The little man nodded vigorously. ‘Si, si — he was a tall man with a beard, yes? He came in the morning and drew out all the cash in your account except for a nominal thousand lire.’
‘He drew out all the cash in our account?’ I repeated. I couldn’t believe it.
‘Except for the nominal thousand. He said he had to pay for a cargo, but would be banking with us again on the return trip.’
‘That was why I was asking whether you wished to draw, signore,’ put in the first cashier. ‘It would be very difficult — impossible. The manager would not agree — that is except for the thousand lire. You have only had an account with us for a few days.’
‘And he left no note — no message?’ I asked again.
They both shook their heads.
There was nothing I could do. I thanked them and went out into the sunlit roar of the Via Roma.
It was hot and that horrible doubt of Stuart was back in my mind. There was only one other place in Naples he could have left a message for me. Guidici’s office above the Galleria Umberto.
I turned left down the Via Roma. It was in the Galleria that I first realized how desperate our position was. The sun streamed through the glassless roof and the heat of it struck up from the tiled paving. But it looked cool under the gaudy umbrellas of the pavement cafes where the usual prostitutes sat sipping iced drinks, waiting to pick up a man or for their pimps to bring a client to them. I felt the need of a drink badly.
It was then that I realized that I hadn’t any money. I couldn’t have a drink. I couldn’t even eat. All we had in the world was the remains of Boyd’s two thousand.
I went up the dark stairs to Guidici’s office with a foreboding that there would be no message for me. And I was right.
The secretary shook her mop of hair at me and her eyes fastened like black buttons on the roughly patched rent in my trousers. I insisted upon seeing Guidici himself. But there was no message. ‘Signer McCrae has not been here at all since he came with you about the cargo,’ he said.
There was nowhere else I could go.
I went back to the hotel and explained the situation to Boyd and Monique. We sat in committee in my room. We called for our bill and found that it left us with just four hundred and twenty-six lire. And Boyd had a cheap wrist-watch. That was all we had between ourselves and starvation.
The prospect was not good.
‘I just don’t believe a bloke like McCrae would walk out on ‘is pals,’ said Boyd. ‘Hit ain’t in the nature of the man. Stands ter reason like that if a bloke’s bin an orficer in the Army as long as ‘e was, ‘e don’t walk out on ‘is pals. Dugan wouldn’t neither. Jack’s as straight as they come.’
That’s what I thought. But the fact remained that two days ago, while we were at Percile, Stuart had drawn but all our capital and sailed with the Trevedra, leaving no message. ‘Clearly,’ I said, ‘since we’ve no choice, we must work on the assumption that he’s left us flat. We need money. And we want to get back to England.’
‘Reckon it won’t be difficult for us to work our passage back,’ Boyd said.
I glanced quickly at the girl. Her grey eyes met mine and I knew that she had understood. Also I knew that she wasn’t afraid. I suppose she was now accustomed to expecting the worst — poverty and uncertainty had been her life for so long.
I said, ‘There’s nothing to stop you working your passage back, Boyd. But I’m not moving from Naples unless I can take Monique back with me.’
‘Strewf, guvner, you don’t think I was suggesting going without her, do you? But I reckoned wiv her knowledge of lingos she might get a job as a stewardess.’
We must have talked it over for nearly an hour. ‘The upshot of the whole thing is,’ I said finally, ‘that we must find a cheap place to live and some means of getting hold of some money. Clearly the three of us can’t go down to the docks this afternoon and expect to be offered jobs at once in a ship sailing to England.’
And this was where Monique suddenly spoke for the first time.
‘There is a little place at the top of a house in the Vico Tiratoio where I lived for a time with my aunt. It’s not a very nice place. It’s a — sort of pensione. But the Signora was kind to me and I am sure she would let us have rooms for a time without wanting immediate payment. She often helps people. Sometimes they repay her. Many strange people come there. And there is a Scotch man in the next house — perhaps he is still there. He would help. He is an artist, but not very good. He makes papers for people. And he knows le monde des apaches. Many people come to see him for his papers.’
We both stared at her in astonishment.
It was difficult to remember that this kid from a mountain farm had lived for three months in one of the worst quarters of the city.
There was nothing else to be done. We paid our bill and followed Monique. After a quarter of an hour’s walking I found myself standing outside the trattoria in the narrow street above the Via Roma where I had stood only a few days ago, wondering about Monique and the strange life she must have led there.
We climbed the dark narrow stairway which the drunk had climbed, our footsteps sounding loud on the hollow wooden stairs.
And so we found rooms — little cubicle affairs, flimsily partitioned with stained matchboarding and clearly designed for one purpose only. The Signora, a big raddled motherly Neapolitan, welcomed Monique like a long lost child and seemed surprised when we insisted on a separate room for her. I did not like the idea of living in such a place. But we were little better than beggars and could hardly assume the right to be choosers. The Signora did not look impressed at our promise of ultimate payment — she smiled indulgently, her eyes on Monique with what I thought to be a covetous gleam.
Boyd and I shared a double bed in one cubicle and Monique had the next cubicle to herself. I understood now why she had never even considered trying to get to Naples. If she had come to this house, the Signora would have looked after her for a time. But kindly disposed though she might be to the strange cases that found their way to the top of those wooden stairs, sooner or later she would have insisted on her working for a living. And I could well imagine what hell that would have been to a fastidious girl who did not like being touched.
The trattoria down below had an upstairs room for regular clients that was reached by a door at the top of the first flight of stairs. Here you could get food as cheap as anywhere in Naples. The three of us lunched there in the stuffy fly-ridden half-light provided by a grimy window. We lunched well off pasta asciutta and red wine for the price of a few lire each.
After lunch I left Monique in Boyd’s care and went to the office of the British Consul. With some difficulty I obtained admission to the Consul himself. He eyed me without enthusiasm and did not offer me a seat. If you want a sympathetic Consul, avoid big ports. He listened to my story attentively, but without surprise. When I had finished, he said, ‘There’ll be a little delay, but I can fix you up with a temporary passport. The girl is going to be more difficult. I can get her an Italian passport, but if her guardian notifies the police there may be trouble. Anyway, how do you propose to get her to England if you have no money?’
He was very off-hand about the whole thing. I could see that he did not believe my story in full. He thought I was entangled with the girl. He was willing to get me a passport, but not anxious to have anything to do with her.
It was useless to protest. I told him not to worry about the girl, but to go ahead with obtaining a temporary passport for myself. I asked him whether there was any British organization in Naples through which I could obtain a loan. His reply was, ‘I am afraid not. But you can work your passage back. I’ll give you a note to one of the shipping lines.’ And he scribbled a line or two on a sheet of paper, slipped it into an envelope and handed it to me.