by Prosecco
‘I can’t believe you just did that.’
He laughed, putting his sunglasses on as the boat turned towards the sun. ‘Hey, I’m back home. And it feels good.’
The boat bounced off the water as I pulled my sunglasses out of my bag and slipped them on, face towards the sun. ‘You know, it does feel good.’
* * *
Naples was a world away from Ischia. The streets hummed, and people walked aggressively down the uneven, cobbled pavements. Bright, colourful tourists with baseball caps and loud voices followed tour guides holding umbrellas, or bottles of water, or flags – anything, something – to follow. The Italians were loud too, chattering and arguing, maybe teasing. Sometimes it was hard to tell the difference. Everything was said with passion. Every five seconds someone tried to sell us something, but Salvatore just held up a hand, as if to tell them not to try it.
My head was buzzing, and I missed the quiet of my island.
Salvatore walked on the side closest to the road, leading me, almost protecting me from the crowds as I followed him. He had tried to talk to me at the start, describing the architecture, the curve of the streets, leaning in close to tell me what we were passing. But it had become too loud, too difficult, so instead he just stayed close, leading me. At one point, I got caught in a group of tourists, like a fish swimming upstream.
It felt like we’d been walking for ever – the spring sun that had first been gentle was becoming obnoxious, and I kept surreptitiously wiping my brow. Salvatore was unfazed – he looked completely cool and at ease as we walked. I began to notice how some women stopped to look at him, or glance back at him, and it was only then I started to see what they saw: a tall, tanned, beautiful man walking with confidence, smiling behind his sunglasses.
Looking at him for too long did something unpleasant to my stomach, made me feel… untethered. I wondered what people thought we were to each other, with our dark hair and big sunglasses, holding hands. Did we look like a couple? Not that it mattered, of course. But I’d never been part of a couple. In my teenage years, I’d dated – I had been almost manic in my need for a boyfriend at 15. It was all I cared about: having someone who would put me first and adore me and make me half of a whole, a fitting piece of a jigsaw.
But 15-year-old boys rarely give you the validation you need. It was always the same, right through my teens – I wanted to feel special; they wanted someone to have sex with. Sometimes I fell for it, and was left crying on Savvy’s shoulder, wondering why the hell I couldn’t have the love my parents had had. Later on I had stopped falling for it, or chose people I knew would disappoint so there was less to be surprised by later.
And then Dad had got sick the first time, and I’d realized it was better to protect the people who already thought you were special, to make them the centre of your universe. When he started dating Marjorie, it was like everyone moved on – I realized that people could have a second act in their love stories, however unlikely. But I had never found my first act. I had beer-soaked kisses with students, and online dates with uptight men who found my looks didn’t match the idea they had of my intellect. And then time had just passed.
I couldn’t afford to be half of a whole: I had to be complete all by myself. When you know you’re going to be alone eventually, it’s better to focus on yourself. I hated the idea that I would meet someone and drag them into my family drama; to see them fight with themselves as they wanted to leave, but didn’t want to be the bad guy who dumps the girl with the dying dad.
No, it was better to be alone.
But I was quite enjoying looking like a couple with Salvatore. It made the endless walking more enjoyable.
He squeezed my hand suddenly, shaking me from my thoughts. His grip was firm as he led me across the busy road, cars honking and drivers shouting as they passed each other.
We turned a corner, and there it was.
That’s the thing about Italy. It seems like every street looks the same, winding about with these crouching buildings falling in on themselves, until suddenly you turn the corner and something takes your breath away. The museum stood, squat and proud, its huge doors and windows marrying style and history in a way I adored. It was calling to me, I have treasures you will want to see!
I grinned at Salvatore, pushing my sunglasses onto the top of my head as I pulled him towards the entrance. ‘What are we waiting for?’
He laughed and shook his head. As we went into the wide, marble entryway, he insisted on paying for my ticket, and I thanked him, choosing to be gracious instead of argumentative. A new thing for me.
The museum was cool and dark, in that safe way they are. I love how people become quiet, like they just know, somehow, that you have to be hushed in the presence of history. Or perhaps it’s the size of the history – not being able fathom how that much life survived until now.
Salvatore just watched me, and I knew I must have been a sight. It was the same look Savvy used to get, or even Jacques, when we started our museum dates. I rushed from thing to thing, read the little placard, stood back to consider it, read the information again. Savvy had pointed it out once, my routine.
His chuckle was loud and warm, and a passing staff member hushed him with a stern look. Salvatore held up his hand in apology, nodding, attempting to look chastised.
‘What?’ I whispered, nudging him.
‘You know what,’ he whispered back, close to me. ‘You’re like a kid. Running this way and that, as if you’ll never cram it all in. Never see it all. We’ve got time – relax.’
‘There’s not enough time. Either you’re quick and you see what sparks your interest, or you’ll spend your life wandering the same room looking for meaning, trying to make it make sense.’
He looked at me like he didn’t quite understand, halfway to a frown. ‘I don’t get it. You don’t want to spend all day here?’
‘I’m looking for the thing that sparkles, the thing that glitters in the corner with a story. Something I’ll go home wondering about.’
‘Don’t you want answers?’
‘No! I want inspiration!’ I laughed. ‘I like to know there’s a headpiece in the British Museum that has this whole crazy love story that no one knows. That there’s a painting in the Louvre that had a whole life of crime before it ended up there. That a cup on a small island outside Naples could have belonged to a king, and sparked all sorts of treachery amongst the nobles.’
He nodded, and then grinned, holding out a hand. ‘Then I have your glitter in the corner. Come on.’
He led me through the milling crowds, slow tourists too busy with their cameras, to a small antechamber. ‘The secret room.’
I looked at the images on the wall, tilting my head to the side. ‘Is that—?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Why is it here?’
Salvatore grinned widely at me. ‘Because it’s what they rescued from Pompeii.’
I blinked, trying to fight the laughter as other people around us shuffled awkwardly, sharing sideways glances.
‘Pompeii burned… and they saved the pornography?’
He shrugged. ‘Impressive prioritizing.’
He wasn’t exactly right. Interesting items had been found in Pompeii, then hidden away, too rude and crude and sexual to be allowed in public. I tilted my head at a statue of Pan, the trickster god, leaning over a goat.
‘Is he… interfering with that goat?’ I whispered loudly, and Salvatore sniggered, avoiding eye contact with the other people around us.
I moved on, and looked at the walls, the faint paintings kept safe, because no matter how ridiculous, if you kept it long enough, if you saved it from a volcano erupting centuries ago, then it was history. Hang it on a wall and it’s art.
‘I love this. Definitely the glitter.’
Salvatore peered carefully at the images, leaning forward before whispering, ‘You know, it’s comforting that nothing much changes, isn’t it? People still have sex the way they always did.’
I followed his gaze, then quietly snorted with laughter, not blushing or ashamed. ‘You know, you’re right. That is comforting. You always worry by the time you get back on the horse, there’ll be an actual horse involved…’
‘Or a goat.’ He laughed and I closed my eyes, shaking my head.
‘Or you have to sign in to an app…’ I added.
‘Or sign something describing your sexual preferences and political leanings beforehand…’
A guard came over, looking bored by our antics, the people around us looking offended as we giggled. He in fact did nothing more than raise an eyebrow and twist his hand over, in a Really? sort of expression.
Salvatore apologized, and reached for me, taking my hand as we walked out from the quiet coolness of history, and into the bustling noise of the present.
* * *
The day passed in a blur. From the huge slices of pizza we ate sitting in the square, drinking wine and making up stories about people as they walked by, to the tower of ice cream also savoured as we perched on the steps. There weren’t many antiques shops – Naples was a living city after all, modern and inhabited by the present. People were more interested in getting by than thinking about history. We judged the shops harshly, joking that they were nothing like ours, that they were lacking in spirit and character and all the other things that made a real antiques shop. The only place that almost fit the bill was a curiosity shop. We didn’t go in, but stood in the doorway, peering into the darkness. It was closed, opening only at strange times, but the toy soldiers and magic tricks told us this was not the place we needed.
‘We haven’t done much to help the shop today,’ I said, leaning back against a sun-warmed wall.
‘That wasn’t the point. Yes, most of the places my nonna bought things have gone, but there’s history everywhere. Besides, today was for you, to thank you.’
‘It’s been wonderful,’ I said, widening my eyes to show I was serious. ‘Really.’
Salvatore looked pleased, but not satisfied, and led me down the street to a bus stop. ‘There is one more place I want to show you,’ he said, jumping onto a bus and gesturing for me to follow.
The bustle and closeness of the bus reminded me of London, of meeting Savvy in Leicester Square in the summer, and how everyone on the Tube smelled like sweat and suntan lotion. We stood close to each other, but too close to talk, so he just watched the scenery pass by and nodded when it was time to get off.
When we jumped off the bus, a huge cathedral stood before us. Beautiful, but they always are. ‘We’re not going in there,’ Salvatore said, leading me to the side. ‘This way.’
‘Where are we?’
‘I’ll let them tell you.’ He grinned, and left me standing a moment, walking to the ticket office and returning a couple of minutes later. ‘Okay, let’s go.’
As we walked under a sign, stating ‘The Catacombs of San Gennaro’, I gave Salvatore a look. He shrugged, and just pointed ahead. We walked down some spiral stone stairs that backed onto people’s homes – wide, wrought iron gates offering glimpses of dusty bikes and washing lines. Two little girls sat on the steps, offering homemade bracelets that glinted in the sun. Salvatore smiled, but still shook his head.
At the bottom of the stairs, a group of tourists stood before a large iron gate. As the staff member opened it, she checked our tickets, and welcomed us into the darkness. Once more, Salvatore’s hand hovered at the small of my back as we descended into the coolness, and my eyes adjusted.
The tour guide smiled. ‘Welcome to the catacombs of San Gennaro, a space used for centuries as a cemetery, church, and even a hospital during the war. On the walls of these caverns you’ll find remnants of paintings from entirely different times, all next to each other, sometimes overlapping. From Greek myths to Catholic symbols, the catacombs have sheltered many different people, and a multitude of miracles.’
I turned to Salvatore and grinned widely. He smiled back, enjoying my enthusiasm, then pointed at the guide. ‘Enjoy.’
The caves weren’t as cool as I had expected, but I hovered close to Salvatore in the dark, his arm brushing against mine. At first, the catacombs seemed a little creepy, but the graves were small – the ones above and around us were like sleeping bunks carved into the walls – and had been emptied long before. I bit back the hundreds of questions I had about their methods and decisions made when it was excavated, my need for specifics and further reading suggestions. It was too easy to become obsessed, but the space felt magical, somehow – holy.
We were in an underground cave, with carved-out areas where people of nobility had been buried, their prestige shown by images of their families painted in the Christian style on the walls, now faded and barely visible. I could imagine how those images would have looked: gold leaf and pure money. After all, when you were dead, what else would tell people how important you were? A fuck-off huge sign above your tomb.
The tour guide led us through, showing us where Saint Gennaro had been buried, speaking of his miracles and how he was celebrated. One of the miracles that had happened after he died was that dried flakes of blood, when brought near his body, turned back into fresh blood.
I looked at Salvatore, then, unable to hold a smile. ‘Miracle? That sounds terrifying!’ I whispered, and he nudged me, trying not to laugh.
‘Just don’t ask all the questions you want to ask,’ he whispered back. ‘Miracles are miracles. You can’t take a good story away from an Italian.’
The tour guide then led us further into the caverns, showing us where the floor had fallen through, revealing more tombs. She pointed to the ceiling in the area that had been a church, and I couldn’t believe it. The ceiling was painted like a typical Italian Christian church: saints with their halos, symbols of Jesus, all smudged and barely visible. But, next to it, were symbols from Greek mythology: Persephone in the underworld with her husband, Hades; the peacock feather of Hera, queen of the gods. They were images from across the years, on the same piece of wall, all revealed by time. This place had withstood centuries of human determination, with only small patches of stone and paint left to tell the story.
Babies had been born in the catacombs during the war, when it was used as a hospital, and I could visualize them as we walked, the beds set up, the screaming red-faced mothers, and the doctors concerned about disease and lack of sunlight.
But by far the most impressive sight was the huge baptism pool in the centre of a circular room where people had been baptized in secret; it was large enough to walk straight into. An ante chamber to the right showed the remains of an altar where services had been held.
It was so much history in one place, so many decades and groups making use of one hallowed location – the ground seemed to vibrate with magic.
An hour and a half later, we emerged into the sunlight. I couldn’t stop talking.
‘Did you see that stone basin? Used for baptisms? And the size of the graves? And can you believe women had their babies in there, when it was a shelter? I mean, it’s incredible!’
Salvatore just grinned, pushing his hair back. ‘I know. Thought you’d like that.’
‘Thank you.’ I squeezed his hand. ‘Really, thank you for today.’
He shrugged. ‘It’s all research. And if it gets me off the island away from my mother and her schemes, even better.’
We ignored the bus this time, simply walking down the hill companionably. ‘You’ll miss those schemes someday.’
‘I know. But for now I want to live my life.’ He shook his head, pulling down his sunglasses. ‘So, what was your favourite part?’
‘I liked what she said about the peacock painting on the wall, the symbol of Hera or Juno. It’s almost too obvious that symbol would be in a cemetery, isn’t it?’
He laughed. ‘Is it?’
‘Oh, right.’ I shook my head. ‘Peacocks are symbols of rebirth; at least, they were to Hera. I’m not so sure about the Roman version, Juno, but Hera was vengeful, a strong queen of the g
ods, who commanded fear and respect, but still couldn’t stop her husband shagging everything in sight. I think in one story he even turned into a bull to snare a girl.’
Salvatore made a face, ‘I know Juno had two faces, one for the year gone, and one for the year ahead. Like January?’
‘Uh-huh, and the peacock feathers fit in too. So peacocks, in the modern day, are mainly about being pretty, and the boy ones are pretty whilst the peahens are dull and drab.’ I took a sip from my water bottle. ‘But really, they shed their beautiful plumage. That’s how we’ve ended up with those beautiful feathers in ornaments, each year – those tail feathers fall off and grow anew.’
‘So whoever painted that was hoping for some sort of rebirth for their dead loved one?’
‘Maybe.’ I nodded. ‘Rebirth is in nature, it’s everywhere. The changing of the seasons, dying and starting over.’
I stopped for a moment, trying to think about Dad in those terms. But I didn’t believe in a god, not really. I wasn’t as certain as all these people that we would meet our loved ones in the afterlife, all dressed in white, sitting on a cloud sipping pina coladas. I didn’t really believe in rebirth either, although there were a fair few people I wanted to see come back in their next life as a toad.
‘Do you believe in God?’ I asked Salvatore suddenly.
‘Sure.’
‘Sure? That’s it? Sure?’
‘What do you want, some big explanation of why I think something?’ He laughed. ‘You asked if I do, and I do.’
‘So all the fire, brimstone, hell, all that?’ I raised an eyebrow.
He sighed and shook his head. ‘Look, I believe that going with my mother to church on Easter Sunday makes her happy, and safe. I believe that being part of an Italian Catholic community in the States was the only thing that made me feel not so alone.’ He smiled at me, ‘And, yeah, I like the idea that one day, I get to see my family again. And that there’s a sense of justice in the world. That someone’s looking after it all, when it looks like it’s going to shit.’