Vacation in Naples

I.-4

“Who do you mean?”

“Helen Schmidt. She’s lives in London too. I’ll bet she could certainly tell us a thing or two. She’s the poster girl for Women Against Anorexia, but she hardly ever appears in public anymore.”

“Didn’t she just have twins? And she was the one who hired a surrogate mother to carry her first child, right?”

“Yes. And she’s got a history of E.D. from when she was still a model.”

“Well, I guess a glossy really can sometimes focus on important topics too.”

The words slipped carelessly from Niki’s mouth. She tried to smile apologetically. Why was she constantly flapping her tongue without thinking? But Anna was already focused on topics for the next issue. Niki tried to listen, but her mind kept wandering back to the article about the dogs. Where could they be now? Hungarian breeders were probably in on the affair too. But where could the Italian headquarters be? Had they really been smuggled out of the country because of their fur? Suddenly, nothing else interested her. She wished she knew more. All she wanted was to research this topic and write about it.

An hour later, all the data had been jotted down on her notepad. Fifty–six dogs, mixed–breed and purebreds alike, all with phony pedigrees, had been on their way to Italy, but had been detained near Naples. By that time, the dogs – forty–eight puppies and eight adults altogether – were in pretty bad shape. They had received neither food nor water during the journey. The driver, his partner, and their suspected Italian accomplices were being held for questioning. Their intended destination had been Naples. Investigations were still going on, but only the driver and his companion were in custody at the moment. Officials were still trying to figure out how the dogs ended up in the truck. Presumably, they had been abducted and need to be returned to their former owners as soon as possible. The dogs were presently at an Italian animal shelter, waiting for authorities to sort things out.

Niki quickly set out to organize her own investigation, making phone calls and writing emails to the editor–in–chief of the internet news site, posting a notice to her friends on f*******: to ask if anyone had any dogs that had recently gone missing. Thus occupied, she felt no hunger, no thirst.

In the meantime, she’d forgotten to call András, didn’t call Fanni, or ring her father back… or her mother. It was getting dark by the time she finished everything. A sudden thought hit her like a brick: was she only burying herself in work so she wouldn’t have to deal with her own life?

Tomorrow. She would start sweeping up the mess of her life tomorrow. Carol Santos would approve of waiting another day.

* * *

“I’d like you to come back into the business.”

His father certainly didn’t beat around the bush. He embraced Giacomo awkwardly, offered him coffee and fresh lemonade, had a warm croissant brought in from the corner café, and sat down across from his son. He wore green, fitted jeans, blue shoes, and a light blue shirt. His hair was thinning a little, but not too bad, and he was clearly in good health. After all, he was still only fifty–six years old, strong and handsome. Giacomo felt the blood drain from his face. While his father seemed strong and ready for anything, he felt all his power being sucked clear out of him.

“I…” he began, then cleared his voice and took a sip of his lemonade. His taste buds stood at attention from the tartness of the Sorrento lemon, a flavor unlike any other, tangy, yet a touch sweeter than other lemons. “I already have a new life elsewhere.”

“I don’t want to interfere, but you once had great talent, and yet you’ve taken another path. I know you have a knack for numbers, but you could put your abilities to good use here too. And… it would be a little change of pace.”

“I don’t need a change.”

“Living near Rome, then going up north… Naples is your home. You’re a Neapolitan boy.”

“I’ve made my choice.”

“You wanted to run away. I understand. You wanted to prove something to yourself. And to me.”

Giacomo remained silent. His father continued.

“You wouldn’t just be an employee here. You would be co–owner. My partner. The Grotti legacy would be yours.”

“Your offer surprises me, father,” Giacomo said, forcing the words out. “I understand that you’ve expanded your workshop and that the tailoring business is going great… but… this isn’t my world anymore.”

“No? That’s very interesting,” his father said, looking at him with a piercing gaze.

Silence. The seconds crept by. They heard a boy out on the street shout to his girlfriend to meet him at four at Piazza Garibaldi.

“I’m not interested anymore… not more than anyone else,” Giacomo answered.

His father sized him up, scrutinizing his appearance. Giacomo knew quite well what his father was looking at, so instead, he turned his head and stared out the window. The older man was checking every detail, he knew this for sure. And what did he see? A pair of Car Shoe brand beige moccasins combined with green leather laces. He never lowered his standards when it came to shoes, though he tried really hard, wearing Ash brand shoes for a while, but his father had taught him good taste which he couldn’t shake. What kind of shoes was his father wearing, he wondered. He could have sworn, without even looking, that he was in a pair of Berluti loafers, at the very least. He cast a sidelong glance down, but couldn’t tell. He felt very ashamed. He should have given up the habit of looking at people’s shoes long ago. What else could his father be looking at? A regular pair of jeans. He’d chosen this pair expressly, pulling it from the bottom of his closet. It was a simple item, DSquared2, nothing fancy. He was also wearing a medium blue turtleneck and a coat, of course. The coat was conservative. Actually, he hadn’t worn it for years. It was a simple, quilted, loose–fitting dark–blue, short coat. He shouldn’t have worn the turtleneck. It was a Zegna knit sweater with a funky diamond pattern running along the chest. But his father had a good eye. The older man studied his face too, which wasn’t stubbly and hadn’t been for a long time. His black hair looked like it had been carefully styled with gel, though he never used any product besides shampoo. It had been tousled by the wind, yet this wind–blown look seemed neat all the same, or at least his father probably thought so. He thought that at least his watch, the Nautica with the black face, the watch band made of red rubber, was a good choice. Not too expensive, but still fashionable, youthful, and sporty. It wasn’t a watch a picky fashionista would wear.

“I suppose you only wore this coat, the jeans, and this watch for my sake,” his father said, and Giacomo could have sworn his father’s eyes were smiling. “But you can’t fool me. Clearly, you took off your Corum, so maybe I’d buy into what you wanted me to believe. But it didn’t work. I know what I know. It’s me you need… we need,” he added after slight hesitation.

Giacomo was silent.

“I know your firm is a success,” his father continued. “People always need reliable financial consultants. But you aren’t truly a man of numbers. You’re good at your job, but you’re forcing yourself. You could manage your firm from a distance if you left it in the hands of a few dependable people. Or you could start up a new business here and bring a few professionals with you. You’d just have to supervise.”

“Father, I’m satisfied with what I’m doing. We’re on the rise, our clientele is growing. We’ve got big companies among them.”

“My business could use its own financial advisor too. We need an expert who works exclusively for us.”

“I can recommend someone. Give me a little time.”

“I don’t think you understand.”

“I’m afraid I do.”

“You don’t. I don’t want to have the Giacomo who lives in the world of numbers as my business partner. Not just him, anyway.”

“I know, Father, but your world is a different world. I understand that the business needs a financial professional, and I will recommend someone, but I’m not…”

“Don’t you want to see my workshop?”

“I’ve seen it already.”

“Let me show you anyway. We can talk again afterwards.”

Giacomo had always liked the smell of the tailor workshop and liked to see the designs taking form, the dreams becoming reality. He always got a funny feeling in his stomach, ever since he was a little kid. It felt like someone had punched him in the belly and whispered: this is your world.

But he didn’t want to come back to this world. He didn’t feel like fighting anymore, not with anyone, nor with himself. Fashion, fine fabric, patterns: all these were part of a romance from the past. He compensated for his loss by allowing himself the pleasure of purchases from high fashion boutiques. He knew that a man should not allow himself to be sucked into this world. His father was different. He was Neapolitan and nothing could change that. He would stick with tailoring, his clients, and the business he had inherited from his father and grandfather and so on into ancestry. His father had retained his passion and sensitivity, and here in the south, these qualities were virtues, not drawbacks. Nevertheless, Giacomo had to break with tradition; he had to move on. His dreams were different than those of his forefathers.

But he’d go and have a look at the workshop all the same, since his father was so set on it.

A few hours later, he plopped down next to his father at a corner table in the restaurant behind the Opera. He felt like someone who had just completed their first marathon run. Disbelief, exhaustion, and enthusiasm all swirled inside of him, surging into a kind of inexplicable catharsis.

“You don’t have to make a decision now,” his father said, after he’d ordered them some water and prosecco.

Giacomo only nodded. He still had to process what he had seen that morning.

* * *

Bagger Book

May 24–26, 1976

They appeared totally unexpectedly on the sports field after practice. We were having coke and my favorite: bread generously spread with lard. We sprinkled lots of salt and pepper on it too. It tasted great. It was our well–deserved snack after practice. After showering, we were tired, but euphoric. We’d run our circles, shot our goals, done our push–ups… Our faces were still red from the exertion as we sat on the window sill across from the temporary snack bar, formerly the sports field’s supplies room. It had been converted especially for us, handball players, and for the soccer boys. We sat around eating, drinking, and blabbing before heading home.

That’s when the photographer and the reporter arrived. They asked all of us what we thought about the big news (it certainly was news to me), to see what our reactions would be. I think it was the first time any of us girls heard about it. Whatever. So anyway, I was sitting there on the sill and trying to eat my bread, saving the crust for last, because that’s like, the best part, when suddenly, these people stepped right over to me and asked me what I thought about the big news.

‘It must be a mistake.’

That’s what I said, and tried as hard as I could not to burst into tears right then and there. I think I might have also said that this news was the biggest lie I ever heard. I think I blurted out some other stuff too, but I swear I don’t remember.

Later that day, I’m afraid I started making crank calls, though my memories are vague. I faintly recall standing at the sports field’s pay phone and dialing Csaba’s number, which I’d got earlier from the supplies manager. But I didn’t dare say anything into the receiver and just listened to him saying hello until he hung up. Once Csaba’s father answered the phone, and I might have started ranting to him about how this was a terrible misunderstanding, and that I just needed a chance. Just one single chance! (Allegedly, I had shouted this.) Finally, I managed to talk to Csaba himself, and I acted like a complete maniac, at least according to Mari, who is our pivot and also kind of a mother hen, at least with me. Csaba said something to calm me down, but all I could hear was that he apparently loved me too and that I hadn’t just imagined it. Then I don’t know what happened. Maybe Mari dragged me away from the phone, or perhaps it was Edith, I don’t remember. I don’t even know where I got all the two forint coins to make such a long call. Supposedly, after Mari and Edith twisted the receiver from my hand, I tried to call an ambulance, but I was so confused, that instead of dialing 04, I had called the fire department. They certainly would have had a big fire to put out.