‘Would you like something to drink while you wait?’
Marek lit a cigarette and blew smoke out over the terrace. A day spent zipping back and forward, but not unproductive. The smoke hung over the drop. The idea of it, suspended, slowly dissipating, made him uneasy. Two nights, two days. Paola would be in her element. When the man returned he told Marek that the brothers had already checked out, but that the room was ready.
He wanted to check the room before he brought Paola, see if the brothers had left anything, luggage, belongings, so that he might get a better understanding of them.
The room faced the bay, and he was surprised to see a large bed and a single cot, but no luggage, and no keepsakes.
* * *
Late-afternoon Marek waited outside the language school. He recognized the sign for the bakery — he’d come to the small square many times and sat under the palms, drank at one of the two bars because it was literally just around the corner from the palazzo, a last stop on a night out before going home. The faint whiff of dope hung in the shadows under the long and weedy palms. The older parts of the city divided into micro-neighbourhoods (he’d heard Americans talk this way about their cities), so you could speak of Forcella, Sanita, Fontanella, as if they were distant towns, when in reality they might be side by side. Those really in the know could shave these districts even closer, so that you might refer to half-streets, blocks, as if they were distinctive, unique cultures with particular habits and codes. This idea only served the city’s bad reputation, despite the mythology that the poorest neighbourhoods held the best eateries, the finest tailor, the original pizzeria, the freshest mozzarella / sfogliatelle / pasta / limoncello, the cheapest shoes, it spoke louder about the mysteries of clan-like associations, habits of use, of gangs, of safe and unsafe, when in reality after three years all Marek could see was a jam of dog-poor neighbourhoods scrabbling for breath. In Poland that kind of romance would be seen for what it was, a useless snobbery about poverty. As an outsider the best way to see Naples was from a boat or a hill, where it looked coherent as one single effect; come down to street level and everything started to fracture.
Marek couldn’t quite work out what he was expected to do. If he asked in the school he would have to give reasons for looking for the woman, reasons he didn’t understand himself. He had no name, which made this stranger, and he didn’t understand the aim of this — except for his reward. In the end it wasn’t hard at all. He stood at the doors, buzzed the doorbell and said he was looking for … and then he mumbled. When the reply came that they didn’t know who he meant he gave the brothers’ description of the woman.
‘She’s Japanese. Short. Black hair. About thirty-five but she looks younger.’
‘Oh! Mizuki?’ The voice sounded mechanical, metallic.
‘That’s right. Is she there? I’m supposed to meet her.’
‘She isn’t very well.’
Marek got the information he needed, the girl had been stung by a wasp two days ago and had to go home. She was all right, they insisted, but she was staying in Portici. She’d be back next week. They expected.
Marek said thank you. He’d done his work. Now it was time for his weekend.
SATURDAY: DAY G
Rafí had a new watch. A Seiko. He told Lila that he didn’t want her to leave. He wanted to find the men, he wanted to find them and hurt them. This was a promise. Arianna had gone. It would be easier without her, and Lila would be safe as long as she remained at the Stromboli. She couldn’t help but follow the reflections from the watch, the way sunlight splintered off the face, bright and sore.
‘She took everything,’ he said. ‘We have nothing. She took your clothes, money. The rents. My savings. Everything. It’s all gone.’
Lila pressed for details, had Arianna said anything about where she was going? Why had she left? Had he seen her? Had she called? Lila could see herself wearing upon him. Pushing.
He liked her more when she talked less, he said. What was so hard to understand?
‘She took everything. Your friend. This is how she treats you.’
And this was true, Lila remembered Arianna crouched over her, promising that she would return, money in her hand rolled in the same way that Rafí rolled his money.
And later: Lila wasn’t the only victim. Arianna had also spoiled his chances. This was typical, just his luck, to get stuck like this. The money he’d saved, yes some of it was Lila’s money, but most of it was money set aside from the rents, the money he’d borrowed, money which could have set them up anywhere they wanted. Madrid, why not, or Barcelona again? Barcelona hadn’t been so bad. He could probably go back there now. He could have opened a nightclub, a nice little place with a select membership. He could have, it would’ve been possible. A private club providing for every taste, every possible experience, but no, in robbing them Arianna had ruined these chances. He was done with Naples and with this way of living.
Rafí took off his shirt and straightened his back. He asked Lila how old she thought he was. His family were mixed blood, Spanish and Arab, and this was where the fine dark looks came from, the olive skin, the heavy balls. The women were freaks, he said, weak, feeble, little more than creatures, but the men were vital and strong. It was a pity for Lila that he didn’t go for whores, because he knew how much she liked him.
Arianna would not come back. Couldn’t Lila see this? Rafí held Lila’s face close. Why would she come back, he asked. Think it through. What would she come back for? Every cent was gone.
* * *
Rafí left her in the afternoon. Lila lay awake, aware for the first time of other noises hiding behind the dog’s incessant barks. Behind this animal hid a whole city, and deeper even, behind the traffic, the crude honk and buzz, the gasp of brakes, the market shouts, beyond these sounds were others, more ancient. Bells first, through which you could map the entire plain, the distinct differences between one church and another, the tinkering off-colour sounds, out of tune and out of time. And something else, something more than the city’s daily shouts and murmurs, sounds she could not calibrate. When she couldn’t sleep Lila saw herself poised above the muddle, neither rising nor falling, but holding place above the rucked red roofs, the churches, the palaces, the archives, the ancient halls and houses. No longer running, no longer falling, but suspended above the city.
* * *
Lila woke to smell burning. A small column of black smoke curled and collapsed on the balcony. She recognized, without interest, a pair of her shoes, the T-shirt from the hospital, and Rafí dropping these items one by one onto a grill. He was burning her clothes. From the flat roof two floors below came the crazy coughing barks from Rafí’s dog.
Rafí, done, stood in the doorway, with blackened hands and a pair of tongs, telling her that she should stay where she was.
‘I’ve thought it through,’ he said. Lila didn’t have to work at Fazzini or on the corso. She didn’t need to go to hotels any more. Until they had to leave he would bring men to her. She didn’t need clothes. She didn’t need shoes. ‘I’ll provide what you need.’