Vacation in Naples

I.-2

He pressed the elevator button and when he got in, he seriously considered scrawling a heart with their initials on the elevator wall while he rode down the nine flights. But of course he just stood motionless until he reached the ground floor. He walked down the three steps to the front door and stood around outside for a little while longer. Maybe he would spot her. But after a while, he got in his car and slowly rolled out of the parking lot. Even as he turned onto Szentendrei Road, he couldn’t stop thinking about Niki. He would have liked to bring her flowers, but he suspected that she probably would have thrown him out, along with the bouquet. They’d had a flower–tossing incident in the past… and right know András had no idea where their relationship stood. Was there any way back to a relationship with her? Actually, he had no idea why she’d broken up with him in the first place. Her explanation was unclear, and so was the possibility of getting back together. Niki’s behavior was incomprehensible, so he tried to think like her. He was usually good at this when it came to other people, but when the subject was Niki, he rammed straight into a wall. And now he had no idea where she was. Had she even returned, or had she missed her flight? Or did she find something out in the world that she had to investigate and write about? She’d given him enough assignments by way of her last series of articles, and András was reminded not only of Verbovszky, but the other well–known individuals, politicians among them, who had become victims of blackmail because of their association with prostitutes. Niki had shed light on this business by writing about it, even without using any names. András thought it probably hadn’t been a good idea to have himself transferred to the Internal Affairs Bureau. He often wondered if there could be another way of life for him. He could accept the job he’d been offered abroad, where he might be able to improve his skills… Of course, the best idea would be to just go back to being a “simple” detective, but he had a million reasons not to. And even if he could ignore those million reasons, there was one big reason he could not overlook. It was the one he had to face.

* * *

He crossed the street. He loved this city, it’s colors, the smells, and he liked the salty mist in the air as it hovered over the city in the morning. He enjoyed the climate even now, in winter, when you didn’t need heavy, warm coats, just a jacket or maybe a transitional coat, but he liked the city in summer too. He didn’t understand how he could have left this place. How had he been able to live in Rome for years? The capital had not found its way into his heart. Compared to Naples, Rome was much too structured for his taste. The pizza there was worse, there were fewer smiles on faces, and the place as a whole was somehow so… elderly. Venice was different. He almost felt at home there, but Naples was special … Naples was young, chaotic, colorful, smelly, and humid. In sum, it was much, much better. Was it a sign of aging if he looked back with nostalgia on the city where he had grown up? Was he already old and nostalgic as his thirty–fourth birthday crept up on him?

He hadn’t visited his hometown of Naples for a long time. He was curious to hear what his father had to say. Their long–distance relationship worked fine, but their emotional ties had long since been broken. He’d had to break away from his father. He’d felt smothered by him, not so much his person, but by his character, and well, there was always that old incident hanging over their heads… Breathing in the old scent, or rather, the smell of Naples, the humidity settling upon the city as Giacomo walked along the Corseo Vittorio Emanuele, the scent of coffee wafting in his direction, his nose suddenly told him he was home. He took a long walk. He wanted to feel, to experience the Naples of old times, when his whole life had been here. He suddenly changed course, dashed across the street, and looked down over the cliff, at the sea. He studied the view (everything was just as incredibly amazing as it used to be) and walked into a café. He drank an espresso surrounded by two university students, two garbage men, and a few office workers. This was part of Naples too. It was a place where you didn’t have to pretend you were someone else.

Giacomo was finally back, and for a moment he toyed with the idea that this wasn’t just a visit; he was home for good.

But then he roused himself. He knew there was no point in allowing silly nostalgic thoughts to take hold of his mind. That would be wasting time. Now that he’d started down the path he’d chosen for himself, he would walk to the end, and it was a road that diverged from his father’s path. The tailoring business wasn’t a career option for him in the long run. Sure, he was interested in learning why his father had called him here so urgently, but he’d find out soon enough. Only a few more hours, and he’d know.

* * *

“No. I don’t know what to say,” sighed Niki, and realized she was gripping the phone so hard, her fingers were going numb.

“This isn’t about you,” said her father.

“Well, thank God for that,” she exclaimed, but then continued in a more conciliatory tone. “I’m not a little kid anymore to think that it’s my fault. Did you know that up to the age of five, children believe that they are to blame for their parents’ divorce? It’s because of ‘magical thinking,’” she explained, repeating what she’d heard from a psychologist while researching an article.

She mentioned this because she wanted to keep out of the situation rather than be drawn into it. This was her parents’ business, even if it did concern her. Even if it did break her heart. She’d recently arrived home, well–rested after a Caribbean cruise where… she’d had an unusual experience that made her believe that she could have better control over things in her own life. And now she had to worry about her parents instead. She felt anger and sadness, but didn’t want to be judgmental. And she had no intention of carrying around the burden that her parents had unintentionally put on her shoulders.

“I don’t know what ‘magical thinking’ is, but I wish you’d try and understand me.”

“I’m trying. You fell in love with someone else and left Mom. The end.”

“Would you please hear me out?”

Niki was silent.

“I don’t expect you to take sides. Especially not mine.”

“Why do I have the feeling that I’m about to hear the speech that goes: ‘take care of your mother, pamper her a bit, and don’t get upset if she has a meltdown’?”

“I understand your anger…”

“Really?”

“…and bitterness… But this is my life. And it was a decision I had to make.”

“Okay. I understand. Look… I have to go now.”

“Call me when you have time. We could meet up.”

“Fine.”

She was still rather irate when she walked into the editorial office of Mademoiselle. She bumped right into Anna, the editor–in–chief, who was, as ever, looking like she’d stepped straight off the page of her own magazine. Her hair was blow–dried to perfection; she wore skinny jeans and a loose–fitting, beige sweater, casually gathered near her hips by a wide belt. Her flat, black, ankle boots narrowed at the top, and she’d folded back the edge to reveal the red and green stripe. It was the faintest hint of a label, but it was enough for the trained eye. Niki wasn’t too crazy about fashion and wouldn’t have been able to afford brand names from her freelance journalist wages anyway, but noted Anna’s style with recognition. Niki thought about her own style: yet again, she was dressed like a boy, in biker boots, black jeans, and a thick leather jacket, though she hadn’t even ridden her motor scooter to work today, the weather was so dreadful. She had a hard time dealing with January weather, especially because only a week ago she had been enjoying a Caribbean summer. She had Anna to thank for the trip, who had sent her off on the cruise to do an assignment, which had truly been a reward, a Christmas gift, no matter how you looked at it.

“Well? How was it? Let me look at you. You’re so tan,” said Anna, stepping closer. “Did you just come from a motorcycle gang meeting?”

“Naw. I just couldn’t find any other boots. I’ve got a pair of purple Docs, but I voted against them…”

“How come?” smiled the editor–in–chief teasingly. “It’s good to see you. Csilla just called. She’s home with a fever, and we need someone to take her place and do an interview with Luca Lengyel at her photo shoot today.”

“Who’s Luca Lengyel?”

“She a model. Actually, an ex–model. She’s young, but had an interesting life,” Anna explained. “She lives in London now and will be in Hungary for three days. She’s given us exclusive interview rights. So would you be so kind as to shuffle over to the studio and… She’s only got time to talk now, after the photo shoot. Do you have a recording device on you?”

“Oh, come on…”

“Yes, I know, but this is a trend magazine. We need Luca Lengyel. I think you’ll find her quite pleasant.”

“Luca Lengyel: A simple country girl from a poor family. A photographer discovered her by chance on the street. She had an anorexic phase and was about to make it big at seventeen when she realized there’s more to life than this, and now she’s a ‘chubby,’ 112–pound, six foot–tall supermodel. Her mission is to increase teen awareness about the dangers and possibly life–threatening consequences of starving yourself. She commutes between Milan, Paris, and Tokyo, tries to eat a nutritious diet, but unfortunately, can’t always manage during the fast–paced life of castings and photo shoots. Another drawback is that she has no significant other in her life, for who could ever tolerate her lifestyle and a long–distance relationship? So Mom is her best friend. Her only loyal companion is her little dog, who unfortunately can’t be here today. Her long–term goals include an acting career, and is hoping someone will discover her talent; she’s willing to start from the lowest rung of the ladder. She’d even be a set extra, because she knows the meaning of professional humility. Her favorite designer is Lagerfeld, but she doesn’t wear brand names on a day–to–day basis. Sometimes she just throws on a colorful scarf bought for small change from a street vendor: it’s the best way to complement a summer outfit. She always donates the designer clothes she gets for free to fund–raising auctions.”

Niki rattled off her speech with a wooden expression and hoped she’d mentioned all the topics she usually heard at interviews with models.

“I don’t think I need a recording device,” she added quickly. “I think I can memorize the answers.”

“You seem a bit biased. Cynical, even. Maybe it’s your PR Manager past…”

“Boring marketing lines,” nodded Niki. “For added flair, we could add a father who left the mother when she was just a child,” Niki continued, thinking about her own father for a moment, but then she felt ashamed.

“Well, listen to her story anyway. And I suggest you get yourself a recording device. You can pick one up in the editorial office…”

“I do reporting much better than I do interviews,” Niki said, trying to weasel her way out of the assignment.

“You’ll do a great job. Just go with it.”

“What about the morning meeting?”

“You are excused from attendance. We’ll talk about what you’ll be writing in the next issue later.”

Damnit to hell, she thought. There wasn’t anything she wanted to do less than this interview. And that model chick would surely make her re–write the interview a thousand times, saying: “No, I didn’t actually mean that I don’t have a significant other. It wouldn’t be true, at least not in a certain sense, and make sure you delete the part about how I don’t have time to eat and how modeling is a cruel world. I know it’s what I said, sure, but we can skip the clichés everyone knows already. Instead, write down how I help people with diabetes and gout. I’m supporting them in a campaign. This is very important. It’s why I agreed to the interview in the first place. And don’t include the part about how I share an apartment with another girl in Tokyo, because people will think I’m a lesbian, and anyway, we don’t share it, we just live together, otherwise there’s not a single person on this planet I could talk to, but this is between us. I’m telling you as a friend, you understand. But don’t write that down because I know how people start speculating. And let’s not mention Lagerfeld on his own like that. I recently participated in a Vera Wang show, and she’s my favorite designer too, and if I get married someday, I want her to design my wedding dress, but don’t you dare write that down in the interview because people will think I can afford to pay millions for a dress. Just write Vera Wang, okay? And maybe Donna Karan, so they’ll see I support female designers, and oh, let’s not forget about Donatella either then!”