‘Neath the stars I knew this was paradise

My first encounters with Napoli were second-hand in nature: on paper, on screen, in conversation. Those conversations were not really conversations at all, rather torrents of warnings and tall-tales: card machines haven’t reached that far south, so take cash, but not too much, of course, because then it will be stolen; didn’t you know, the daughter of our old headmaster was minding her own business on the metro and this mother, begging to feed the baby that wept in her arms,– how dare she – just pinched her purse right out of her hands! And do you know what the daughter of the old headmaster was forced to do? She had to march up to the emergency stop handle and threaten to pull it so that the mother with the weeping baby would give her back her hard earned cash; and did you hear about that sister of a friend of an aunt? The strap of her bag was slashed by a man with a knife riding – can you believe it? – on the back of a Vespa – he stole the bag, too, if that wasn’t obvious. It’s another world, there, I’m told. Actually, more of a hell – one best avoided. 

I sit in the back of an underpopulated lecture hall fitted out to the height of seventies sophistication. The professor at the lectern wears glasses worth more than what most people earn in a week, though he’s quick to profess that, in financial terms, he’s barely middle class. Anyway, I’m listening now, I’m all ears. Maybe he is trying to quell his guilt for being, you know, privileged, but he’s eloquently explaining a housing project called Vele di Scampia that drifts on the outer peripheries of Napoli. The seven apartment buildings were initially imagined as emerging organically from the surrounding landscape while their soaring, sinuous lines hoped to recall the vele – sails – of the boats that punctuate the bay below. Each dwelling, though minimal, would connect to a network of walkways echoing the narrow streets of the centro storico which would encourage to flourish a similarly close community. That is until, perhaps predictably, the camorra – the Neapolitan mafia – adopted the dark, labyrinthine structure of the vele as the territory upon which they would settle turf wars, infighting, feuds pertaining to drug trafficking and prostitution circles. Of the seven buildings, only one remains: a vestige of the unvictorious vele, of the housing project that intended to embody the best of Napoli and ended as yet further exemplification of her dangerous and wicked ways.  

I sit, now, on a train. The conductor announces, through a sunny smile, ‘stiamo per arrivare a Napoli.’ I take the weight of the word ‘Napoli’; I let the syllables skip between my lips. Na-po-li. My guidebook tells me it derives from ‘Neapolis’. Greek in origin, it combines ‘nea’ – new – and ‘polis’ – city. From a history that reaches to the ancient, Napoli prevails as the ‘new city’, as a paradox of old and new, as a site of regeneration. Shirly Hazzard affectionately references this phoenix-like nature as she declares that ‘Naples has something of an air of having survived calamity: it is the theme of her story.’ Na-po-li, ca-lam-i-ty. Upon a blue sign white stencilling declares ‘NAPOLI CENTRALE’. 

I walk hastily down Corso Umberto I. My bag, strapped tightly to my chest, strains as my heart beats unevenly. As I enter the quartieri spagnoli, the brazen blue sky becomes muted, fragmented. Buildings, overbearing and closely packed, cast in perpetual shadow the millings below. The guidebook informs me, somewhat redundantly, that the quartieri consists of a grid of eighteen streets by twelve. Yet even the term ‘streets’ seems to belie their limitless functions. Two nonne sit across from one another with a graceless gait, forearms rest on thighs as heavy breasts contort spines into crumpled curves. With eyes unblinking they rally snarls of dialect, hurl profane gestures. These streets are their debate chamber. I gingerly step through the crossfire, cowering so as to avoid the ricochet of a stray insult. Between the balconies above washing lines are strung, bearing childhood bedding, grandad’s vests, and an apron that mum wears only on Sundays. Through the vertiginous twenty-four hour laundromat I glimpse a glimmering sliver of silvery sea, though my gaze is abruptly interrupted as a growling moped grazes past my elbow. It carries three or four children whose shrieks and giggles demonstrate a disregard for the perilous paring of steep streets and junior drag racing. Down the hill, church bells ring out in glee. I follow the animated chimes; clouds of exhilarated whispers gather around the entrance to the church as a wedding procession nears. The bride carefully navigates the steps, her jitters steadied by the teary smile of her father by her side. From the windows and balconies above, neighbours look on with adoring eyes, showering the local treasure with auguri and wishes of figli maschi in the few final moments before she reaches the arms of her sweetheart. 

I skitter through the final few streets, leaving the chaotic quartieri spagnoli for the calm of the crescent bay. Water gently ripples and swills along the sun bleached pebbles below. The boundless stretches of sea hold the promise of foreign lands, the memory of ancient empires, and the threat of future calamity. But beneath these waves lies an undercurrent of confidence: no calamity, no tragedy, no disaster could ever be too insurmountable for Napoli. Nor could I now ever escape her enchanting, enigmatic magnetism.