Italy Seminar (1)
Naples, Capodichino International Airport.
The moment I stepped through the automatic doors, the fierce sunlight slapped me across the face.
“Hoo... ”
I narrowed my eyes and dug my sunglasses out of my bag, then slipped them on.
April in Italy felt nothing like Prague, which had been gloomy almost every day. The sky was so vividly blue it hurt to look at, and the buildings all around me were old but painted in bright, lively colors.
“Nice weather.”
I caught a taxi at the stand and sank into the back seat.
Naples flashed by outside the window without pause. Scooters darted madly into narrow alleys barely wide enough for a single car to squeeze through, laundry strung between buildings snapped in the wind, and ivy climbing old facades half-covered balconies in an endless procession.
The taxi driver kept glancing at me in the rearview mirror, rattling on in Italian so fast I couldn’t catch a word of it. From his expression alone, though, it seemed like he was introducing me to the neighborhood.
“Grazie.”
The only Italian I knew made the driver laugh heartily, and he gave me a thumbs-up.
My destination was a small rental apartment in downtown Naples, a place CIA had arranged for me in advance.
Click.
I opened the old wooden door, carried my bags inside, and set them down on the floor.
The first thing I did was pull my passport and ID from the inner pocket of my bag and lay them out on the table.
Jason Lee.
A Hong Kong American. A doctor of traditional Chinese medicine licensed in California.
While I was unpacking, my eyes caught on the case of acupuncture needles.
Something I’d brought from the States. Something I actually used.
Amusingly enough, only my name and nationality had changed this time. My profession was almost the same.
A Hong Kong Chinese medicine doctor named Jason Lee, visiting Italy on vacation.
Not bad.
At least this time I don’t have to work.
I tossed the needle case into a drawer and walked over to the window.
When I pushed open the creaking wooden frame, the view of the alley below spread out before me.
The rich smell of coffee drifted up from somewhere nearby.
I could hear children laughing as they ran through the alley, mixed with the sound of someone shouting across from a balcony to a neighbor on the other side.
It was noisy and chaotic, but I liked the noise for its own sake.
I rested my chin on my hand and watched the scene for a while.
My first day in Naples.
***
The evening of the day after I arrived.
I found a quiet café a little ways away from the center of Naples.
I took a seat on the outdoor terrace that faced the street. Beyond the terrace, the sea was visible at the end of an alley.
The lowering evening sun painted the building walls orange.
At the next table, two old men were smoking and talking slowly, and from inside the café came the hum of the coffee machine.
I was sitting there, idly watching the people walking past on the street, when a large man approached and pulled out the chair across from me before sitting down.
“Lee.”
It was McKinnon.
He’d arrived in Naples two weeks before me, and the back of his neck had been lightly tanned by the sun.
“Looks like you made it all right.”
He greeted me briefly, then raised a hand to a passing waiter.
As he ordered an espresso in fluent Italian, I said, “Your face is getting a little burnt.”
McKinnon grimaced as if he were tired, then scratched at his beard.
“This town’s sun’s a real bastard.”
“So, how’s things here?”
He looked around once, then spoke.
“You’ve probably read the dossier, but it’s a messy situation. There are all these big and small outfits dividing up the city, carving out territory and splitting it among themselves. Most people just call the whole thing the Camorra.”
I’d already gone over that part myself.
Naples didn’t have a single mafia organization swallowing the city whole; instead, it was held together by dozens of smaller groups, all balancing one another out.
“And then there’s our target, the Ferrante Clan. They’ve exploded in size recently. They’re pushing into other clans’ territory without a care, and they don’t hesitate to use force. They’ve thrown out every traditional rule the old Camorra used to respect. Backed by money and weapons funneled in through the Russians, they’re moving aggressively.”
The waiter came over and set a small espresso cup in front of McKinnon.
He tore open a packet of sugar, dumped it in, and frowned even more deeply.
“Our target is the boss of this outfit, Nicola Ferrante. And this is the part that really fucking sucks... in the two weeks I’ve been here, I haven’t seen the bastard’s face even once.”
His voice carried a thread of irritation.
“His movement patterns are irregular, and he seems to change safe houses often. Security’s tight, too. He’s always prepared for an assassination attempt. Like some paranoid bastard.”
McKinnon took a sip of espresso and set the cup down with a clack.
“He’s quite the piece of work. For now we can’t pin down where he is, so we’re just waiting for an opening. Headquarters is still checking too.”
So even McKinnon had spent the last two weeks circling this city, waiting for a chance.
Until the target’s location could be confirmed, this might end up being a long-haul operation.
“Until the job starts, you’re on backup. Check the surveillance points in rotation, make sure the escape routes are clear, and keep an eye on the safe house. That’s enough. It’s a tourist-heavy city, but there’s no need for us to stand out more than necessary.”
I nodded. “Understood.”
McKinnon drained his cup and stood up.
“Good. Then keep your head down.”
His broad back turned away first as he started walking off. He didn’t look back. He never did.
I swallowed the rest of my espresso too.
***
Several days passed.
During that time, I was more or less getting used to Naples’s frantic daily rhythm.
Honestly, there wasn’t any major mission assigned to me yet, so I had time to spare.
I spent each day wandering the neighborhood as if I were on vacation, learning the area, and studying Italian little by little.
That morning, too, I left the apartment early and headed for the espresso bar nearby as if it were second nature.
Clink—
The moment I opened the door, the savory scent of coffee beans and freshly baked bread rushed into my nose.
Inside, there was a large coffee machine and a wooden counter. Old photos of Napoli’s football team decorated the walls. It was a quiet, almost cozy scene.
“An espresso, please, Vito.”
“Va bene.”
I gave my order in English, then leaned against the counter and looked around.
My only routine here was to come every morning for one espresso and a cornetto, a bread roll shaped like a croissant.
A typical Italian breakfast.
I’m getting used to this pretty fast, too.
I thought back to when I first arrived.
I’d ordered something and was about to sit down at a table without thinking, only for the barista, Vito, to say something to me in Italian.
As I later found out, there was a price difference between drinking at the counter and getting table service. There was a separate table charge.
“Hmm.”
While waiting for my espresso, I turned my eyes toward the display case.
There was exactly one plain cornetto left, just the way I liked it.
The moment I reached for it, someone beside me pointed at the same cornetto and placed a quick order in Italian.
It was a woman who looked like she lived here.
My hand hesitated, and she turned her head.
She had sunglasses pushed carelessly up on top of her head. Her olive-toned skin was darkened by the sun, and her eyes were sharp.
Even without trying to look flashy, she was striking.
For just a moment, our eyes met.
The woman’s mouth curled faintly as she gave a soft, amused laugh, then said something to me in Italian.
“Sorry?”
I frowned and asked back in English. She switched to fluent English without missing a beat.
“Excuse me. You were a little slow.”
She slid the last cornetto, plated by the barista, toward herself.
Then she brushed the hair that had fallen over her shoulders back behind her ear with one finger and took a bite.
White T-shirt, leather sandals, even the sunglasses perched on her head looked expensive.
And then she raised her espresso cup as if to show it off, downed it in one go, and set the cup back down.
So that’s the kind of person she is.
I ordered some other bread from the corner of the display instead of a cornetto.
While I stood by the counter drinking the rest of my espresso, the woman at my side suddenly spoke up.
“Where are you from?”
I casually wiped my mouth and answered, “The United States.”
“Oh, really? What are you doing here?”
“Traveling. Taking a break.”
“All the way here? Why?”
“Better than America, isn’t it? You’re pretty curious.”
At that, the woman laughed out loud, showing her white teeth, clearly amused.
“You’re the first person I’ve seen come to Naples to relax.”
She set down the empty espresso cup with a sharp clack on the counter.
Then, without the slightest reluctance, she left the bar, glancing back to toss me one last remark over her shoulder.
“If you’re disappointed, come a little earlier tomorrow.”
I watched the door close and stuffed the remaining bread into my mouth.
Then I thought, What a funny woman.
***
The next morning.
I’d arrived earlier than usual and was just reaching for a cornetto at the counter when a slender hand suddenly slipped in front of mine.
This time there were plenty of cornetti, but she’d still taken the one I was reaching for. When I looked over, the woman was grinning.
“...Again?”
I asked in disbelief, and she waved at me with an infuriating smile.
“Too late again. I’m eating this one.”
The next day, I walked in the moment the bar opened.
Then I grabbed the most promising-looking cornetto from the stack.
Leaning against the counter, I took a leisurely bite, and from behind me came a disapproving click of the tongue.
When I turned around, there she was again.
“You came early.”
“I’m pretty good at taking feedback.”
At my shameless answer, the woman snickered and ordered an espresso.
Then she naturally took up the spot beside me and suddenly said, “I’m Alessia.”
“Jason.”
That was the whole of our introduction.
After that, meeting her every morning at the espresso bar became a routine.
The ridiculous war over cornetti continued, and our win-loss record stayed about even.
At the same time, the range of our conversations gradually widened.
Naples’s best food, the weather, the habits of people in this neighborhood... Usually Alessia asked, and I answered.
She seemed like the kind of person who simply asked what she wanted and said what she felt without worrying too much about anyone else’s reaction.
“People around here use their horns more than their steering wheels when they drive.”
“So that’s why you yell at every taxi driver you get.”
“That’s how we talk here, Jason. Not yelling.”
That was how our conversations usually went.
There was no great substance to them, but that didn’t matter. They weren’t bad.
At the very least, I’d gained someone I could chat with about small things.
Of course, even while that was going on, I never lost track of the real work I was supposed to do.
Every afternoon I rotated through surveillance points, and every evening I checked the equipment at the safe house.
And every night I sent McKinnon a short report using a prepaid phone.
[No issues.]
His replies were always short.
Nicola Ferrante was still nowhere to be found.
Then one day,
a long overnight surveillance shift threw off my morning routine.
I got dragged into the afternoon without ever making it to the espresso bar on time.
On the way back to the apartment after finishing my report to McKinnon, I passed in front of Vito’s espresso bar and saw the lights on inside.
It was a little after six in the evening.
It was still bright outside. April in Naples had long days.
The slanting sunlight at the end of the alley dyed the walls a deep red.
Somewhere nearby, I could smell dinner being prepared, and laundry hung on balconies swayed slowly in the wind.
Clink—
Out of habit, I opened the door and stepped into the espresso bar.
This was the first time I’d come at this hour, and the atmosphere was very different from the morning.
The lighting was dimmer overall, and above all, there were fewer people.
Olives and small plates sat on the counter, and the cornetto display case was, as usual, empty.
Vito had the radio on, and I didn’t know what song it was, but a lazy melody filled the shop.
“Hey, Jason.”
And there was Alessia, leaning against the counter.
In front of her sat a cocktail instead of espresso, an Aperol Spritz.
When she saw me, she lifted her eyebrows slightly.
“You didn’t come in this morning.”
“Had something to do.”
“What kind of something?”
“Just an appointment. I’m pretty popular, you know.”
I answered with complete ease.
Alessia tilted her glass and gave a soft laugh.
“I thought maybe you’d gone back to the States.”
Instead of answering, I ordered an espresso from the barista.
Then, standing side by side at the counter as usual, we talked about this and that.
The weather today, how it wasn’t as fun eating a cornetto alone in the morning. The usual light conversation.
After a while, Alessia took a sip of her cocktail and looked at me.
“If you’re free, want to have dinner with me? We could have a drink too.”
The sudden invitation made me pause for a moment.
Seeing my reaction, Alessia giggled and said in a teasing tone, “Don’t worry. I won’t eat you.”
Then, with a slightly mischievous expression, she added, “...or forse sì. Magari.”
I couldn’t understand the Italian.