The Story of X: An Erotic Tale (13 page)

Opening the closet door I find my jeans and my sneakers and my white socks—and my
Victoria’s Secret panties. All wrapped in delicate tissue paper. I had thought these
black lacy panties were a touch of luxury, of subtle eroticism—now they feel rather
stupid and gauche. But I don’t care. I am feeling good, verging on gleeful. Emancipated.

Alexandra Beckmann, the Virgin of New Hampshire, has been exceptionally naughty. And
I like it.

When I am jeaned and shirted, I turn; Marc is half-dressed in jeans and another immaculate
white shirt, with another aristocratically frayed collar. I have questions.

“Marc . . . what happens next?”

He buttons his white double-cuffs with silver links and looks me straight in the eye.

“The Second Mystery takes place in two weeks.”

I chirp. “What happens this time? Do you spank me in a soccer stadium? Do we dance
naked on TV?”

He is not smiling.

“X, you should know . . . The Second Mystery is. . . .” His expression darkens. “More
challenging. This is where it
really
begins.”

And then that flash of sad anger appears on his handsome face, just briefly. That
tragic but menacing anger. And my heartbeat flutters with anxiety and confusion. And
my soul is full of helpless and stupid desire. Because I am scared, and I am also
falling in love.

C
HAPTER
F
IFTEEN

I
T’S BECOMING A
cycle, I see it now. Or perhaps a kind of courtly eighteenth-century dance, a cotillion,
or a stately minuet, where the dancers—the man and the woman—advance toward each other,
then retreat, advance, then retreat, but each time
they advance they get a little closer,
until at last they are united. Forever?

Right now, lying here in my room, clothed but barefoot, staring at the shadows of
the sun on the ceiling of my apartment, and otherwise reading a scatter of books,
I am pretty sure I am in retreat. Because I am reading more about the origins of the
Camorra and the ’Ndrangheta.

I am determined to keep reading because I am determined not to forget the reason I
came to Naples, however bewitching my affair—my liaison—my passion—my swooning foolishness—what
is it?—with Marc. If I gave up my academic vocation and my projected thesis, I would
be abandoning myself entirely to him, somehow.

Besides, I am
interested
in this history, because I am interested in all history.

But the more I read, the more I wonder about Marc, in a bad way. Opening one bookmarked
page I frown, and reread an underlined passage for the third time this morning.

The Garduña was a secret criminal society in Spain, which originated in the late Middle
Ages. Initially little more than a prison gang, it grew into a more organized entity,
involved with robbery, kidnapping, arson, and commissioned assassinations. The notorious
statutes of the Garduña are said to have been approved in Toledo in 1420; according
to some historians, the secret criminal clan later evolved into the Neapolitan Camorra
during the Spanish dominion over southern Italy.

My eye alights on this paragraph in particular:

A Calabrian folk song provides evidence for this Italian legacy. It tells the story
of three Garduña “brothers,” or three Spanish knights, who flee Spain in the seventeenth
century after brutally murdering the seducer of their beloved sister. The three men
are shipwrecked on the island of Favignana, near Sicily. The first man, Carcagnosso,
protected by St. Michael, makes his way to Calabria and founds the ’Ndrangheta. The
second, Osso, devoted to St. George, makes his way to Sicily and founds the Mafia.
The third knight, Mastrosso, a devotee of the Virgin Mary, makes his way to Naples
and founds the Camorra.  . . .

I pause and listen to my own heart, softly beating.

Marcus Roscarrick.

Lord Marcus Roscarrick.

Lord Marcus James Anthony Xavier Mastrosso Di Angelo Roscarrick.

Inside I shudder, just a little. Is that mere coincidence? Why would Marc have a name
that links him to the Spanish Garduña, the alleged precursors of the Camorra? If his
family intermarried with the Bourbon nobility in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries,
then that meant intermarrying with the Spanish as well as the Italians, because the
Bourbons were originally from Spain. Just like the Camorra were from Spain—or so it
is surmised.

I put down the book and listen to the noises of Naples outside. The ferry for Ischia
is hooting in the sun, the taxis are honking furiously on Via Nazario.

I pick up a different book: the etymology of Neapolitan life. Here is a passage I
have already scored and underlined, twice.

Guappo
(plural:
guappi
) is a word in Neapolitan dialect, meaning thug, bully or braggart. While today the
word is often used to indicate a member of the Camorra, the
guapperia
(or
guapparia
; i.e., the guappo culture) predates Camorra and was originally very different.

I bite a fingernail and think.

The street kids who assaulted me in the Quartieri Spagnoli called Marc “
guappo
.” I dismissed it at the time, as just some dialect insult. Indeed, I would dismiss
it now, if it wasn’t for the following passage:

The word derives from the Spanish
guapo,
meaning a bold, elegant, and ostentatious man, and it probably and ultimately derives
from the Latin
vappa.
The word might, alternatively, be derived from the Garduña, a criminal organization
in Spain. The Garduña was composed of
guapos,
generally good swordsmen, daring assassins, and committed bandits.

Swordsmen. They were fighters and
swordsmen
. Moreover:

The figure of the
guappo
is not necessarily synonymous with the Camorrista. He is also and uniquely a historical
figure in the Neapolitan area, distinguishable by his dandylike appearance and his
ostentatious poise. The
guappo
could be subdivided in turn, into the “simple” or “upper-class”
guappo,
according to the clothes he wore: the former preferred extravagant attire, while
the latter preferred to dress in clothes from the best tailors in Naples.

Does this fit Marcus? Yes, maybe; no, surely not? Yes? Marcus Roscarrick is not some
aspiring dandy, some silly, swaggering, suited-and-booted hero of the barrios; he
is a true aristocrat. He dresses with exquisite taste but it is subtle, unostentatious,
discreet, apparently effortless—like an English duke, as I imagine it. Indeed, he
dresses like the Anglo-Italian lord that he
is
.

Yet the kids used the word
guappo
, quite definitely.

It’s way too much to take in.

I drop the books and sigh. There is more—the Mafia, the ’Ndrangheta, the oaths, the
secret meetings,
the initiations
—but it is all so confusing.

And it will have to wait for another day, because Jessica is banging on the door.

“X! Are you up?”

“Uh-huh . . .”

“You got a visitor.”

Briskly slipping on my sandals, I open the door. Jessica points excitedly to the balcony
and we both step outside into the warm, sunny air.

“See.”

We look down. There is a small silver Mercedes sports car parked directly outside
our apartment block. A man leans against it, young, handsome, smoking, in a tight
and well-fitting black suit and sunglasses. Black shoes. Almost a uniform, but not
quite.

“He buzzed my bell by mistake,” says Jess, who is wearing a white minidress that manages
to be demure and come-hither at the same time. “He’s hot, isn’t he? Looks like he
should be in
The Godfather
. The one with De Niro.” She laughs. “Says he’s called Giuseppe, and works for Lord
Perfect.” I gaze down as Jessica babbles away. “I may have to get a tiny tiny tiny
tiny
tiny
bit
amorevole
with him.”

“Giuseppe? I think I’ve met him before . . .”

“That’s nice. Anyway, he says he wants to see you.”

“But—”

“Guess he’s your designated driver, sweetie.”

“But—”

“Stop butting. The Jesus of Hot is down there. With a Mercedes.”

I look down at the car and the driver. I call his name—“Giuseppe?”—and he looks up
and smiles. And yes, I definitely recognize him. Because he was the first of the men
who rescued me in the Spanish Quarters.

Giuseppe smiles again, very engagingly, and does an amusing and gracious bow, gesturing
at the car like a bewigged and powdered servant inviting me to step into a horse-drawn
carriage somewhere in the Austro-Hungarian empire in about 1765.

“Yo! Say hello to Cinderella!” says Jessica in a singing voice, doing a special dance
move that seems to involve pointing my way, then at the ceiling. “Watch you don’t
turn into a pumpkin.”

“I shall avoid crystal slippers.”

Jessica pouts. And sings some more. Then I say, “Why don’t you come down with me,
Jess? Let’s see what it all means.”

Two minutes later we are on the sidewalk and Giuseppe is bowing again, and smiling,
and saying, in unexpectedly good English, “Hello, Miss Beckmann.”

“Hi.”

Another sly and winning smile. I hear Jess mutter “Gorgeousaurus Rex!” under her breath,
and Giuseppe announces, “I am available to drive you wherever you like. On the orders
of Lord Roscarrick.”

Confusion returns.

“But why?”

“Because that is my order. Alternatively, you may wish to drive yourself, Miss Beckmann.”

Giuseppe is dangling car keys in his hand.

“But . . .” I gaze at Marc’s beautiful car, apparently being loaned to me. It is the
sister car to his dark, silver-blue Mercedes sports, though perhaps a little smaller.
“I can’t, Giuseppe. I might scratch it, Neapolitan traffic, you know.”

Giuseppe steps closer and folds the car keys into my hand.

“Miss Beckmann, you do not understand. This is
your
car.”

“What?”

“It is yours. All yours. A present from Lord Roscarrick.” He steps back, does another
polite bow, and says, “It is yours to keep. You can drive it to Rome, or maybe Moscow,
or maybe not. As you wish.” Then he turns smartly on his heels and walks down Via
Santa Lucia toward the seafront.

I am opening and closing my mouth in apparent mimicry of a dying fish. Staring at
this beautiful car.

My car?

Jessica is gazing at the gorgeous little car in similar style. Finally she says, “A
Mercedes sports? He’s given you a Mercedes
sports
?”

“I know. I know.”

She frowns.

“It’s a bloody insult, is what it is. Only a Mercedes?”

She is giggling. Now I am giggling, likewise.

Putting on my best thoughtful expression, I say, “I might have to get a bit
snippy
with him. Tell him I won’t accept anything less than a Bentley.”

“Or a Lamborghini. With leopard-skin seats.”

We laugh. Then I say, “I can’t take it, obviously.”

Jessica pouts. Again.

“
What?
Why not?”

“Look at it, Jess. It’s a Mercedes. It’s just
wrong
.”

“But wait, X,
wait
. Don’t be too hasty. Let’s give this a good long think.” Jess pauses for a third
of a second, then says, “Okay, finished thinking: I say you keep the car, and we go
for a ride.”

I ponder for a moment. I am very sure I am going to refuse this gift; it is too much,
too outrageous. But maybe we
could
have just one ride. One single day of fun. Then return it.

“I’m not going to keep it.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Really.”

“Okay . . .” Jess nods. “Okay, yes, that’s probably best. Tell you what: shall I look
after it? I’ll give it to a nunnery. Honest.”

“But we can go for a ride, for just one day.”

Jess punches the air.

“Yay! But where?” Jess moues pensively. “Where shall we go? Amalfi? Positano?”

“Can’t. Might run into Mom. How am I going to explain a Mercedes sports car?”

Jessica nods.

“I know,” she says. “Let’s go to Caserta, that big palace . . .”

“Biggest garden in the world, isn’t it?”

“I’ve always wanted to go there. Come on, Cinderella. Drive like a pirate.”

We climb in. I insert the key gingerly. Jessica starts playing with the GPS, eagerly
tapping in our destination. I just sit there, staring at the dash in amazement, and
with a little trepidation.

I’ve never driven a sports car before. I’ve never driven a Mercedes before. And I
have very definitely never driven a brand-new Mercedes sports car through the chaotic,
chariot-racing streets of Naples, with its battered Fiats and almost-as-battered Alfa
Romeos, jostling with garbage trucks that never collect garbage and sinister limousines
with very tinted rear windows.

But I turn the key, pull out, and drive anyway. And despite my nearly running over
an old lady near Scampia, and despite my nearly driving straight into the plateglass
storefront of a Supero Supermercati just outside Marcianise, after a giggly lunch,
we make it to the Palace of Caserta.

Yet strangely enough, this famous eighteenth-century place somehow
disappoints
us.

It is said to be the Versailles of Bourbon, Italy, and yet—perhaps like Versailles—it
is simply too
big
. The grandiose marble staircases rise like the endless staircases in dreams and they
lead into huge echoing rooms filled with melancholy and nothingness, with gigantic
windows that gaze at the rather slummy streets of Caserta town. And the gardens are
just
numbingly
enormous, stretching miles into the sunlit haze. They intimidate rather than inspire.

Dwarfed and inert, we stand here as Jessica reads from her guidebook: “The palace
has some twelve hundred rooms, including two dozen state apartments, a large library,
and a theater modeled after the Teatro di San Carlo of Naples.”

“Twelve hundred rooms?”

“Twelve hundred rooms,” Jessica repeats. “The population of Caserta Vecchia was moved
ten kilometers to provide a workforce closer to the palace. A silk factory, San Leucio,
was disguised as a pavilion in the immense parkland.”

“You could hide New York in this garden.”

Jessica nods, and sighs, and we both look up the long, long path that stretches to
some faraway fountains. The fountains could be as big as the pyramids; it is impossible
to tell at this distance. She goes on. “The Caserta Palace has been used as a location
in a number of movie productions. In 1999 it appeared in
Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace
, as the setting for Queen Amidala’s Royal Palace on Naboo.”

“Naboo? Who knew? We’re in Naboo!” I am laughing, but I am also tired. “Come on, Jess.
Let’s go home.”

And so we do. But my mood is darkening swiftly with the day. By the time we are halfway
back to Naples the sky is dusky, with threatening rain clouds skidding across the
rising moon, and the traffic is slow and painful. Which gives me time to stare out
the window in amazement at all the fires dotted across the half-urban countryside;
fires on the outskirts of scruffy townships, fires next to tatty old factories.