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

if she remained indifferent to my advance.
As I continue eating, however, I'm filled with desire for her. I want to
take her to bed and hold her and stroke away the years with her thin
layers of clothing.
The feeling grows throughout what remains of the day. We go to a couple of
basement piano bars and a club where crowds of strikingly beautiful people
spill out on to the street. The atmosphere of intoxication and sexual
excitement does nothing to spark Flavia into life. She simply trails her
fingers through the dust which seems to coat the tables in every bar we go
in.
Only in the car does she come alive as we race from one venue to another,
bouncing down noisy cobbled escape routes and diving into alleys thin as
crevices. The car's headlamps startle cats and in one hidden piazza a
huddle of unshaven men emerging from a fly-posted door. "This is a
dangerous quarter," she says, pointing at streets I remember from my first
night. "Camorro. Our Mafia. They kill you here as soon as look at you."
Way past midnight we end up in a park above the city on the same side as
Flavia's apartment but further round the bay. "This newspaper," she
indicates piles of discarded newsprint lining the side of the road.
"People come here in their cars and put the newspaper up to cover the
windows. Then they make love."
I look at the vast drifts of newspaper as we drive slowly around the
perimeter of the park. "Why?" I ask. "Because they live at home? It's
their only chance?"
She shrugs. "They do it in the cars then throw the newspaper out of the
window."
"And what a view they have," I say, looking across the bay at the brooding
shadow of Vesuvius.
Back home again she retreats inside her shell. The sudden change throws
me. I want to touch her, sleep with her, but suddenly it's as if we're
complete strangers. She sits on the balcony staring at Vesuvius and I
bring her a drink. As I put it down I place my other hand on her arm and
give it a brief squeeze. She doesn't react so I pull one of the wicker
chairs round to face hers and sit in the darkness just watching her watch
the volcano. The moon paints her face with a pale wash. I can see the
shape of her breasts under the white blouse and as I concentrate I can see
the merest lift as she breathes. Otherwise I might have doubted she was
still alive. "Do you want to go to bed?" I ask.
She just looks at me. Inside me the tension is reaching bursting point.
When Flavia gets up and walks to her bedroom I follow. She undresses in
front of me. The moonlight makes her flesh look grey and very still. I
undress and lie beside her. She doesn't push me away but neither does she
encourage me in any way.

When I wake in the morning she's gone. The pillow on her side is still
indented and warm to the touch. I wish I'd done something the night before
but her terrible passivity had killed my desire. A night's sleep, however,
has returned it to me. If she were here now I'd force her to decide,
whether to accept or reject me, either being preferable to indifference.
I get dressed and step out on to the balcony. The top of Vesuvius is