The sun is beating down, but the sunbeams have not yet reached the Via dei Tribunali. I can take shelter in there. The soundtrack is confined within the city walls: engines, horns, chatter, shouting… I have to sit down, we’ve come to see Naples. The table and chair at the bar are the small, uncomfortable and unstable kind. I think I have the same set on my balcony, from Ikea. Next to me, at a table of the same size, sits a family: a father, a mother, two girls and a boy. I can’t say for sure whether they are talking or arguing; they are loudspeakers interacting with each other, but they can probably be heard from metres away. The yelling echoes inside my head. The girl is running away! Where is she going!? She runs through the crowd, her parents don’t move from where they are but they gesticulate hysterically for her to come back.
Beep-beep! Another motorbike demanding to pass. Oh no! It will swallow the child! It could very well be because the rider is holding onto the handlebars with a single hand, the other holding a cigarette from which he inhales and releases the smoke with admirable serenity. As if that wasn’t enough, a small dog, so adorable with his curls and tongue out, is lying on the handlebars, he must have a lot of practice in balancing. The same goes for the rider’s wife, who sits behind him filing her nails and doesn’t seem to be worried about anything. The girl is already back to her parents, it hasn’t taken me long to find out. Now that they are all here and have finished their pizza fritta, they get up to leave. I don’t know how, I haven’t sensed it, but they get even more heated than they were and turn up the volume. Suddenly, the wife, in a fit of rage, slaps her husband and then hits him in the chest. He doesn’t even flinch, as if it were a routine reaction, and they walk their way down the street.
Ugh… I take a sip of the Aperol Spritz I have ordered, I am here to relax. This drink, which the guy across the street keeps advertising, is sold everywhere in the city: Aperol, prosecco–a dry, sparkling Italian wine–, and soda. The marketing strategy he uses specifically consists of two elements: a single instrument, his voice–“Aperol Spritz, ragazzi!”–, which stands out among the polyphony, and the window display that shows the offer. Fancy a drink? “Shot of Limoncello, calici da vino, Aperol Spritz, Maradonna Spritz, ragazzi!” 1.5 euros on the sign, but he’ll try to talk you into the larger glass, 2 euros. What’s the Maradona Spritz made of? Pure capitalist degeneration of the God of Naples. Likewise, the beverage cart is decorated with images of the Madonna and the Christ-child. If I order another one, is it a sacrilege or a miracle?
As if he were a vision, a boy comes out of the bar and walks determined towards me, pulls the chair away from the table and sits down. Well, I’m a bit confused, I thought he was coming to tell me something, but he acts as if I’m not there, as if I’m part of the furniture and he’s at home on the sofa. He eats the pizza eagerly, swallows it and fights with the cheese, he bites off a piece but the strips of cheese stretch and stretch, he can’t get them away from the pizza. I can clearly hear him bite, a very big piece, so big that the tomato sauce ends up dripping out of the corner of his mouth. He chews and chews, taking his time to swallow the dough and toppings and, on top of that, he lets everyone in on the tone and rhythm. When he finally swallows, I want to applaud.
More members of the band arrive. The space is tiny but there’s no need for them to get on top of me. Yet here they are, a millimetre away. The pizza chewer, the beer can slurper, and the conductor who keeps waving his arms around, beating time. Is it impossible to keep it down in this city? Fortunately, their mamma is here to give them a good scolding. I don’t really know what’s going on, if I understood Neapolitan I could tell you because I can hear everything. I’m on the stage itself but as a spectator, the only thing missing is the popcorn.
A car passes by and they don’t even flinch, it beeps and beeps, but the horn is not for them. It’s for the absent-minded who walk in the middle of the street, strolling, shopping, eating, you see… That’s it, can we move away from the walls and breathe now? No way! The street sweeper sweeps everywhere with his broom, he has work to do, shattered glass, plastics, cans… Hey! Don’t come so close that you sweep my feet, and if I stretch my arm just a little I’ll touch your nose. When the lorry stops just in front of me, the symphony increases in all its stridency. The vehicle takes up the entire width of the street, and the non-stop engine and the glass falling from the container to the load collector make me cover my ears. Off he goes, honking the horn, obviously, lest he run someone over.
The Aperol Spritz is taking its toll, or maybe I’m just dizzy from the heat. One o’clock in the afternoon, thirty degrees and seventy-six per cent humidity. What a drag. I don’t know how the beverage seller doesn’t melt into a puddle that will evaporate in the next two minutes. The sun is already in a noon position, invading the whole space, starting with the beverage cart. But he is unperturbed: “Aperol spritz, ragazzi!” Far fewer tourists pass by now. While he waits, he rummages, searches, searches, searches and finds… a booger that he plays with, moving it from finger to finger and then sticking it under the cart. There are more people around, neighbours, friends and relatives, he is at home, and the outsider is me.
I’ve seen enough. I need to go to the loo and down all the alcohol I’ve got on me, but it’s not enough. Ciao a tutti! I go to the stall and order a frittatina and an arancini, they’re hot but I have to throw something in my stomach otherwise I’ll pass out, I won’t be able to move away from the damn scooters and I’ll die crushed by one of the most recognisable Italian prototypes in the whole world. Very romantic and all, but best to avoid it. Frittatinas are a mixture of egg and potato with vegetables, cheese, sausages and mushrooms. Arancini balls are not typically Neapolitan but Sicilian, they are breaded rice balls stuffed with peas, cheese, ham and mozzarella. Both fried, hearty and filling, they will help me get to the flat safe and sound.
Yum! And I don’t care if someone hears me chewing or savouring the food with my mouth half open, it’s too hot. I continue to play with the cheese, which doesn’t want to come off the rice ball. Ouch! It burns like hell! Oil drips down my chin, and in the absence of napkins, I wipe it off with my arm, hoping that no one has seen me, although I don’t even think I’ve attracted much attention. My face is glowing now, an illumination of the Madonna. When I get home, a cool shower will be well-blessed water.
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