"Welcome to Italy, Giulio. You may call me Pepino. How was the trip? You will have some of this wine, the native wine of this island, you will love it."
"How did you know my name?"
The smile vanished for a second, then aurously reappeared. "Please. I arranged all of this. I have your passport and papers here, with your picture on them. Tickets as well. I did all this and I tell you, it was not cheap." He glanced at the suitcase and his smile broadened. "So I am happy to see that you brought payment. May I have the case^"
Giulio held it tighter to him. "I was told to hand it over only when told a certain word."
"Your CIA has seen too many old spy films! Who else but me…" With mercurial ease Pepino's temper changed and he was smiling again. "But of course that's not your fault. The word is… merda. . there are so many of the stupid words to remember. This one is… shamarocka! There, got it right the first time."
With no more ceremony he pulled the suitcase to him, dropped it flat on the floor and flipped the catches. It was locked. He muttered something nasty under his breath and produced — rather quickly Giu-lio thought for such a fat man — a large black knife that flicked open with a very nasty sound. A few twists with this and the locks flew open, the knife vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. He threw the lid back and Giulio leaned forward to look, for he had no idea what he had been burdened with.
The suitcase was tightly packed with bundles of pantyhose. Chuckling with pleasure, Pepino broke a bundle open and waved the diaphanous limbs in the air. "I'm rich, I'm rich.” he whispered to himself. "More precious than gold."
Giulio nodded an amen to that. There was a fortune in the suitcase. Years earlier when petroleum had started to run out it had not only spelled the death of the auto and allied industries, but put paid to the petrochemical factories as well. What little supplies remained were reserved for essential pharmaceutical and industrial chemicals, and little or none for the manufacture of plastics. From being the most common material, plastic had become the rarest, and nonindustrial nylon the rarest of all. Of course a black market did exist, which only helped push up the price of such nonessentials as pantyhose.
"This is for you," Pepino said, passing over a battered wallet that had been tucked between the bundles. Giulio opened it and looked at the tightly wadded banknotes. He took one out and stared at it. A squat man, robed to the ears, stared back. The printing was in a strange language, and alphabet, and read something like NOTA AUTHAIRGTHE AUIG PHUNT.
"Put them away," Pepino ordered. "For expenses and bribes when you get there." He dumped the contents of the suitcase into a high wardrobe, then locked it. From a drawer, at the bottom of that same wardrobe, he took underclothes, socks, shirts, all of them ancient, faded and patched, and stowed them in the suitcase. In place of the broken clasps he sealed it with a length of rope tied round, then handed it over to Giulio.
"Time to go," he announced. "On the north side of the piazzetta are steps leading down to Marina Grande. Descend, neither too slowly nor too quickly, and in the harbor there you will find the ferry to Naples waiting. Here is a ticket, put it in an outside pocket if you please. This envelope contains your passport and all the other papers you will need. The ship will be easy enough to find. You may board any time today and I suggest you proceed there as soon as you land.
You will only get in trouble if you stay in the city. Good luck, that's it, finish your wine, and good luck with your mission whatever it is. If you get back alive tell your CIA what a fine job I have done. They are one of my best customers."
Moved on by these encouraging words, and a firm hand in the small of his back, Giulio carried the now lightened suitcase down the seemingly endless steps to the harbor. He had a clear view of the ferry tied up at the mole and saw that they were shaking out the sails. He could not miss it! Hurrying, as fast as he could, he reached the harbor in a rush, then staggered to a walk, streaming with sweat, when he saw that people were still boarding. But he was none too early, for soon after he had dropped wearily to the deck they cast off the lines, with a good deal of shouting, and the ferry moved out into the bay. There was a brisk following wind, thankfully since his stomach did not enjoy the voyage at all, and they were soon gliding by the docks of Naples.
Empty of course, except for some fishing boats and coastal traders. The world could not convert quickly from power to sail. The ferry moved past the rusting hulk of Ark Royal, flight deck canted at a sharp angle where she sat on the bottom. Sunk by sabotage the rumor had it, though holed through by rust was probably more likely. In the midst of these tiny sailboats and rusting despair, the great bulk of the St. Columba loomed large and impressive.
She stretched on and on, sleek metal and smooth paint, like something out of a history book. At her stern flapped an orange, white and green flag, while from her funnel trickled a thin streamer of pungent brown smoke. In a crumbling world she was a monument to the might of man and, suddenly, Giulio felt very happy. He was going to board her, travel on her, see this powerful machine in action. Since he was a child of the world's declining years he had known only grounded planes, skeletal cars, silent machines. Despite the danger of his mission he could not help but look forward with anticipation.
It was all he had ever dreamed of and more. The only formality was the actual boarding of the vessel. Sharp-eyed soldiers, weapons ready, guarded the dock against unwelcome visitors, and a uniformed officer examined his papers, stamped them, removed some, and waved him on. A cursory glance through his suitcase followed, then he was aboard. It was like entering the gates of paradise.
A ruddy, smiling purser checked his name on a list and assigned him to a b^rik. The man had a few words of basic Italian and a large vocabulary of gestures. Giulio made an effort not to understand the English.
"There you are, my lad, cabin number 144. Uno, quatro, quatro, do you have that? No kabeesh, ey? Sleep my old son, kip, dormir
there down below, bloody sotto, you know. Catch on? That's grand. Nod away, that's it, cools the brain. And here's a few quid against your month's wages. Soldi, got that? Can't have a man going thirsty. Fine now, move off, bugger avanti. Just follow the sounds of revel-ment and you can have a few jars with your mates to celebrate your voyage to the chosen land. Next."
The roar of masculine voices and laughter grew louder and louder as Giulio progressed down the corridor, until he pushed open the swinging doors of the saloon where the noise burst over him in a cloud of tobacco smoke and shouted Italian. Red-faced men, in shirts and neckties, were serving up great tankards of some dark, foaming beverage to dark-skinned, black-haired men who drank it at a ferocious rate. There were also smaller glasses of an amber fluid that was mixed with water from a jug. As Giulio pushed through to the bar he heard appreciative comments that while it was not good wine and heady grappa, it certainly was worth drinking in its own right. Roll on the ship. Giulio passed over one of the bank notes he had been given, the same, though of a smaller denomination, as those packed into his inner pocket. The Italians were right, the drinks were different but very palatable.
So were the meals. He went through the first one in a bit of a haze, but had joyous memories of a piece of meat big enough to feed a family of ten back home in Hoboken, floury potatoes, golden plates of butter, dark bread. All a dream — that was not a dream. But all too quickly the journey passed. He gained a few pounds on the voyage, enjoyed some massive hangovers and undoubtedly did immense damage to his liver.