In the casino of the cruiser a billet was handed to me on a silver tray. When I found Q’s cabin, I realised I was drowning in bathwater.
The bus took her up past the cemetery and through the industrial estate. The road was full of potholes and when the bus went over the bumps she winced. The pain in her stomach had returned.
Then they hit the wasteland. Among the abandoned fields was an old villa that must have been important once, but now the walls were crumbling and the frames had been stolen from the windows. From the top of the lama, she saw the sea, which was flat. A haze hung around a pair of fishing smacks on the water.
The bus passed through a quarter with ugly high-rise blocks made of cheap materials, and low-cost supermarkets, built over thirty years ago during the boom.
At the end of the line, she got off the bus with some school children in blue pinafores. She watched as they crossed the road by the traffic lights; she couldn’t see their school.
Across the road from the prison was a row of shops, including a bar and tobacconist’s. By the side of the road, she noticed was a man with a withered arm who was selling watermelons from a three-wheeler.
At the gates of the prison the guard asked to see her papers; she showed her identity-card.
The guard told her she could not enter; she needed a permesso.
She asked if she could speak to his superior.
The young Signora was made to wait, as the guard allowed the other visitors to enter.
An old woman passed her with a bucket of figs. – “This is for the Captain,” she said, putting the bucket down on the table.
The Guard nodded. She handed a smaller bag to the guard.
The guard went away and came back a while later. With him was another older guard, who led her into a back office.
On the desk was an ashtray of cigarette butts and a glass bottle of Monticchio water. A peaked cap resting on a pile of documents.
Above the desk was a signed photo of the local football team. Their haircuts were too long and their shorts too short to be the current team. A postcard icon of a saint was tucked into the cheap wooden frame. Manila files and facsimiles were piled on top of two battered filing cabinets.
The second guard turned out to be as inflexible as the first. “You need a permesso,” he said. “If you don’t have permesso, we can’t do anything.”
“Where can I get a permesso?”
“From the Captain.”
“I would like to speak to the Captain.”
The guard shrugged. The Captain, he said, was busy with other things.
Leaving the prison, she met the old woman carrying her empty bucket. As they walked to the bus stop, the old woman struggled on rickety legs, muttering to herself.
They got on the bus. The old woman turned to the young Signora and said something, but she did not understand. The old woman was speaking in dialect.
Returning to the flat, she collapsed on the bed and fell asleep. When she awoke, her mobile was ringing in the dark.
By the time she picked it up, the caller had rung off. She lay with the sheet wrapped round her.
Her mobile rang again; she picked it up on the second ring.
The voice on the other end was distant. “I can’t hear you,” she said. “The line comes and goes.”
“Now,” he said, “can you hear me?”
“Yes,” she said.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Sleeping,” she said.
His voice was again distant.
“The line’s still bad,” she said.
“Is that better?”
“Yes, I can hear you now. What do you want?”
The man on the end of the line did not speak for a while. Finally, he said, “I’ll be out of town for a few days.”
“Where are you?”
But she did not his reply; the line went dead. She put the mobile down on the bed and went out onto balcony to smoke a cigarette.
A film of sand lay on the bus windows. A pool of sweat ran down into the small of her back as she stepped off the bus behind the school children in blue pinafores.
At the gates of the prison, she was again made to wait. Finally, the guard led her into the back office. She looked down and saw the peaked cap still lying on the pile of documents.
The man sitting at the desk was smoking a cigarette. He looked up, registering her presence, and turned to the guard.
“Have you got the time sheet?”
“Yes, Captain.”
The Guard handed over a paper. “Is there anything else, Captain?”
The Captain did not say anything; the guard turned to go.
The Captain put his cigarette down in the ashtray.
The Captain, she noted, was wearing a watch – a chunky and fashionably expensive timepiece with a dial.
The Captain sat studying his documents; he put them down on the table and looked at her. When he spoke, she was surprised to hear him use the archaic “voi” – not the “lei” form of address.
The young Signora began to explain the purpose of her visit. As the Captain listened, he picked up his cigarette and drew on it. For a while, he seemed to consider her request. When he spoke again, however, the young Signora understood that he had not heard her. Instead, he spoke about rules and regulations, and the importance of permessi. “This may sound a strange question,” he said with scrupulous politeness. “Are you not from around here?”
No, she said, as a matter of fact, she wasn’t.
“I thought as much,” he said.
Though he took pains to compliment her, he had detected a northern cadence in the young Signora’s accent. “I assume you are from the north? – Then, you would not understand how we do things here.”
“We are particularly attached to the rules,” he said. “If we don’t adhere to the rules and regulations, chaos ensues.”
He made a gesture as if chaos had been unleashed. “I hope I have explained myself,” he said.
She nodded and thanked him for taking the trouble to speak to her.
Before she left the room, the Captain called to her. “I am sorry you have wasted your time.”
When she got back to the flat, she stripped off her clothes and stood under the shower. The cold tap ran warm before it ran cold.
Hardly bothering to dry herself off, she sat in her underwear, watching the TV.
She held her stomach, but the pain would not go away.
Later, getting up the courage to go out, she walked down the street towards the sea. It was early evening, and she met a group of boys playing football in the strips of their favourite players. She crossed the road to avoid them and crossed back again as she passed them.
The chemist gave the young Signora a confection of pills. “You should go to the hospital,” she said. “Either that, or you should see your doctor.”
The young Signora nodded.
In the night, at the point of reckoning, she woke up sweating and calling out her lover’s name. She got up; went and sat on the toilet; she held her stomach.
Before she left the flat, she took another pill.
When she got off the bus, there was nowhere to hide from the sun and the heat.
The young Signora entered the bar opposite the gates of the prison. The air was cool and crisp from the air conditioning.
The barman asked her what she wanted. Though she did not want anything, she ordered a lemon granita and sat down at a table.
When the Captain came in, he went over to the bar and ordered a coffee. He turned round and gave her a smile.
The barman placed his coffee on the counter. The Captain picked it up and took a sip.
He continued to smile at her.
When he finished his coffee, he walked over to her table and asked if she minded if he sat down.
The seat was almost too small for him. He turned the chair outwards so he could spread his legs.
As he continued to look at her, without speaking, she looked down at his watch.
The Captain, who noted this, smiled. “It’s water-resistant”, he said, “up to thirty metres.”
He began to tell her about his fishing exploits. Down on the coast, he went with his gun hunting for bass and bream. “They’re not easy to catch,” he said. “We’ve fished these waters to death. The funny thing is we don’t care… We will go on fishing them to death.”
The idea seemed to lend a tragic expression to his face. She looked down at his watch.
“I don’t know if we have much time,” he said.
When he got up, she followed him out.
The hotel was on the second floor of a three-storey apartment block. The shutters were down in the room, but the sun was peeking through the slats at the bottom.
The bed had a simple wooden board; there was a table with an ashtray and a couple of chairs with wicker seats. Hanging on the wall was a cherub with some dried flowers.
The Captain took his cigarettes out of his pocket. He put them down on the table, beside the ashtray. He took off his watch. Then he took off his jacket and hung it over the back of one of the chairs.
She sat on the edge of the bed and unbuttoned her dress. She let it slip to the floor.
When the Captain had finished, he got up and sat at the table smoking a cigarette.
He put his jacket back on and left the room.
The following day, arriving at the gates of the prison, the young Signora asked to see the Captain; the guard told her the Captain was not on duty.
“I have come to see one of the prisoners,” she said. “I am sure the Captain has left me the permesso.”
The guard disappeared into the back office.
After a while, he returned.
“I am sorry, Signora,” he said. “You do not have the permesso.