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“And you also are bella, Gioia, bella, bella!”
“Yes,” said she.
My foot stumbled against a broken column of
marble, “Roba di Timberio!” explained Gioia.
“Timberio cattivo, Timberio mal’occhio,
Timberio camorrista!”[1] and she spat on the marble.
“Yes,” said I, my memory fresh from Tacitus
and Suetonius, “Tiberio cattivo!”
We emerged on the high road and reached the
Piazza with a couple of sailors standing by the
parapet overlooking the Marina, a few drowsy
Capriotes seated in front of Don Antonio’s
osteria, and half-a-dozen priests on the steps
leading to the church, gesticulating wildly in
animated conversation: “Moneta! Moneta!
Molta moneta; Niente moneta!” Gioia ran up
to kiss the hand of Don Giacinto who was her
father confessor and un vero santo, though he
did not look like one. She went to confession
twice a month, how often did I go to confession?
Not at all!
Cattivo! Cattivo!
Would she tell Don Giacinto that I had kissed
her cheek under the lemon trees?
Of course not.
We passed through the village and halted at
Punta Tragara.
“I am going to climb to the top of that rock,”
said I, pointing to the most precipitous of the
three Faraglioni glistening like amethysts at our
feet. But Gioia was sure I could not do it. A
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