Children of The Sun

by Jonathan Green

  With the girls, the corruption works more slowly, if no less surely. Their childhood passes quickly, almost unnoticed. These years are spent in a round of domestic duties. They are close to their mother. They understand that this is a woman’s life. If they laugh little and forget how to play like other girls, that, too, is normal and a thing not too much regretted.

  It is when they reach the prickly, uncertain years of adolescence that the trouble begins. The warm propinquity of the marriage bed teaches them early the facts of life, while the tradition of honourable womanhood keeps them from any contact with young men of their own age, except the few who are admitted to the household as possible suitors and who must preserve always a rigid decorum.

  Their young dreams begin to be centred on marriage with a good steady boy—a man who has work. It is one of the most pathetic things about this people. For them the good land is one where there is work and bread. They could not believe it when I told them I came from a place where there were more jobs than men.

  Now the promiscuity of the family life begins to affect the maturing girl. Her first sexual contact is probably with an elder brother. It may not proceed to the act, though this is often the case. It is her only chance of sexual experiment without branding herself a dishonest woman.

  Both the male and the female are inhibited by the abnormal conditions of their communal life and sometimes the secret contact becomes a habit. Even if it does not, however, there is left a deep sense of guilt, accentuated by their Catholic belief, and this guilt-sense has often worse consequences than sexual experiment outside the family. The spring is poisoned. The single secure unit begins to disintegrate and the girl or the youth is defenceless in the jungle of the bassi.

  All this and more was explained to me by Peppino on one of our nightly jaunts. We had eaten pasta with one family and were on our way to the house of another where there was to be a reunion with music and possibly a little dancing. I led the talk round to girls and sex. Peppino put it bluntly:

  “Consider, Mauro, what is the case with me. I have learnt from Padre Borrelli that there is no profit in a bad life or in a dirty one. But could I, at my age, live and sleep in a room with my sister when her breasts have grown and she begins to look like other women? If I am not to touch her, then I must find another woman to calm me. That means the back streets or the casino. Either way it is bad for me. The other way it is bad for her, also.”

  “But, Peppino, suppose—as it must often happen—your sister or a girl like your sister cannot find a good husband or an honourable marriage. Does she not have desires as you do?”

  “Sicuro!” Peppino nodded, earnestly. “Our women are warm, too. If they cannot marry, then——” He shrugged. “It is the streets for them, or a man who will care for them even if he will not marry them, or the closed house or the house of appointment.”

  As we were talking, we were walking along a narrow dark lane which gave on to a small square in which was an old Spanish church. Just ahead of us one of the doors opened and a girl stepped out. As she stood a moment in the pool of light and turned back to say her farewells, I was surprised to see that she was well and fashionably dressed in a grey suit, with tan shoes and nylon stockings. She carried a modish handbag and wore a tweed coat of fashionable cut thrown over her shoulders. We slowed down to let her walk ahead of us, and I questioned Peppino:

  “That one, for instance? She lives in this alley. Her family”—I nodded at the doorway as we came abreast of it—“her family looks like any other. How does she dress so well and go out alone at this hour?”

  Peppino made an expressive gesture.

  “Perhaps she is like our little functionary. She has a job in a club or a restaurant or an hotel which requires her to be well-dressed. Perhaps all her family are in work—father, brothers—and they can afford to dress her. Perhaps she is not a good girl at all and has a room in the city where she takes men. Perhaps she is on call for a casa d’appuntamento. There are so many possible reasons. The only way to find out the true one is to ask the girl herself.”

  I didn’t think there would be much profit in that. I told him so. I was more interested to find the answer to another question.

  “Suppose, Peppino, that she is a girl who works the streets or the casa d’appuntamento. She still lives with her family. What then becomes of this honour of Naples, this care for the virtue of your womenfolk?”

  Peppino looked at me sharply as if afraid that I was laughing at him. When he saw that I was deadly serious, he replied:

  “There comes a moment, Mauro, in any family, when neither father nor brothers can control a woman. Perhaps there is so much need that they are grateful for what she brings and do not care to ask how she gets it. If it were your family, if you were workless and you lived, as the Neapolitans say, ‘on the shoulders of your daughter’, would you have the right or the courage to question what she did?”

  I agreed that I probably wouldn’t. I knew too many fathers who couldn’t control their daughters even with a Jaguar and a private allowance. Who was I to judge the morals of Naples? I had the answer I wanted. I had followed the life cycle of a girl from the back streets. It led either to marriage or an unhappy substitute. Either way there was little hope in it.

  In Italy today there are between two and three million women living by prostitution.

  This is the figure given by Senator Lina Merlin, Italy’s only woman legislator and sponsor of the new law, still battling its way through the Chamber, to close the brothels which operate under Government licence. The Senator claims that Naples is one of the three world centres for the white slave traffic and that operations here are directed by Lucky Luciano, gangster exportee from the United States.

  It was my intention to include in this book a study of the operations of this traffic in Naples and the Mezzogiorno. The basic facts were easy to come by. The houses were open and were doing a roaring trade. Any hotel concierge or tourist tout would give you the address or telephone number of the houses on the Vomero where the call-girls operated. You would be shown a set of photographs and the girl who pleased you would be at your disposal in half an hour. From the scugnizzi I learned how they themselves touted for the girls and for the houses and were frequently recompensed in kind. In a city where girls can’t marry because young men can’t get jobs, the work of the recruiters is ridiculously easy.

  But when I came to dig deeper, I found that I was being headed off at every corner. As an independent investigator, I found myself blocked by police and public officials. Italian journalists told me that they themselves were debarred from any enquiries into the trade. There were too many interests involved, too many houses being operated under dummy names by very respectable citizens.

  Finally, a discreet friend in the police department pointed out that as a private individual, without the protection of an international news organisation, I might well end up in a dark alley with my throat cut. This I could readily believe. My scugnizzi friends had given me the same warning in different terms. Senator Merlin herself claimed threats against her life by the drug-and-dame cartels.

  Reluctantly, I gave up the idea. But I had learnt enough to be able to write with truth and conviction this grim postscript to the story of the little girls of Naples.

  The Italian Government admits that there are two million workless in this country. Take Lina Merlin’s lowest figure and say there are two million prostitutes, many of them in closed houses operated under licence from the same Government. The two facts are directly related.

  Poor men cannot marry. Poor girls cannot eat.

  The pale-eyed pimps pick their teeth at the casino doors and make profit from both of them.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ONE NIGHT, Peppino suggested that we go to the cinema. There was a good film showing. It was called Il Kentuckiano and the star was a famous American called ‘Boort Lahncaster’.

  Let me admit quite frankly that I love horse-operas and I can eat through a bag of popcorn as happily
as any kid, while the Indians howl and the stunt men tumble in the dust. But Boort Lahncaster with long hair and an Italian accent was too much even for my juvenile tastes. I begged Peppino to suggest another entertainment—a rivista, perhaps, or even a puppet show.

  He shook his head. This film was something special. The place was special too—the Sala Roma. It was one of the meeting-places of the street boys and the others who did business with them. I wanted to study them, didn’t I? I wanted to see what Naples did to them and how they acted after they left home and joined the scugnizzi? Ebbene! I must go to the Sala Roma. Besides, one of the boys there was a friend of his. I could get his story from his own lips.

  We went to the Sala Roma.

  It was like most Neapolitan film houses, a seedy-looking place with a dim foyer and garish posters. Boort Lahncaster was there, too, complete with deerskins and property wig and frontier rifle and a wolfish grin. My heart sank. Peppino grinned at my discomfiture and went up to buy the tickets. I stood outside and watched the patrons filtering in and the small knots of youths and boys strung along the pavement.

  Most of them were shabby, as I was, but some of them were well-dressed in the current Neapolitan style, with short, tight coats and stovepipe trousers and bright ties and soft-pointed shoes, meticulously polished.

  They were smooth-shaven and their hair was shining with grease, and I caught the whiff of lavender water and the profuse perfumery beloved of Italian barbers. I leaned against the wall and lit a cigarette and watched them.

  They spoke loudly and volubly in high piping voices. Their gestures were wide and studied. Sometimes they would pat the faces of the younger ones or put an affectionate arm round their shoulders and whisper confidentially close to their cheeks. When they walked it was with the willowy self-conscious grace of young girls.

  Then I knew who they were. These were the femmenelle—the odd ones. You will find them in every big city of the world, and in every city there are places where they congregate. The Sala Roma was such a place. I understood why Peppino had brought me here. He wanted me to see the end product of poverty, the shabby demi-monde in which the commerce of the streets is carried on, into which drift, finally and inevitably, the children of the slums.

  The commerce varies: smuggling, pilfering, selling old clothes and German sun-glasses, touting telephone numbers, carrying packages of drugs from one Italian city to another. But the atmosphere is always the same—prostitution, perversion, dignity destroyed, a monstrous masquerade of spoiled humanity.

  Peppino came out of the foyer and stood beside me. He jerked a furtive thumb towards one of the groups.

  “That’s my friend. Wait here. I’ll have to talk to him first. This is business hours. I don’t want to spoil anything.”

  I grunted agreement and watched him move away. It seemed to me that a change had come over him, that he was like an actor stepping out from the wings into the spotlight. He looked like one of those he was going to meet. He had the same attitude of cocky assurance and conspiratorial secrecy that characterises the Neapolitan guappo.

  When he reached the group, he was greeted coolly enough. Only one of them, a weedy youth in a bright sun-shirt, showed him any cordiality. Peppino drew him aside and began a low, voluble conversation punctuated by gestures.

  Peppino jerked a thumb in my direction. I looked away and tried to appear unconcerned, but from the corner of my eye I saw the other lad studying me carefully. Then he nodded, as if agreeing to Peppino’s proposition. Peppino put a hand on his arm to lead him over to me; but he wasn’t ready to come. He looked down the street in the opposite direction. He laid one finger on his nose and looked cunning. He jerked his head towards the foyer and rubbed his fingers together in the gesture that said ‘money’. Then Peppino nodded and walked back to me.

  “What was all that about?” I asked.

  Peppino explained quickly.

  “My friend is quite willing to talk to you. But first he has to meet someone”—he spat contemptuously—“a pederasta like these others. They have business together. Something about cigarettes. He says we should go into the film and he will meet us here when it is over. Then he will tell you all you want to know. He has a good story. D’accordo?”

  “D’accordo.”

  I was stuck with Boort Lahncaster. Nothing to do but make the best of it. The film was dull and the Italian dialogue made it duller. The theatre was dusty and full of cigarette smoke. Beside me a fat fellow snored spasmodically and belched garlic. In front a youth with greasy hair fumbled a girl as wide as a house-front. Peppino sat entranced through the whole boring melodrama.

  When we came out, the little groups had dispersed and a chill wind was blowing papers along the dusty sidewalk. The boy in the flowered shirt was waiting for us. Peppino introduced us. Mauro West from Australia and Enzo Malinconico from Naples. Enzo suggested that we go to a bar. I said I would prefer to go to his place. He darted a quick glance at me, and Peppino explained hastily that Enzo lived in the apartment of a friend. His friend would be fastidious about being disturbed so late.

  I can take a hint as well as the next man. I suggested a wine shop. Enzo suggested a kitchen. He was hungry. He had been working late. Ebbene, we would go to a kitchen.

  We settled ourselves in a private corner. I indicated that I was the host. Peppino and Enzo ordered pizza. I contented myself with a glass of wine. While we waited for the pizza, Enzo began to talk. While he talked I watched him.

  He was a small, narrow-faced boy with dark skin like an Arab’s. His hair was straight and black and brushed backwards, flat against his scalp. He wore a black silk scarf under the flowered shirt. His hands were small and delicate, but the nails were broken and dirty. On the left hand he wore a large gold ring with a square zircon. When he wasn’t talking, he was polishing this ring on the front of his shirt. Peppino told me later he was sixteen years of age. His eyes were twenty years older.

  Peppino asked him how the business of the evening had gone Enzo went off into peals of laughter which ended in a spate of dialect. Peppino explained that Enzo had brought off a marvellous combinazione.

  The other party was a pederasta, in fact the friend with whom he lived. This pederasta was the contact man for a group of smugglers. Tonight he had brought a consignment of three cartons of American king-size cigarettes to be sold by Enzo in the alleys off the Mercato.

  Dutifully Enzo had gone off with the three cartons. Arrived at the Piazza Mercato, he had unloaded the cartons to another friend for 5000 lire. It was below the market price, but Enzo didn’t mind. Everyone had to make a small profit otherwise nobody would stay in business.

  I asked, innocently, what his friend thought of the deal.

  Enzo laughed again and Peppino explained that this was just where the ‘combination’ was made.

  Enzo had returned to his pederasta friend and explained with trembling fear that he had been stopped by the police and that the cigarettes had been confiscated. The friend was angry but there was nothing to be done. It was one of the risks of the trade.

  So far, so good. Enzo was 5000 lire in pocket. But he was not yet content. He was a clever fellow. He knew that the pederasta was afraid of the police, for many reasons. So he embellished the story. The police had asked him where he got the cigarettes. He said he had bought them from a man in the street. The police were not satisfied. Who could blame them? They had taken Enzo’s name and address. Tomorrow he must appear at the questura for interrogation.

  The pederasta was terrified. He had to be sure that Enzo would not implicate him. Enzo didn’t want to implicate him, but the police were apt to be rough with scugnizzi, and even rougher with smuggling contacts. Enzo could take a certain amount of mishandling, but—again the familiar gesture—he would require some compensation for the trouble. The pederasta came through with 20,000.

  Net profit to date—25,000.

  Enzo and Peppino laughed again. I laughed, too. I needed the story. I had to pay with my small quota of applau
se. But there was more to come. The pederasta was a passionate fellow. He needed comfort. When he was frightened, he needed it more. These types were like women, Capisce?

  Capito! Naturally, Enzo was prepared to comfort his friend, but tonight he was tired. More than that, he was becoming fastidious. This association with an odd one was beginning to worry him. He did not feel happy any more. It took another 10,000 to re-establish his peace of mind.

  Net profit on the evening, 35,000 lire. Bella combinazione, non è vero?

  Beautiful indeed. A comedy. I laughed dutifully. All the time I wanted to cry or heave my heart out in a quiet corner. I am a normal fellow with normal lusts; but I felt sorry for the slim, girlish invert, preyed on by the cold-eyed, calculating urchins of Naples. The girls were better off. The urchins brought them profit and were paid a reasonable percentage. But the odd ones whom God had made a little more than women, a little less than men, must pay and pay until they, too, were forced to sell themselves like the girls in the closed houses.

  There was another side to the argument, of course. Not all the urchins were as knowing as Enzo. Not all were as old in years or in experience. Upon these the pederasti preyed in their turn, stripping them of the last shreds of innocence, turning them to darker trades yet and blackmailing them with the fear of the police and the fear of ridicule among their companions. In this shadowy, subhuman world, who was I to sit in judgment and say this one deserved pity and that a rigorous damnation?

  Besides, this was no time for judgment. Little by little, with careful flattery, Peppino was drawing from Enzo the story of his life. I listened, spellbound. The story of Enzo Malinconico was the story of a thousand other urchins. The tragedy of it was the tragedy of all the nameless, numberless waifs who are known as the scugnizzi—the spinning tops—the wild, tormented boy-children of Naples.

  Enzo Malinconico was the second son of a baker who lived just north of the Via Teresa. His father was old and hard-working, his mother was young: a not uncommon combination in the Mezzogiorno, where often the old ones are the only suitors who can afford to get married. When Enzo was ten, his mother took a lover. Before he was eleven, his father found out, went crazy with jealousy and committed suicide by burning himself in his own oven. Of his father, Enzo spoke with indifference. Whenever he mentioned his mother, he spat and called her puttana, which in Italy is a very dirty word indeed.