The Witch of Napoli Read Online Free Page B

pickpockets. The Germans paused in front of an ice water vendor to inspect his tub of snow and lemons, and the eager proprietor hastily filled a tin cup and pushed it toward one of the ladies. But her fat husband shoved the cup away, and started shaking his finger at her – undoubtedly scolding her about drinking the local water. The insulted vendor jumped up to defend his refreshment, gesticulating wildly and pleading his case to the ragged crowd which quickly surrounded them. The embarrassed Huns finally broke through the ring of gawkers and hurried off, but not before Herr Professor stepped in some horse shit, which left everyone laughing.
    At 7:30, the bells tolled in the basilica of San Francesco across the square, and they turned on the gaslights encircling the piazza, illuminating the twilight evening with a necklace of light. Newsboys from the
Piccolo
descended on the square like a flock of noisy crows, hawking the evening edition. We had stuck it to them with the Alessandra séance story. The
Piccolo
’s editor was furious with his reporters for not picking it up before we got it. I bought a copy, lit a cigar, and thumbed through it, killing time. When the bell finally sounded eight, I warned Marcello to hold the table for me and hurried across the piazza to the church to look for Alessandra, her photograph in a wrapped box tucked under my arm.
    A puppeteer had set up his theater on the church steps, and a group of laughing street urchins were watching beak-nosed Pulcinella deliver a lesson with his cudgel, but Alessandra was nowhere to be found. I wandered around to the side and looked out to a garden, dimly illuminated by the gas lamps from the piazza, and spied a solitary figure sitting on a bench.
    “Alessandra?” I called out.
    “Tommaso?” came the soft reply.
    I hurried over and greeted her. She wore a plain black skirt, a shawl thrown around her shoulders, and the veil of her hat covered her face. I was overjoyed to discover she was alone.
    “Come,” I said, handing her the box. “I have a table reserved for us at the Caffè Gambrinus. You can open it there, where the light is better.”
    “No, let’s stay here,” she whispered.
    I sat down next to her as she opened the package and pulled out the photo. She let out a little cry. “Oh, how beautiful,” she said. Then she lifted her veil to inspect the photo more closely.
    My stomach turned over.
    “Jesus!” I gasped.
    Her right eye was swollen completely shut, her puffy face a mass of black and blue bruises. I moved my fingers towards her battered face and she pulled back.
    “Don’t,” she said. “Please.” I felt sick.
    “Your husband?” I demanded.
    She laughed bitterly. “He said I was flirting with Professor Cappelli, so he taught me one of his lessons.” She stared at the photo in her hand.
    Men always slap their wives around, but Pigotti had really laid into her. “You’ll look fine in a few days,” I lied. “Does he do this often?”
    “Usually he leaves my face alone. It’s not good for business. But that doesn’t stop him from having his fun.” She hesitated, then unbuttoned the sleeve of her blouse, pulled it back, and shoved her arm forward.
    “Oh Christ,” I exclaimed.
    Running up her left arm were several ugly, red welts, scabbed over. Cigarette burns. I felt rage rise up inside me.
    “Leave him!”
    “Don’t you think I tried?” she shot back angrily. “He always finds me and drags me back.”
    “You can hide at my place.”
    “Do you know what he would do to you?”
    “I’m not afraid of him.” I said.
    “You should be,” she replied wearily. “You don’t understand – he’s Camorra.”
    “Jesus.” I cradled my head in my hands. The night of the séance, I had noticed a tattoo on Pigotti’s forearm – a hand holding a stiletto. So that’s what it meant.
    The Camorra ran Naples back then – they still do today. The city is divided into twelve
quartieri
, with a boss for each, and you don’t