"Nicholas Royle - Flying Into Naples" - читать интересную книгу автора (Royle Nicholas)

is the centre of Naples and a thin line separating the land from the sea.
Only the island of Capri is clear in the distance but its profile is still
no more like a woman than the trembling slope beneath my feet. Down here
there are trees either side of the road but I can see that higher up the
ground is bare. The sun still manages to break through the thickening air
and once caught between the ground and the dust the heat cannot escape.
I've taken off my shirt and tied it around my neck to soak up some of the
sweat. The mountain seems to get no smaller even though I know I'm
climbing. The road hugs the side and disappears some way round the back
before twisting back on itself to reach the car park and refreshment
stand. I have the sense, the higher I get, of the volcano as an egg, its
exterior thin and brittle and cracked open at the top. I stop for breath,
lean back and stretch. The summit and crater are covered by cloud.
Beyond the empty car park the narrow path zig-zags into the clouds. I
climb with the same sense of purpose that took hold of Flavia and me in
the car and I sense that the prize is not so far removed from that sweet
and fiery memory which even now stirs me. The earth and trees have been
left behind and the slate-grey cloud thickens about me like hospital
blankets. The mountain is loose cinders and disintegrated volcanic
material, a uniform grey-brown, like a dying horse in a burnt field. I'm
suddenly engulfed by a wave of sympathy for Flavia and the years of
suffering. They have turned her into a brittle shell, but life lingers
within her, a dormant energy that last night we fired up. She deserves
longer-lasting happiness and yet I know she wouldn't even flicker in some
other city; Naples is her only home. Some things are rooted too deeply in
the earth to shift.

Never in my life have I felt so alone as I feel now, wrapped in cloud,
buffeted by sea winds, following a path to a crater. I can't see more than
ten barren yards in any direction.
When I hear the music I think I've died or am still asleep in Flavia's bed
and dreaming. Soft notes that gather a little power then fade quickly as
the wind blows new ones slightly up or down the scale. I've already called
Flavia's name three times before I realise I'm doing it. The name is taken
from my lips and wrapped in this soiled cotton wool that surrounds me. Her
name rolls on with the cloud over the top of the mountain where the crater
must be. It mustn't fall in.
The source of the music comes into view -- an abandoned shack supported by
an exoskeleton of tubular steel shafts. The wind plays them like panpipes.
A sign still attached to the side of the shack advertises the sale of
tickets to the crater. I begin to laugh at the absurdity of such an idea
and wade on past the chiming tubes and up towards the edge. I know it's up
there somewhere although I can't see it and I stumble blindly onwards,
scuffing my shoes in coarse, loose material. Then suddenly the ground
disappears beneath my feet and I'm clawing at space for a handhold.
Somehow I manage to fall back rather than forward and I crouch in the
harsh volcanic rubble peering over the edge of the crater. Below me the
cloud twists in draughts of warm air. I'm muttering Flavia's name to
myself and thinking I should never have gone to look for her. Then I'm
thinking maybe I never did go, but stayed in the insect-ridden hotel