Читать книгу A House in Naples - Peter Rabe - Страница 5

THE WARM PALM of land cupped the water to make a bay, and that’s where Naples was.

He stood high up watching the view run down the side of the hill. Then he pushed away from the garden wall and walked again. He was in the outskirts where Naples was like a village, quiet because the day had just started. When he came to the square he stopped again. It had a downhill tilt and he tried not to look at it but focused on the opposite street. He wiped one hand across his face. The tanned skin was moist and the sun made his cheekbones shine. He crossed slowly and on the other side he stopped again. Leaning against the cold stone wall along the small street he looked like a man who had a lot of time. His face was in shadow now and didn’t look so sharp any more. The high cheekbones were without the sharp lines and he relaxed his mouth. There was a curve to it, like a smile. It was there whether he smiled or not.

A young woman turned into the street. She carried a bundle on top of her head and he watched how her big peasant skirt made swirls when she walked.

“Buon giorno, Charley,” she said, and the way she pronounced it the name sounded Italian.

He said buon giorno and nodded. Then he walked again. When the street dipped a little he saw the steps leading up to the white house. First the steps went one way, twelve of them, then came the landing and the steps went the other way, thirteen of them. Most of the house was behind unkempt bushes.

After the first twelve steps he stopped on the landing without looking down at the view. Thirteen more steps. He grabbed the stone ramp hard and walked. Where he had left the landing the flagstone had five spots. The blood was dark and thick.

After a while he made the top. He walked through the disordered garden, found the side entrance. The wooden door stood open and he walked into the kitchen. The low room was cool stucco and looked dark after the sun.

A pine table stood in the middle and Joe Lenken sat there the way he always sat. His big arms lay on the table.

“Kinda early for visiting,” he said. He looked sullen, not caring how he sounded.

“How come you’re up?” Charley looked at Joe behind the table, then at the dark girl who stood by the cold hearth. There was a hot plate on the hearth and the girl was dumping a can of tomato soup into the pot.

“I woke up,” said Joe.

Charley kept standing, not wanting to sit because he thought maybe he’d stumble if he took another step. He had his hands in his pockets. It made his seersuckers look like a bag.

“A new one?” said Charley and nodded at the girl.

“Ya.”

She came up with the warm tomato soup and put it down in front of Joe. She was young. It was hard to tell just how young she was because her body was all filled out, but the face looked like a dumb child.

“She speak English?”

“A little.”

“Tell her to get me some aspirin,” Charley said, and then he blinked because sweat had run into his eye. He wiped his forehead and it made the hair moist. Cut short, it stood out like feathers, colored dusty, because he had a funny mixture of red-brown and white hair.

The girl brought aspirin in a box and a glass of water. Charley took four pills, put them behind his lip, didn’t take the water. He sucked the sharp pills, waiting for the sting to run down his throat, and then he held on to the back of the chair and sat down.

“You sick?” Joe was slurping soup. His thick face was red from the sun because he had the kind of complexion that never tanned. He licked his lip where some soup was and then he asked again. “You sick or something?”

The aspirin was an Italian kind and very cheap. Charley liked them best because they took so long to dissolve.

“I got shot,” he said. “Over the hip.”

“That why you come busting in here at dawn?”

“I couldn’t make it to my place.” Charley was sweating again. “The ball’s still in there, I think.”

“Stupid bastard.”

“My buddy,” said Charley. His foot came up slow and he kicked his end of the table. It slopped Joe’s soup. “Take it out, Joe. Like a buddy, huh?” and this time he kicked the table so the bowl jumped to the floor.

Joe got up. He didn’t wipe the soup off his pants, just got up and left the kitchen. He said “stupid bastard” once more. When he came back he had a carton with bottles and bandages. There were some instruments too.

“Get on the table,” he said and sorted out the stuff in his box.

Charley got on the table and groaned.

“Take the pants off.”

“You gotta give me a hand.”

“Fanny,” said Joe. “Take ’em off.”

Her name was Francesca, but that was too much to pronounce for Joe Lenken.

“I guess it’s all right,” said Charley. “Seeing you’re in the room.”

“What a clown,” said Joe, and while Francesca pulled Charley’s pants off Joe poured alcohol over some instruments in a dish. Francesca took the pants, the shorts, and then she came back to look at the wound. It was a red hole in the flesh over the hip and there was blood all the way down the leg.

“She’s a real trouper,” said Charley. He felt sweaty and sick but he had to say something so it wouldn’t feel worse. “How’d she get that way, Joe buddy? You didn’t have her when I left. Just a week ago.”

“I learn ’em fast,” said Joe. He washed alcohol over his hands and rubbed them. “Wanna shot before I start?”

“Go to hell,” said Charley.

Joe laughed because this was his kind of joke. Charley never took whisky. It made him sick.

“So be brave,” said Joe and then he went to work.

Charley fainted right off which was a good thing because his buddy Joe didn’t give a damn one way or the other.