Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - VIII. Naples
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The food was abominable but the wine was
excellent, six sous the litre, I had plenty of it. I often
spent half of the night there when I dared not go
home. Cesare, the night-waiter, soon became a
great friend of mine. After the third case of
cholera in my locanda it ended by my moving
into an empty room in the house he lived in. My
new quarters were as dirty as the locanda, but
Cesare was right, it was much better to be “in
compagnia.” His wife was dead, but Mariuccia,
his daughter, was alive, very much so. She
believed she was fifteen, but she was already in
full bloom, black-eyed and red-lipped, she looked
like the little Venus of the Capitol Museum. She
washed my linen, cooked my macaroni, and made
up my bed when she did not forget it. She
had never seen a forestiere before. She was
always coming into my room with a bunch of
grapes, a slice of water-melon or a plate of figs.
When she had nothing else to offer me she took
the red rose from her black curls and handed it
to me with her enchanting smile of a siren and a
sparkling question in her eyes, whether I would
not like to have her red lips as well? The whole
day she was singing from the kitchen in her
strong, shrill voice:
“Amore! Amore!”
In the night I heard her tossing about in her
bed on the other side of the partition wall. She
said she could not go to sleep, she said she was
afraid to be alone at night, she was afraid to
dormire sola. Was I not afraid to dormire solo?
“Dormite, signorino?” she whispered from her
bed.
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