It was just after midday when Stuart and I went ashore. After arranging for the refuelling and watering of the ship we walked to the Banco di Napoli in the Via Roma and opened an account there. Then we went to the Zita Teresa for lunch. The long glass windows were open to the little harbour of Santa Lucia under the looming bulk of the Castello dell’Ovo. They were unloading wine casks from Ischia and the sour smell of vino was mingled with the smell of dead fish and tar. The Capri ferry was in and there was an old M.A.S. boat aground under the castle walls. They were playing O SoleMio as we entered, and the man with the fiddle was the one who had played to Allied troops before the restaurant had been turned into a Men’s Naafi. We had frutti di mare, ravioli, lobster salad and zabaione with Lacrima Cristi. And the price was staggeringly cheap in comparison with what we used to pay.
After lunch we returned to the Via Roma. The firm to whom we were delivering our cargo had their offices in the Galleria Umberto. A girl with raven black hair and large breasts barely concealed by a low cut frock showed us into Signor Guidici’s office. ‘Good-afternoon, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘I have been expecting you.’ He was small and fat and he was smoking a cigar. He waved us to two chromium-plated chairs with a white podgy hand. The room was expensively and uncomfortably furnished in the ultra-modern style — all steel and glass.
But he spoke English well and dealt with the matter of our cargo with dispatch. It was to be landed at Possuoli the following day. He had arranged registration of the vehicles and would supply drivers. When he heard that we were also carrying a cargo of five hundred thousand cigarettes he offered to buy them straight away and the price he named was good. Moreover he gave us his cheque for the full amount there and then and agreed to our terms that one truck should be retained by us until we had loaded our return cargo.
We agreed to run a similar cargo for him as soon as we had obtained the cargo we wanted for the return run. As he was showing us out he said, ‘There is a friend of mine who is wishing to meet you. He is hoping you will come to a little party he gives at his home tomorrow night.’ He went back to his desk and scribbled down the address for us. ‘There,’ he said. ‘It is the Villa Rosa in Posillipo. Ask for the Villa Emma — that is where Lady Hamilton entertained your Lord Nelson. The Villa Rosa is just close. There will be good wine and nice girls who speak English a little. And I think he wishes to talk about business to you.’
We went out into the hot glare of the Galleria feeling pretty much on top of the world. In the space of a quarter of an hour we had settled the problem of the disposal of our cargo, had collected a cheque for nearly fourteen million lire, got an order for another cargo of a similar type, an invitation to a party and had made a new contact who wanted to do business with us. ‘I think this calls for a drink,’ Stuart said, echoing my own thoughts.
‘First let’s bank the cheque,’ I said.
He laughed. ‘You’re more Scots than I am, I do believe, David.’
We banked the cheque and then returned to the Galleria and sat in the shade of a coloured umbrella and watched the world go by, drinking cognac and lemon and discussing how best to acquire the cargo of wines and liqueurs that we needed.
A young student asked permission to sit at our table. He was thin, with slender hands, and sallow features below his dark oily hair. He spoke schoolroom English. We bought him a drink and questioned him about Italy. He told us things were very bad. The country was short of food and essential raw materials. ‘The men who control the country when Mussolini were Il Duce are still the masters,’ he said. ‘Many men have make much money in Black Market. They are very strong. And the people are very poor. There is not sufficient to eat and for many peoples there is no work. My father, he is a schoolteacher, and my brother, too. I am at the university. I study engineering.’ He gave a shrug of his shoulders and turned down the corners of his mouth. ‘But when I have done my examination I do not think there will be anything for me to do. There will be trouble in Italy soon,’ he added. ‘This is why Italy accepted Mussolini. We need a leader now.’
He was an intelligent youth and Stuart suggested taking him along with us. He would be useful as a guide, could act as our interpreter and might know something about prices. ‘In the mornings I am study always at the university,’ he said. ‘But afterwards, Signori, I am free.’
By the evening we had visited three or four wine dealers and had an idea at any rate of how to set about obtaining the cargo we wanted. We had also visited the Post Office and collected a cable from Fosdyk, setting out his requirements. It concluded with the words — ‘Prospects very good.’ On the strength of that we decided to celebrate. We took Pietro along and he showed us the cafes and wine bars of the narrow streets below the Corso Vittorio Emanuele where the women are like the women of any big port and where men try to forget that their children are half-starving and there is no future.
I was not feeling particularly happy when we returned to the ship. The misery of the people, mingling with the fumes of the bad liquor I’d drunk, had left me depressed. Stuart morosely staggered off to bed. I made myself some tea and then, because I needed to remind myself of the fresh clean air of England, I opened my tin box and took out Jenny’s jewel case. When I lifted the lid I found myself gazing at the faded photograph of a girl with pigtails and an oval face which had a suggestion of laughter in the eyes and mouth. Monique! I had forgotten all about her and my promise to her mother. And a sudden horror seized me at all the things I’d seen that night and all the dingy hovels I had been into. Perhaps in one of those frightful little drinking dens … I stood the photograph on the shelf above my bed. I must find that girl — find out what had happened to her. And with this resolution I lay down on my bunk and went to sleep.
I dreamed I was being chased through horrible twisting streets. Then I was being beaten by a black-shirted hooligan because I wouldn’t tell them where Monique was, and I woke to find the sun streaming in and Boyd shaking my shoulder. ‘Like a nice cup o’ char, sir?’ he asked.
I took it from him. ‘God! I feel lousy,’ I said.
‘I wouldn’t wonder, sir. You weren’t yourself at all when you came aboard last night.’
‘I don’t even remember coming on board,’ I said. I noticed with disgust that I was fully clothed.
‘There’s a young Itye outside, sir. Says ‘e was wiv you last night an’ you told him to come and see you in the morning. He don’t look so good either.’ And he grinned.
‘Oh, Pietro,’ I said, and sat up on the bunk. My head felt terrible. ‘How’s Mr McCrae?’
‘Swearing something awful, sir.’
I got to my feet and found myself looking at Monique’s photograph propped up on the shelf above my bunk. ‘Send Pietro in,’ I told Boyd.
The boy certainly looked about as bad as I felt. He was very white and smiled sheepishly. ‘Next time we go out I take you to the good restaurant,’ he said.
‘You’re not taking me out again,’ I told him. Then I gave him Monique’s photograph and Mrs Galliani’s address. ‘Find that girl for me,’ I said. ‘And meet me at the same table in the Galleria at three o’clock, the day after tomorrow. And don’t lose the photograph,’ I added as he was leaving.
It took me all day to unload our cargo by the twisted wreckage of the ironworks that the Germans had destroyed two years before. The burnt-brown hills that encircle Pozzuoli shimmered in the heat and the peak of Mt. Epomeo on the island of Ischia was barely visible in the flaming heat haze. We got the loaded trucks off easily enough, but when they returned from delivering the cigarettes to a warehouse in Naples, we had to reload them with the spares.