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

into the centre of the city in search of a cheap hotel. I imagine I'm
probably quite conspicuous in what must be one of the most dangerous areas
but the hotels in the immediate vicinity -- the pavement outside the
Europa is clogged with upturned rubbish bins; the tall, dark, narrow
Esedra looks as if it's about to topple sideways -- look unwelcoming so I
press on. It's late, after 10.30pm, and even the bars and restaurants are
closed. Youths buzz past on Vespas and Piaggios unhelmeted despite the
apparent dedication of the motorists here to the legend "live fast, die
young". I hold my bag close and try to look confident but after 15 minutes
or so the hotels have disappeared. I reach a large empty square and head
deeper into the city. I ask a gun-holstered security guard if there is a
pension in the neighbourhood but he shrugs and walks away. I climb a
street that has lights burning but they turn out to be a late night bar
and a fruit stand. Two boys call to me from a doorway and as I don't
understand I just carry on, but at the top is a barrier and beyond that a
private apartment complex, so I have to turn back and the two boys are
laughing as I walk past them.
I try in another direction but there are only banks and food stores, all
locked up. Soon I realise I'm going to have to go back down to the area
round the railway station. I cross the road to avoid the prostitutes on
the corner of Via Seggio del Popolo, not because of any spurious moral
judgement but just because it seems I should go out of my way to avoid
trouble, so easy is it innocently to court disaster in a foreign country.
But in crossing the road I walk into a problem. There's a young woman
standing in a doorway whom in the darkness I had failed to see. She moves
swiftly out of the doorway into my path and I gasp in surprise. The
streetlamp throws the dark bruises around her eyes into even deeper
perspective. Her eyes are sunken, almost lost in her skull, and under her
chin are the dark, tough bristles of a juvenile beard. She speaks quickly
demanding something and before I've collected my wits she's produced a
glittering blade from her jacket pocket which she thrusts towards me like
a torch at an animal. I react too slowly and feel a sudden hot scratch on
my bare arm.
My jacket's over my other arm so I'm lucky that I don't drop it and give
the woman the chance to strike again. She lunges but I'm away down the
street running for my life. When it's clear she's not chasing me I stop
for breath. One or two passers-by look at me with mild curiosity. I head
back in the direction of the railway station. Down a side street on my
right I recognise one of the hotels I saw earlier -- the Esedra. Then I
hadn't liked the look of it, but now it's my haven from the streets. I
approach the glass doors and hesitate when I realise there are several men
in the lobby. But the thought of the drugged-up woman makes me go on. So I
push open the door and the men look up from their card game. I'm about to
ask for a room when one of the men, who's had a good long look at me, says
something to the man behind the little counter and this man reaches for a
key from room 17's pigeon hole. I realise what's happening -- they've
mistaken me for someone who's already a guest -- and there was a time when
I would have been tempted to accept the key in the desire to save money,
but these days I'm not short of cash. So, I hesitate only for a moment
before saying that I'm looking for a room. The man is momentarily confused