All Over the Map - Laura Fraser [23]
I’ve never spent time in Naples by myself. This is the first time since my divorce that I’ve been to Italy without the Professor. Only a couple hours by train from Rome, where there are single women everywhere, like in any major industrialized city in the world, southern Italy looks upon single women suspiciously, with pity sometimes, and a whiff of disrepute. A woman dining alone in a southern Italian restaurant, relishing her food and wine, might be completely content with herself and her spaghetti alle scoglie but treated like prey by the waiter and as contagious by the Sunday-dinner guests. In southern Italy, women don’t often go out by themselves, at least not in the evening or to partake of a meal; their husbands, family members, or female friends almost always accompany them in public. This is true, to a lesser extent, of the men, too; Italians don’t like to do anything alone.
STANDING BY MYSELF in the wide stone piazza in front of the Museo Archeologico Nazionale, waiting for Giusi, a social worker who is going to help me do research, I feel nervous—a target. Naples, of course, has a dangerous reputation, with its mafioso underbelly, its petty and not-so-petty thievery, anarchic traffic, and casual attitude toward history and human life. But it’s no more dangerous, really, than New York or any other big American city; you just have to act smart, tuck away your jewelry, and look as if you know where you’re going.
A tough-looking boy, a hoodlum, maybe ten years old, approaches me, and I hold my passport and money tighter to my body. I glare at him, and he crosses his arms and opens his legs in a wider stance, like an annoyed Italian grown-up man, then calls my name. He’s here to meet me instead of his mother. Carlino takes my arm, a perfect little gentleman, steps off the sidewalk, and brazenly stops traffic with an authoritative hand signal, only the drivers’ hands moving in a vast repertoire of gestures of impatience. It’s sweet to be back in Italy, where even little boys look out for you if you’re a woman—not belittlingly, but protectively, in a courteous way.
Carlino leads me to a tall, narrow stone building, laundry hanging on the balcony above. Inside, I meet Giusi, a single mom who works to rescue sex-trafficked women. She seems frazzled but kisses me enthusiastically and makes me an espresso. We’ll need the coffee, because we’ll be up most of the night, scouting for immigrant women who are enslaved and forced to work as prostitutes. A neighbor drops by to stay with Carlino, who is watching soccer on TV, screaming and punching the air every few minutes when someone makes a play. He jumps to his feet, unprompted, when we leave, and shakes my hand.
Giusi and I meet up with two coworkers. Though their task for the evening is serious, they are Italians and hospitable, and so they first take me to a famous pizzeria, L’Antica Pizzeria Da Michele, before we set out at night. There is a huge crowd outside the pizzeria, and it seems like it will take all night to get a table. But somehow, with the right word to someone, the long line melts like mozzarella and we are sitting down. This is the oldest and best pizzeria in Naples and so the world. It’s a small place for all its glory, and its offerings are few, but the wood-fired pizza—with spicy extra-virgin olive oil and fior di latte cheese puddling among the fresh herbs and tomatoes—is enough reason itself to go to Naples.
Soon we’ve paid the check, maneuvered a van out of an impossible parking spot, and then, abruptly, we’re in an entirely different atmosphere, cruising the roads near the train station. I’m not