Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - VIII. Naples
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No, I did not sleep, I was wide awake, I did not
like to dormire solo more than she did.
What new fear was making my heart beat so
tumultuously and making the blood rush through
my veins with fever speed? Why, when sitting
half-asleep in the side aisle of Santa Maria del
Carmine, had I not noticed before all these
beautiful girls in their black mantillas kneeling on the
marble floor by my side and smiling at me on the
sly in the midst of their prayers and incantations?
How could I have passed every day for weeks in
front of the fruttivendola in the street corner
without stopping to chat with Nannina, her beautiful
daughter, with the same colour on her cheeks as
the peaches she was selling? Why had I not
discovered before that the fioraia in Piazza
Mercato had the same enchanting smile as
Botticelli’s Primavera? How could I have spent so
many evenings in the Osteria dell’Allegria unaware
that it was not the vino di Gragnano but the
sparkle in Carmela’s eyes that went to my
head? How was it possible that I had only
heard the groans of the dying and the tolling of
the church-bells when from every street sounded
laughter and love-songs, when under every portico
stood a girl whispering to her amoroso?
“O Mari’, O Mari’, quanto sonno ho perso per te.
Fammi dormire.
Abbracciato un poco con te.”
sang a youth under Mariuccia’s window.
“O Carmé! O Carmé!” sang another outside
the osteria.
“Vorrei baciare i tuoi capelli neri,”
rang out from Piazza Mercato.
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