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

unlike me. I step into the room and feel grit on the floor under my feet.
As I step closer the man on the bed turns to look at me. His lips move
slowly.
"I came straight here," he says, "instead of walking into the city to find
something better."
I don't know what to say. Pulling up a chair I sit next to him.
"I found her," he continues. "She lives above the city on the west side.
You can see Vesuvius from her window."
I grip his cold hand and try to read the expression on his face. But it's
blank. The words rustle in his mouth like dry leaves caught between
stones.
"She's not interested. Watch out for Vesuvius," he whispers then falls
silent. I sit there for a while watching his grey face for any sign of
life but there's nothing. Feeling an unbearable sadness for which I can't
reasonably account I return to my room and lie flat on my back on the
little bed.
The unknown insect is still busy scratching behind the ruins of Pompeii.

I wake up to heavy traffic under my window, my head still thick with
dreams. On my way downstairs I pause on the landing opposite room 17 and
feel a tug. But I know the easiest thing is not to think too much about it
and just carry on downstairs, hand in the key and leave the hotel for
good. Even if I don't manage to locate Flavia I won't come back here. I'll
find something better.
I walk across the city, stopping at a little bar for a cappuccino and a
croissant. The air smells of coffee, cigarettes and laundry. Strings of
clothes are hung out in the narrow passages like bunting. Moped riders
duck their heads to avoid vests and socks as they bounce over the cobbles.
Cars negotiate alleys barely wide enough to walk down, drivers jabbing at
the horn to clear the way. Pedestrians step aside unhurriedly and there
are no arguments or remonstrations.
The sun is beating down but there's a haze like sheer nylon stretched
above the rooftops -- dust in the air. I'm just heading west and climbing
through distinct areas. The class differences show up clearly in the homes
-- the bassi, tiny rooms that open directly on to the street, and higher
up the huge apartment blocks with their own gate and security -- and in
the shops and the goods sold in them. Only the dust is spread evenly.
As soon as I'm high enough to see Vesuvius behind me I take out the
photograph and use it to direct my search, heading always west.
It takes a couple of hours to cross the city and locate the right street.
I make sure it's the right view before starting to read the names on the
bell-pushes. The building has to be on the left-hand side of the road
because those on the right aren't high enough to have a view over those on
the left. I still don't know if I'm going to find the name or not. Through
the gaps between the buildings I can see Vesuvius on the other side of the
bay. By looking ahead I'm even able to estimate the exact building, and it
turns out I'm right. There's the name -- F. Sannia -- among a dozen
others. I press the bell without thinking about it.
When Flavia comes to open the door I'm surprised. Perhaps it's more her
place to be surprised than mine but she stands there with a vacant