair, and a single lamp on a scarred bedside table.
I immediately threw the comforter on the floor. I’d heard they were rarely washed in regular hotels; in a place like this, there was no telling what the hell was on them.
The sheets were rough and smelled like bleach, but at least they looked clean.
No used needles or dead hookers. That was good.
The bathroom was grungy, with a single enamel basin with exposed pipes underneath. The toilet was missing a seat, and the porcelain bowl had brown rust stains under the rim. The shower was the size of a coffin, and the plastic curtain was covered in mildew.
There was one towel, ripped at the edges and reeking of bleach, with a couple of faded brown stains.
I stared at myself in the mirror under the one naked lightbulb and thought, Well, if you needed an incentive to find a job, this is it.
Let’s get the hell out of this shithole as soon as possible.
Chapter 4
After a lousy night’s sleep, I forced myself out of bed at 8 AM.
I wrestled with my emotions for several minutes, then finally checked my email on my laptop.
I immediately wished I hadn’t.
My mother had written me a frantic message.
Marcello, what happened?! You must call me immediately! Please don’t scare me like this! I’m frightened out of my wits – did you get in trouble? Did you do something you’re afraid you’ll get arrested for? Your father might be able to help. Whatever it is, we can get through it, but you have to let me know what’s going on! Please just call me, my darling! I love you – Mama.
I kept looking at that one line:
Your father might be able to help.
I wanted to write back, Papa’s the reason I’m IN this fucking mess –
But I knew that wouldn’t do any good.
It would just start a fight between her and Papa. She would scream at him, kick up some trouble –
And if Fausto found out about it, something terrible might happen.
I’d thought about setting up my new phone to get my email, but after her message, I decided against it.
Mama would never stop emailing me; I knew that.
And I also knew that if I read her messages, I would eventually give in and write back.
I logged out with a heavy heart and decided never to look again. At least, not until I’d gotten out from under Fausto’s thumb.
I gazed at the photo of Mama, Gemma, and Edoardo.
Right then and there, I decided, I’ll do whatever it takes to get back to my family.
WHATEVER it takes –
No matter what.
Before I left for the morning, I spent five minutes memorizing Fausto’s phone number. I did the same for my new cell, too.
I thought about leaving my money at the hotel, then decided against it. If the maid found my stash, or if somebody broke in, I was screwed. Bad enough they’d get the laptop; I wasn’t about to part with all my money, too.
When I left the hotel, I put my phone and money in my left pocket and kept my hand in it at all times. There was no way a pickpocket was going to take my shit.
For breakfast, I bought a pastry at a street food vendor. It was a sfogliatella – a flaky, shell-shaped pastry filled with sweet ricotta cheese and dusted with powdered sugar.
Delicious.
Despite all the crappy things happening to me in Naples, at least the food was amazing.
Then I started looking for employment.
I didn’t think I would have much luck trying to find work in an office without a university degree, so I decided to take whatever I could get.
I asked at every shop I passed – every restaurant, pizza parlor, café, clothing store, and trinket-selling tourist shop.
Nobody was hiring.
I knew times were tough, but I’d never had to work while I was at university, so I didn’t know how tough.
I got more street food for lunch – a frittatina di pasta, a handheld patty made of macaroni, peas, ham, and cheese that was breaded and fried.
Absolutely delicious.
So far, Naples was three for three on food.
Then I started the job search again.
I must have checked with 80 different businesses before I finally saw a hand-written sign taped to the glass door of a pizzeria:
Cercammo nu’ lavapiatti
I recognized lavapiatti. That meant ‘dishwasher.’
But if the sign meant, ‘Looking for a dishwasher,’ in Italian it would’ve been Cercasi lavapiatti.
I figured cercammo meant ‘looking for’ – it was close to cercasi – but I had no idea what nu’ meant.
Didn’t matter. I understood enough.
I ripped the hand-written sign off the door and walked over to the counter, where a fifty-something guy with a greasy apron and three days’ worth of stubble was yelling at somebody in the kitchen.
“Hey – do you still need a dishwasher?” I asked as I held up the sign.
He squinted at me and asked in a heavy Neapolitan accent, “Where the hell are you from?”
“Florence.”
“What’re you doing in Naples?”
“I just moved here.”
He paused for a second, then said, “No. We don’t need a dishwasher anymore.”
I figured he didn’t like that I was from out of town, so I pressed my case. “I’m a hard worker – I’ll do a great job, I’ll always be on time, and – ”
As I was talking, a waitress walked over beside the guy and started checking me out. She was several years older than me and very artsy-looking. She had purple streaks in her hair, eyebrow piercings, a nose ring, and glasses with black plastic rims.
She also had a couple of tattoos visible on her bare arms. One was of the painter Frida Kahlo. Another was of a mermaid.
I was telling the guy in the greasy apron how I’d been a good student at the University of Florence when he interrupted me. “No – the position is already filled.”
The girl said something to him. I didn’t quite catch it all, but her tone of voice sounded like she was reprimanding him. Plus, I heard the Italian words for still and dishwasher in there.
The old guy yelled at her, which I only half understood. Something about me being a stray cat off the street.
She yelled back at him – something about being tired of doing two jobs.
As they shouted back and forth, I only understood a few random words.
Finally the guy threw up his hands and walked into the kitchen, yelling at her as he went.
The girl gave me a friendly smile and asked in perfect Italian, “When can you start?”
“Uh… right now, actually.”
“Fantastic. I’m Federica.”
“Marcello,” I said as I shook her hand.
“Just so you know, it’s crap wages – 8 euros an hour. I hope you’re okay with that.”
“No problem.” I was desperate, after all. “Could I ask you a question?”
“Sure – what?”
“Who was that guy you were arguing with?”
“That’s Tommaso. He’s the main cook and sort of like the manager. Not the owner, though.”
“What were the two of you saying to each other?”
She grinned. “Let me guess – you only caught half of it, right?”
“If that.”
“We were speaking Neapolitan.”
“That’s the Naples dialect, right?”
Federica got a sour look on her face. “No. UNESCO designated Neapolitan as its own language back in 2008. We’re not just a dialect of Italian.”
UNESCO was the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization. They did a lot of things, but the one I was most familiar with was protecting world heritage sites like the Great Pyramids and the Galapagos Islands.
“Wow,” I said, taken aback.
“What?”
“I just didn’t expect to hear about UNESCO, that’s all.”
She gave me a wry look. “Yeah, well, you’re not the only one who went to university.”\
“What was your major?”
She turned her arm towards me, the one with the tattoo of Frida Kahlo. “Take a guess.”
“Art?”
“Ding ding ding! You get the price.” She gestured around. “As you can see, an art degree is the perfect entryway to a job as a pizza parlor waitress.”
I laughed. “Yeah, well, you’re doing way better than me, and I was a business major.”
“Actually, unemployment is so bad in Naples that you’re doing okay just to have a job. It’s, like, 43% if you’re under 30.”
“Holy shit…”
The dishwashing job was starting to look like a real score.
“Why’d you leave Florence?” she asked.
“Uh… it’s a long story.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Now that sounds interesting. You’ll have to tell me about it over a beer after work.”
Wait –
Is she hitting on me?
Federica wasn’t my type. Artsy chicks with weird hair and facial piercings didn’t do it for me. But since I didn’t know anybody else in Naples…
“Okay,” I agreed.
“Cool,” she said with a smile. “Well, let’s get you started, Marcello.”
She led me back into the kitchen –
And I stared in dismay.
There was a long, steel industrial counter.
In the middle was a sink filled to the brim with murky water.
The right side of the counter was stacked with towers of food-encrusted dishes and plastic drinking cups.
On the left side was a half-dome metal hood with a handle.
Federica quickly showed me how to wash off as much food from the plates, shove them in a plastic tray inside the dome, lower the hood, and flip the START switch.
The thing hissed and rattled for 90 seconds until the cycle finished. A billow of steam escaped as she pulled open the hood.
The dishes were clean and dripping wet –
But now they had to be set aside so I could load a new tray full of dirty dishes. While the next cycle was washing, I was supposed to dry as many plates and cups as I could.
“Got it?” she asked.
“I think so,” I said, then pointed at the pile of dishes. “Is that all I have to do?”
“That’s all we have room for. Until now, we didn’t have a dishwasher. Once you’ve cleared those, I’ll have the bussers start loading the last shift’s dishes.”
I stared at her. “The last shift’s dishes?”
“Have fun,” she said as she walked away, then turned and winked at me. “I’m looking forward to that drink.”
I stared at the dishes.
If I made it through today…
I was going to need something a lot stronger than beer.
Chapter 5
At 9 PM – damp with sweat, scalded by heat, hands raw from scrubbing pots and pans – I finally got to quit for the day.
The pizzeria wasn’t closed, though.
Oh no. It would stay open until midnight.
But Federica got off at 9, and she argued with Tommaso until he let me off at the same time.
“Unfortunately,” she told me, “that means you’ll have tonight’s dishes waiting for you tomorrow when we open.”
“Oh well… job security, right?” I asked with a weak laugh.
While I got a table outside, Federica grabbed two local Neapolitan beers from the cold case and popped off the tops. Tommaso yelled at her, she yelled back at him, and then she put a couple of euros in the register so he’d quit shouting.
When she walked over to me, I said, “I can pay for those.”
“Don’t be silly.” She put the bottle in front of me and plopped down in the other chair. “To your first day.”
I clinked my bottle against hers. “To you helping me get a job.”
I was so focused on the beer that I didn’t look at her when I said it.
Just as I was about to drink, she said flirtatiously, “Ah, ah, ah – gotta make eye contact or it’s seven years of bad sex.”
“Well, shit,” I said, and kept eye contact with her as I clinked bottles again.
She grinned. “Cheers.”
Then I took a swig.
God DAMN that’s good.
Under normal circumstances, the beer probably would’ve been just average – but I was exhausted and dehydrated, so it tasted like the nectar of the gods.
“Can we get something to eat?” I asked. “I’m starving.”
“Sure.” Federica called out to one of the waitresses working the evening shift. I caught about half of what she said, but the other waitress nodded.
Tommaso started yelling from behind the counter again until Federica shouted back at him.
I think it was along the lines of I’M PAYING FOR IT!
He looked grumpy, but he shut up.
“Do you guys speak Neapolitan all the time?” I asked.
“If you’re speaking with somebody local, yes. If it’s tourists, we speak Italian or English. And as you’ve probably noticed,” she said as she gestured around the pizza place, “we got a lot of tourists.”
“Do they teach Neapolitan in schools?”
“No, it’s something you learn at home. Italian’s the official language for government and business – but if you’re hanging out with friends or talking to anybody who lives here, you use Neapolitan.”
“Jesus,” I groaned. “I didn’t think I was going to have to learn another language.”
She laughed. “Don’t worry, I’ll teach you.”
As soon as she said it, her leg brushed up against mine.
She was definitely hitting on me.
When I didn’t react, she must’ve gotten a little self-conscious, because she pulled her leg back and said, “So – why did you quit school in Florence and come to Naples?”
I knew this was coming, so I’d worked up a plausible lie while I was scrubbing dishes.
“I just hated it. I especially hated being a business major. It was all my parents’ idea. I knew I could never quit and stay in Florence because they’d nag me to death – so I saved up some money and moved down here so I could do whatever I want.”
None of that was true. I liked university. I wanted to be an entrepreneur one day, so I figured I should know as much about business as possible.
My father would’ve been pissed if I’d dropped out, but after he cheated on Mama, I didn’t give a shit what he thought.
And while my mother would have been disappointed, she wouldn’t have nagged me about it. She would’ve just insisted I get a job.
Preferably not washing dishes.
“Why’d you come here, though?” Federica asked. “Why Naples?”
“Well, at the time,” I said drily, “I didn’t know you guys spoke an entirely different language.”
She laughed. “Rethinking your life choices right about now?”
“A little.”
“You still gonna stay?”
I have no fucking choice.
“I’m thinking about it,” I replied.
She grinned. “Good.”
The pizza came a few minutes later. As we ate, Federica talked about how she’d gone to the Accademia di Belle Arti di Napoli, or the Naples Academy of Fine Arts. After she graduated, though, she couldn’t find a job using her degree, so she’d had to settle for waitressing gigs while she worked on her own stuff.
She was really big into street art, and made posters she plastered around the city – like the ones I’d seen earlier on my job hunt.
While we ate and she talked, I drank another two beers. I had a pretty good buzz going by the time we finished.
When it was time to go, she fished in her purse for money to pay the bill.
“I can pay that,” I said, feeling guilty. I didn’t think she should pay when I had a couple grand in my pocket.
Not that I could tell her that.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she replied. “You just got to town.”
“Seriously, I can pay for it – ”
She slapped down a twenty and said, “Take me out after you get your first paycheck.”
I wasn’t sure if Take me out meant a friendly meal or a date.
I wasn’t entirely sure whether this was a date or not.
But I didn’t want to screw things up with the only person in Naples who’d helped me out, so I just nodded. “Deal.”
When we left the pizzeria, she asked, “You want to come over and smoke out?”
I looked over at her incredulously. “You mean – marijuana?”
She started laughing uncontrollably.
“What?” I asked, incensed.
“You’re so cute – ‘Marijuana’?!” she mimicked me, making me sound like an old lady clutching her pearls.
“Hey – come on,” I said with a sheepish grin. “I just… I’ve never smoked pot before.”
It was true. As the son of a judge, I’d had the fear of God drilled into me about drugs. During high school and college, I’d stuck strictly to alcohol.
Funny that my father had been so adamant about drugs, then gone and sold out to the fucking mafia.
“Well, you’re in a new city,” Federica said. “New job, new life – might as well try something else new.”
I wasn’t super excited about the prospect, but again, I didn’t want to piss off the one person who’d helped me.
And what the hell else was I going to do? Go back to my shitty hotel and stare at the ceiling?
“…okay… why not,” I agreed.
Chapter 6
Federica lived about a mile from the pizzeria in a crumbling building down a grimy alleyway. There wasn’t an elevator, and we had to walk up three floors to her place.
The building wasn’t in much better shape than my hotel, to be honest –
But her apartment was totally different.
“Don’t mind the mess,” she said as she opened the door.
When she flicked the switch on the wall, a couple of lamps came on. They were draped with colored cloths over the shades so they gave off different hues of soft light.
It was a studio apartment, small but cozy. It was cluttered as hell, but it was also decorated really cool.
Nearly every inch of her walls was covered with artwork like the stuff I’d seen out on the streets. Lots of paintings of women, of all different races and body types, with feminist slogans in Neapolitan.
“Is this your stuff?” I asked, impressed.
“Yeah,” she said shyly.
“It’s good,” I said, and meant it.
She grinned. “Thank you.”
One corner of the room had a drop cloth on the floor that was spattered with dried paint. There was an easel, stacks of half-finished canvasses, and jars filled with brushes of different sizes soaking in liquid.
Anywhere there wasn’t art, there were plants that gave the space a feeling of being alive.
The smell was the one thing I didn’t like. It stank of marijuana and incense, but I eventually got used to it.
There was a futon in the corner of the apartment, opposite from the drop cloth and easels. The sheets were messy and unmade.
Huh.
I wondered if all this was the lead-up to her putting the moves on me.
Although she wasn’t my type, I was buzzed and happy.
I hadn’t jerked off in a week, so I was kind of horny…
And I definitely would have been lonely as hell without her.
So I wouldn’t exactly say I was against the idea of sleeping with her.
If it was a seduction, it didn’t start off great.
First she put a vinyl record on a record player – because of course she had a record player.
It was some sort of jazz. I hated it, but didn’t say anything. The volume was down low enough where I could mostly ignore it, anyway.
Then she rummaged around in a desk and brought out a colorful glass bong, a baggie of weed, and a Zippo lighter.
“I vape while I’m out, but I like the bong when I’m home,” she explained as she filled the pipe with water in the little kitchen nook off the main room. “It’s a more intense high.”
“…okay…” I said uneasily.
“Don’t worry, it’s gonna be great,” she promised as she sat down on the floor at a coffee table and packed marijuana into a little metal tube on the bong. “Trust me.”
“…okay…”
She lit the Zippo and held it to the metal tube while sucking in at the top of the bong. Air bubbled noisily through the water. She finally stopped and held her breath for about ten seconds – then exhaled smoke.
“Ah,” she sighed, then motioned me to sit next to her. “Come on.”
“What do I do?” I asked nervously.
“Breathe in when I light it, then hold the smoke in your lungs. That’s the most important part – holding your breath for as long as you can.”
“…okay…” I said nervously.
“Ready?”
“…I guess…?”
I put my lips inside the glass rim of the bong.
When she lit the Zippo, I inhaled steadily –
And gagged as searing hot air filled my lungs.
I tried to hold my breath, but all I did was cough uncontrollably.
Federica laughed and patted me on the back like she was burping an infant. “Not a smoker, are you.”
“…no…” I wheezed.
“Hold on.” She stood up and went to the tiny fridge in the kitchen, then came back with a cold bottle of beer – a different type than we’d had at the restaurant. I gratefully took a swig.
“Coughing’s good,” she reassured me. “That’s how it gets into your lungs.”
It took another couple of minutes for me to be willing to try another hit, but I managed to hold my breath for ten seconds before I started coughing again.
Federica laughed and told me I was doing a good job. Then she took another hit herself.
As she continued to talk about art, I noticed that the colors of her paintings were suddenly a lot more vivid… and the colored light from the lamps had a different quality to it.
My head felt light and buzzy, and the room seemed to shift slightly – not like it was spinning, exactly, but sort of.
“Are you feeling it?” she asked.
“…uh… yeah,” I murmured as I stared around at the artwork. “Wow… your paintings are really good…”
She laughed. “You’re so cute.”
“I try,” I said in an attempt at humor.
“Did you have a girlfriend back in Florence?” she asked softly.
“No. We broke up a month ago.”
I looked over at her.
She stared silently into my eyes.
It felt so intense –
And then she leaned forward and kissed me.
I didn’t kiss her back.
I’d been expecting her to make a move, but what with being drunk and stoned, it was still a surprise when it came.
She pulled away. I saw apprehension in her eyes, like she was afraid of being rejected.
In that moment, in the fog of the alcohol and pot, she looked different to me. Prettier. I didn’t mind the nose ring and the eye piercings.
It had been nice to feel the warmth of her lips on mine.
And most of all, I didn’t want to be alone.
…what the fuck.
I leaned forward and kissed her.
She kissed me back hungrily.
From there, it was only a short trip to the futon.
Chapter 7
I woke up the next morning to the clatter of spoons in the kitchen.
I squinted against the sunlight glowing around the edges of the windowshades. It might have been dim, but it still felt like it was stabbing my eyeballs.
When I tried to sit up, my head started pounding, my nasal passages felt like they were packed with cotton, and my mouth tasted like an army had trudged through it wearing dirty wet socks.
“Ugh,” I groaned.
“Sorry to wake you,” Federica said as she walked out of the kitchen with two cups of coffee.
She wore a black t-shirt with a punk rock band logo. That appeared to be all she was wearing. Without her glasses, she looked cuter than I remembered.
“S’okay,” I grunted.
She knelt down beside the bed and handed me a cup. “You feeling okay?”
“…no…”
“Yeah, it can be rough the morning after you smoke out the first time. Drink that, you’ll feel better.”
I sipped the coffee. It was scalding hot, but it was good – and it killed the terrible taste in my mouth.
She smiled as she brushed the hair off my forehead. “Last night was great.”
“…yeah…” I agreed, though I could barely remember any of it. I was naked, though, so I assumed we’d had sex. “Um, you mind if I use the bathroom?”
“Sure. Over there by the door.”
I looked around on the floor, spotted my boxers next to the futon, and reached over to pick them up.
Federica watched with a big grin as I got out of bed and slipped them on.
Me? All I could think about was the sledgehammer bashing the inside my skull.
When I reached the bathroom, I turned on the light and closed the door. The bathroom wasn’t much bigger than the one in my hotel, but it was clean, and there was art and little plants everywhere.
As I stood there pissing into the toilet, I looked down at the trashcan and noticed a used condom lying on top of wads of toilet paper.
Thank GOD.
The last thing I needed was to get her pregnant.
I finished up, washed my hands, and looked in the mirror.
I looked like hell.
Oh well.
When I shuffled out of the bathroom, Federica looked over at me. “Well, we’ve got to be at work in an hour – ”
“We do?!” I asked in horror. “What time is it?!”
“Ten thirty.”
I had no idea how I was going to make it through the day feeling like this.
“Do you wanna take a shower with me?” she asked coquettishly.
“I should probably go back to my hotel and change.”
“…oh,” she said, and her smile faded into a look of sadness. “Of course.”
Shit.
This is the only person you know in Naples, you idiot –
And you WORK with her –
And she got you your JOB.
Don’t fuck this up!
“But if you want to come with me,” I said, “we could take a shower there.”
Her face lit up. “Okay – just let me get a bag for my things.”
I dressed in my grimy clothes and prayed to God for strength to make it through the day.
When we walked into the hotel ‘lobby,’ Federica looked around with an expression like she smelled a particularly bad fart.
All she said, though, was, “Interesting.”
But when we got to the room, she put aside all pretenses.
“Oh my GOD – you stayed here?!” she asked as she looked in the bathroom.
“Just one night.”
“This is fucking awful!”
“Yeah,” I muttered absentmindedly. I was still trying to deal with the pounding in my head.
“Look – I don’t want to, like, come on too strong or anything, but you’re welcome to stay with me until you get a place of your own. This is just depressing.” Then she quickly added, “Unless you don’t want to. I mean, if you need your own space, I totally get it – ”
“No, that’d be nice,” I said.
I was a little hesitant about shacking up with her, but I figured it was only temporary.
Federica looked relieved. “Good. How much are you paying for this place, anyway?”
“Fifty euros a night.”
“Fuck THAT. Yeah, you’re staying with me. You can check out and bring your stuff to the pizzeria, and we’ll stash it in the office until we get off work. That way you can save another 50 euros.”
“Thanks,” I mumbled.
“You’re welcome. Um…” She looked around the room and shuddered. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t think I can have sex here. I’m not even sure we can both fit in the shower at the same time – if you can even call it a ‘shower.’ If it’s okay with you, I think we should save the sexy times for after work.”
“‘S probably a good idea,” I mumbled.
The state I was in, I probably couldn’t have gotten it up anyway.
“You want to go first?” she asked.
“No, you can.”
“Such a gentleman,” she said playfully, then gave me a little kiss before she went inside the bathroom.
As I listened to the shower start in the bathroom, I reflected on everything that had happened in the last 24 hours.
I got a job…
I had a place to stay…
And I’d met a girl who was really, really nice.
Bonus: she wanted to have sex with me.
I knew I wasn’t that into her, and I felt bad about that. Like I was using her.
On the other hand, maybe she just wanted to hook up. Maybe for her, this was just a fun time and nothing more.
Federica had done a lot for me, and I was grateful for that. I resolved to be as good to her as I could.
And despite being forced to come here to Naples, the first couple of days had actually gone pretty well.
For the first time, I thought that maybe everything would turn out okay.
I was able to hang on to that delusion for a couple of months.
Chapter 8
After I moved in with Federica, life settled into a comfortable rhythm.
Work… sex… go out on our days off.
Work sucked ass. I hated washing dishes. But it kept me afloat financially.
The sex was nice but not mind-blowing. I still wasn’t that into her physically. However, I liked her a lot as a person, so I did my best to make sure she had fun in bed. She was almost always up for whatever I wanted, which was nice.
I learned a lot from her – mostly about the clit. I’m embarrassed to admit it, but before Federica, I didn’t even know where it was. I mean, I was only 21, though that’s not really an excuse. My past girlfriends had never demanded much out of me – maybe because they weren’t comfortable asking for what they wanted, or maybe because they didn’t even know what they wanted – so I’d just skated along, thinking that regular sex was enough.
Federica was very open about what she liked, and very confident in bed. I chalked it up to her being older than me – seven years older, I found out. So, thanks to her, I learned how to please a woman with something other than just my dick.
I didn’t like how much pot she did, though. After that first night in her apartment, I tried smoking out a couple more times and hated it. Weed made me feel stupid and slow, and usually made the room spin around. One time, I even got super paranoid. I was convinced the cops were going to burst through the door and arrest me for working for Fausto.
I decided to stick to alcohol – but Federica smoked out nearly every time we had sex. If there was one big turnoff I had, it was tasting marijuana when I kissed her.
I brought it up once and she got defensive. We argued until she grudgingly said she wouldn’t do it as much.
At first, she refrained from using pot about half the time we had sex – but it was obvious she didn’t get into it as much when she was sober. Like she couldn’t relax.
‘Half the time’ became one time out of three, then once every four. Eventually she was back to smoking weed whenever we fooled around.
After a couple more arguments (It’s just the way I am, I need pot to get into the mood), I wearily accepted it and bit my tongue.
But I put up with it because the rest of our time together was fun –
And incredibly helpful.
Federica started teaching me Neapolitan.
When she said it was a totally different language from Italian, she wasn’t kidding.
Take something as simple as the word ‘the.’
In both Italian and Neapolitan, the word ‘the’ changes depending on the gender and number of the word ‘the’ is describing.
In Italian, the singular masculine is il.
But in Neapolitan, it’s ’o.
So, ‘the book’ in Italian is il libro.
In Neapolitan, it’s ’o libro.
I used libro as an example because it’s the same word in both languages.
In Italian, ‘the boy’ is il ragazzo.
But in Neapolitan, it’s ’o guaglione.
Multiply that by hundreds, if not thousands of common words…
Plus different verb endings…
Totally different idiomatic phrases…
It was a fuckin’ headache.
Overall, Neapolitan was roughly half the same as Italian…
But it was difficult as hell to keep track of the differences. The only way to do it was through constant repetition, and Federica was the most patient teacher I’d ever had.
We’d speak Neapolitan at home every night. She would gently correct me every time I messed up, and I eventually started to get the hang of it.
After a couple of weeks, everyone’s babbling at work started to sound like coherent conversations. I even started responding in Neapolitan when my co-workers talked to me in Italian.
I was probably about as fluent as a three-year-old – which made them laugh, but they went along with it.
And over time, my grasp of the language vastly improved.
Federica was incredibly smart – both street smart and book smart.
Best of all, she knew a ton about Naples. I could ask her almost anything and get an on-the-spot education.
One time I asked, “Why’s it called Neapolitan?”
“Because one of the original names for the city was Neapolis, from the Greek for ‘new city.’ Naples was originally a Greek colony 2800 years ago.”
“‘One of the original names’?” I asked.
“The mythical founder of Naples was actually a siren called Parthenope.” She pronounced it par-THIN-oh-pee. “You know the story when Odysseus was trying to get home after the Trojan War, and his boat had to sail past the sirens?”
“…sort of…?”
“Sirens were mermaids who sang so beautifully that they drove sailors mad with desire, and they would jump into the sea and drown. Odysseus was warned about them, so he had his crew fill their ears with beeswax so they couldn’t hear the sirens’ song. But Odysseus wanted to, so he had his men lash him to the mast. When they sailed past the sirens, it drove him nearly insane, but he stayed tied in place until the boat passed.
“Supposedly, the sirens were so distraught they’d failed to lure Odysseus to his death that they tried to drown themselves.” Federica made a face. “Typical male writer bullshit. Anyway, one of them, Parthenope, washed ashore on what eventually became Neapolis, and she died on the beach. So you can call the city Naples, Napoli, Neapolis, or Parthenope – it’s all the same thing.”
“Wait – is that why you have a mermaid tattoo?” I asked, putting two and two together.
“Yup! And that’s why you see so many mermaids in street art and even architecture, because mermaids are the symbol for Naples.”
The mermaid stuff was just the tip of the iceberg.
On our days off, we would go out and walk around Naples, and she would explain things we came across.
For instance, I kept seeing this weird clown-looking figure everywhere – occasionally in street art, but mostly as figurines sold by tourist shops and street vendors. The clown always had a gigantic nose, a black mask, and a white dunce’s cap. He usually wore a medieval-looking outfit: baggy white pants and a billowy white shirt.
One evening we were walking past an alley hung with strings of colored lights when I saw a bronze bust of the clown’s head on a brick pedestal. People were lining up to take photos of themselves rubbing the statue’s nose, which was brightly polished.
“Who the hell is that guy?” I asked Federica.
“Oh, that’s Pulcinella,” she said, pronouncing it pool-chee-NELL-uh.
“Who?!”
“He’s a character in the Commedia dell’Arte.” When I gave her a blank look, she said, “You know those puppet shows where the dolls hit each other with clubs?”
“Punch ‘n Judy?”
“Exactly. ‘Punch’ is short for Pulcinella. He’s basically the mascot for Naples.”
“Why?”
“Well, he’s a trickster character – sort of like a court jester. He seems dumb, but he’s actually incredibly smart. He may be poor, but he sees the world for what it really is. He’s lazy and gluttonous, yes, but he’s also hilarious and full of life – which is kind of how Naples is, too.
“We may not be the richest city in Italy, and we don’t like working any harder than we have to – but we know what’s what, and we know how to live life to the fullest.”
“What’s with the shiny nose on the statue?”
“It’s supposedly good luck if you rub it. Everybody who comes to Naples gets a photo of them doing it for Instagram, so his nose gets polished thousands of times a day by tourists.”
There were other things, too, that I didn’t understand.
Nearly every tourist store I saw sold sharp, twisty red things that looked like chili peppers. They came as pendants on necklaces… charm bracelets… and little versions on keychains. Pizza shops would sometimes have strings of them over their doorways.
“Why all the chili peppers?” I asked.
“They’re not chili peppers – they’re cornicellos,” she said, pronouncing them cor-nee-CHELL-ohs. Cornicello meant ‘little horn.’ “It’s a good luck amulet against the evil eye.”
“Why the hell is a little red horn good luck?”
“There’s a couple of different stories. One is that they’re versions of the cornucopia – the ‘horn of plenty.’ You know, those broken-off animal horns you see with vegetables and fruit spilling out of them. They’re, like, a symbol of abundance.
“I prefer the explanation that they’re actually penises, because in the ancient world, amulets and drawings of penises were considered good luck.”
“Oh, really now,” I said in a humorous, sexy voice.
She laughed, then whispered in my ear, “Yours is definitely good luck for me.”
Then she went back to speaking in a normal tone of voice. “Ancient Romans used to wear penis necklaces to ward off the evil eye and to bring them fertility and abundance.
“When Christianity became the official religion of the Roman Empire, the Christians didn’t like seeing all these dicks everywhere, so they tried to outlaw them. But in Naples, that didn’t fly. We’re incredibly superstitious and wouldn’t give them up.”
“So what you’re saying is, you hung onto your penises.”
She laughed again. “Not as hard as I hang onto yours – but yes. Anyway, over the centuries, cornicellos transformed from penises into the more religiously acceptable chili pepper shape. And they’re red because red coral was one of the traditional substances craftsmen made them out of.
“Red coral is supposed to absorb bad energy so it can’t affect you. You can also buy them made of gold and silver, which are supposed to be good for money, but those are more expensive, so most people get red coral.”
I looked around. “A lot of these look like plastic.”
“Yeah, the cheap tourist crap is plastic, but Neapolitans know that’s useless.”
The way she said it sounded like she took it seriously.
“Wait – do you have one?” I asked.
“Of course.” She reached in her purse for her keys and brought out a keychain with a little red horn attached.
“You really believe in it?” I asked, surprised.
“There’s a saying in Naples: Non è vero, ma ci credo.”
It’s not true, but I believe it.
She shrugged. “Even though I know it’s crazy, I still kind of believe it.”
“So if I want good luck, I should buy one, huh,” I joked.
“NO,” she said, suddenly very serious. “There are rules you have to follow if you want them to work.”
I thought it was all ridiculous nonsense, but I played along. “Like what?”
“You can’t buy one for yourself. It has to be given to you from someone who cares about you. And it has to be red coral, silver, or gold. It’s supposed to be tuosto, vacante, stuorto e cu’ ’a ponta – twisted, hollow, short, and pointed. And if you really want the magic to be strong, the giver has to poke the cornicello into the palm of the recipient and draw blood.”
I stared at her. “You’re kidding.”
She smiled. “Non è vero, ma ci credo.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Okay…”
“Come here.”
She grabbed my hand and led me over to an artistic-looking jewelry shop much nicer than the average tourist trap. As she searched the peg boards beside the door, she asked, “Do you want a necklace or a keychain?”
I made a face. “I don’t need one of th– ”
“Hush. Necklace or keychain?”
I sighed. I knew Fede well enough by now to know when she wouldn’t give up on something.
“Gimme a keychain.”
She found a small red pendant no bigger than my pinky, then went in and asked the shop owner how much it was.
Forty euros.
“Federica, no – ” I protested.
“Shhh,” she said as she handed the money to the shop owner. “Now hold out your hand.”
“What, are you kidding me?!”
“Just do it,” she implored.
“No thanks.”
She stood up on her tiptoes and whispered in my ear, “If you do, I’ll give you the best blowjob you’ve ever had in your life.”
My cock started to get hard.
That was one thing Federica did – and did enthusiastically – that none of the other girls I’d dated had ever liked.
But I wanted something else, too. “Promise you won’t smoke pot before you do it.”
She made a grumpy face, but agreed. “I won’t smoke pot before I do it.”
“You had me at ‘blowjob,’” I joked.
She squinted in annoyance. “Give it here.”
I held out my hand and winced as she pricked my palm with the tip of the cornicello.
“Ow!” I said as a tiny bead of blood welled up on my skin.
“That’s what you get for negotiating for more than just a blowjob,” she teased as she handed over the cornicello. “But now you’re protected from the evil eye.”
“Thanks… I think.”
“You’re welcome,” she said with a grin.
“Now, about that blowjob…”
“FINE,” she said in pretend annoyance, then giggled as she grabbed my hand and led me back to her place.