2. Now He is in Naples

The Sullen Wake to Flowers

Now He is in Naples

by Leila Rousseau

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Olympia is for love. Tides are for taking.

There was a time when a certain Olympia would sail the archepelagos, from the Canary Islands both to Aland, and around the waters of Sardinia. Every journey was, to Olympia, better remembered through an awkwardly animated story, much more so than returning to the boats with the company she kept. The binder; the crook in her neck when she told of the adventures; was the verniculous purpose of her soirees with the sea. No tale of the voyages would ever be revelled in the same manner, nor could it, for she had a terrible memory. So she urged her friends to talk of different subjects in case she was encouraged to start her spiel. "Ask not I, whose phantom soul endures weeks on the water. I fear not the plough of the paddle, but the anchor at shore. And when we swim to the beach, I forget everything. Only that it was night and that I did not drown. But maybe someone did. I say to you also forget, now tell me a story."

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Olympia lay on the beach in a black and white Chanel bikini, and squinted through her sunglasses as she turned over. Facing the sand was so pleasant, Olympia relished. Though she didn't really enjoy the summer, Olympia certainly did brighten up under the suns ray. She looked healthy, and appeared and felt happy. A few Greek men passed her toned behind, and she watched them with mutual interest. Olympia knew better than to take on a Grecan. She much preferred Italians, there was so much less fetta cheese and olives in cucina Italiano.

Stretching her legs through the sand, granuals stuck in her toes. Covering her violet carry bag with her sarong, Olympia jumped up and ran to the water. The Cote d'Azur was white today, and the ocean was fresh. The pale hair glistened, and was dunked in the shallow, where wading slowly was recommended. A beach ball arrived asa present from a dark admirer. Olympia playfully threw it back, and the man asked if she wanted to continue, as he pushed the bubble back through the air. Some to and fro of the ball, and a lunge into the water, and a splash closer and closer, and Antonio introduced himself to the most beautiful woman on the Mediterranean coast. Olympia dragged her lovely legs to the shore and Antonio ran to collect his towel.

Antonio was a property developer from Peru. "I'll be here for three weeks, then I go to Torino, Zurich and Johannesburg. Olympia told him she'd be here for two weeks, and then go to Paris and Germany. She wasn't going to either, she was waiting to go to Naples. Antonio enquired as to her residence, and she told him about the cramped apartment a few kilometers from the seaside. "I'm staying at the Emperial Domain, if you'd like to join me for your remaining weeks?" "Oh, that would be devine." Spagetti Frutti di Mer, and a watermelon splice. They ate, they drank, they were very refreshed and excited about their next two weeks.

Olympia had her own room and ensuite. The penthouse over looked half of the city, and the sunset was so beautiful and the Saint Tropez marina was in clear view. Every morning and every evening Antonio made love to Olympia. Loving the time they spent together, he thought about her all day while he closed deals and threatened competitors. His life seemed glamourous to Olympia, he must treat all women like this. But she didn't know that he would go onto the international destinations alone, without lovers. She was the light in his busy life, and he grew exhausted after the first week.

Olympia ate breakfast, lunch and most dinners at the hotel alone, and she grew tired of this. She met a young Italian at the bar by the pool. He promised to take her to Naples in three weeks. She told Guyan that she was looking after her friend in hospital for a week, until the girl's mother arrives. Then she would be able to live at his condomonium for the remaining two weeks.

Antonio's face was so lovely but distracted by business. He said he'd like Olympia to stay for another week and go to Zurich with him. Olympia knew she must go to Naples, and that Guyan was her ticket there. She'd like to go, but her friend in Paris was expecting her to look after the flower shop for a month. He would be in Peru in late November, and she should visit him there. That sounds perfect.

Landing in Naples was extraordinary, and Olympia belonged here. But she was to be focussed for the week. Guyan was hounding her, and offering her gifts to entice her for another weekend with him. No time for romance, she was there to search for one man.

Olympia had had some realisations about those unlike her. Love was important, and not found daily in different expensive bed spreads and fluffy towels. As much as she would like for her friends to be similar to herself, it was best if they were not. And they were not. They listened to her intently and revelled in her ideas and follies. Sometimes they listened and learned. But it was not a lesson for her friends. It was not anything they should take notice of or care for. Humouring her only encouraged her, and for weaker people, she was dominant. Dominance was okay for her man, her support group. But not for her friends. And one of her friends had succumb to Olympia's opinion and was ever after miserable. The only human care Olympia possessed, Olympia used during this purposeful visit to a sunny city of love and mafia.

The one man who would help her stood at a street cafe with an espresso and a cigarette. The darkness surrounded him so, the ash suit, the moustache, the hat, the shoes looked like they had walked across the earth looking for debtors, the smoke surrounded his head and his hands in a very black cloud. Olympia drew spritely closer to her target. Played in a scene, she'd be very much like a schoolgirl in a red dress with polka dots, running up to the Head Master, asking for directions to the loo. It wasn't that Olympia had guts, she was oblivious to ego, status and red tape. After her lifetime of tales, she had met many men. They were all the same. The barrier around this man was obvious, no one would dare enter his space. There was surely seventeen gunmen watching the man's arena of old town suburbia, and Olympia was prancing into their fire. She looks fiesty to women, just for marching those cobbley stones in her patent peach pumps.

The man didn't look like he would say much, and indeed he didn't. Olympia loved the Italians and tried to not drift away into dreaming of his abode, for even this ancient mafioso was alluring to a common broad like Olympia. Concentrate. Olympia took a cigarette from a neat lilac packet, and offered her aide one, just as he butted out his last. He took it and eyed her like he would offer her money. They enjoyed the smoke in silence, she with grey smoke, he with black smoke. Must be tarred up lungs. Concentrate. Okay, so she asked for a macchiato to stand, and gestured at his hat. He offered it to her like he would take her photo wearing it. She was here for an important cause. She must concentrate. No flirting. But maybe this was a way. So she asked his name, Beau Fozzi of Lazziro. She asked him if that meant he was local, or was he instated with that title like a tourist. He laughed. Olympia de la Ritz Paris. Another cigarette, they were both on the way to hospital at this rate. He asked her what she was doing in the back streets of a city that offered more than coffee with grey men. She said she was there for love. Not for her own. For a love she feared she had broken.

The man came out of his guise and chose a story from his past. Looking for words he had not spoken in fifty years, he struggled with an explanation. A boy. A girl. A river. A rush. A storm. Come together. Cannot swim, the boy. Throws log, the girl. Runs, the girl. Jumps to save, the girl. Drowns, the boy. Visits grave. Love stays true. Animated so, trying to tell her that she is the river, the winds. The test. If in life they can't endure the weather, then after they may have a chance. Olympia was not satisfied with such symbolism and per chance. She needed to repair the damage she had done. She must join the two in a matrimony of sorts. She must find the boy. Olympia wished the man would return to his tough exterior and help her. She mentioned a name, and he shrugged. Were there others not into love, not believing in this? She hoped the world was not so jaded and petty as she. Olympia repeated the name and then San Giovanni Deli. He pointed and mumbled something about a river. Not that stupid river story. She called Guyan and he would take her to the deli in the morning. He was really too good to her. Had he known just what she was like, he would surely refuse her completely.

Sometimes it was easier to forget the past and focus. Concentrate. Okay, so they arrived at the deli and the lady behind the counter was dressed pretty with her apron. Olympia wandered what other slices she did. Olympia asked for the duck terrine, and she asked about a boy who might have delivered some frozen goods here. She wouldn't have remembered if it wasn't for his tears. He wept every delivery, like he was upset for days. He had carried on like this for a month. Did she know where to find him? Where was that? Guyan could take her there. Gracias.

Olympia stepped off the Vespa and onto dirty pavement, to find a dry old hut, that looked like an old guard's house. All wrapped up in the beige Louis Vuitton overcoat, with a powder blue dress spraying through at her beautiful knees, and similar coloured snake skinned high sandles, an outfit Guyan treated her to the previous afternoon. Olympia was very sassy. Guyan was in love. She looked into his eyes and turned to ignore the passion. She pulled the gate open and Guyan rode through. They arrived at an enormous house, with some sad tune playing, old guitar and violin, and a gypsy singing lost love. Olympia did not blink. Instead, she took strides to the large door and knocked. The sun was shining to remind the residents of summer and the beach, but they did not seem to notice. The boy appeared at the window, and Olympia was startled. As she waited for the process of unlocking, the jasmine lay droopy in the sun. She should tell him to water it.

Olympia explained to the boy, red eyed and in despair, about her friend. The girl in Saint Tropez was sad too, and longed for him. Olympia was there because she needed to see such deep love united, and though against her principles, her own ideals, she could not stop these lovers from being together. That dear old man must have convoluted this boy's mind with his homemade proverbs, as the boy began talking about a hurricane and flowers and the lost hope. Oh. She had travelled all this way, forfeited Germany for a little brat who daren't follow his heart. Olympia enquired his console. He told her of a job he was doing for the locals, and most of his time was with them if not working for his father. There would be no travel to see her friend, only letters and wishful words. Did Olympia have it right or what? This boy was simply obsessed, he was not in love with her friend, and Olympia had thought if her friend would see the boy in this state she would realise how very right Olympia was in cutting off the childish play of hearts. Now Olympia was satisfied. But what would she tell her friend? Though she didn't know of Olympia's trek, there should be some news to quell this crying soul. Perhaps she should send a telegram to her friend to go to Zurich. Guyan was waiting in the shade of a big leafy tree, over hanging the roof with hard red flowers. They rode back to Naples for ice cream and found a spot poolside to rub oil on each others' legs. Olympia was so happy to not have a pathetic boy in love with her, and she was worried now about her friend. Olympia would have to return to Cote d'Azur before too long. She thought about the river and the storm. Maybe she wasn't the weather, it was love. She was happy she wasn't ever so deeply in love that she would drown. Perhaps the girl in the anecdote threw the log at the boy's head?!



Leila