The Balcony Above Naples – Part 2: The View Is Worth It

The seafront at Mergellina was crowded with couples, old men playing cards on benches, and boys selling roasted chestnuts from paper cones. The bay spread out in front of them, blue and gold, with Vesuvius rising grey and quiet over the water.

They sat on the stone wall with a bottle of cheap red between them, Enzo's stripy socks tucked into his brogues, and watched the sun slide towards the sea.

"Tell me about your family," said Giulia.

"My mother still thinks I'm twelve," said Enzo. "My father was a fisherman in Procida, and he never once trusted a man who used a fork for fish. My sister is the one who knits the socks and tells me I'm hopeless."

"And you're a Latin teacher."

"For the moment. I'd like to write a book one day, about the people who live in narrow streets and see everything." He smiled. "I think I've already started. Your washing is the first chapter."

"You're writing a book about my washing?"

"It's a very long chapter."

She laughed, and leaned her shoulder against his, and felt the warmth of him through the cotton of his shirt.

"Can I ask you something?" she said.

"Yes."

"Why did you never come across the alley to say hello? For a year?"

Enzo was quiet for a long moment. The sun touched the water, turning it to fire.

"Because I was afraid you'd tell me to mind my own business," he said. "And I'd have had to go back to watching your washing from behind the curtains, like a very embarrassing spy."

"I would have told you to mind your own business," said Giulia. "For about a minute. Then I'd have asked you to bring the coffee."

He laughed, and turned to face her, the sunset on his face.

"Can I ask you something back?" he said.

"Yes."

"Are you happy in that alley? Really? Or are you only staying because it's yours and you're afraid of starting again somewhere new?"

Giulia thought about it, honestly. The alley, the balcony, the laundry, the old woman downstairs who fed her cats on the step. The bakery across the way that she had grown up beside.

"I'm happy enough," she said slowly. "But I'm tired of only looking across the gap. I'd like to see what the view is like from the other side."

"Then come and see it," said Enzo softly. "Every day, if you like. I'll buy the good coffee and wear the socks on Sundays only, as a compromise."

She laughed again, a little breathless, and turned to face him.

"Can I kiss you?" she asked. "Here, on the wall, with the whole bay watching and the chestnut boys shouting over us?"

"Yes," said Enzo. "And if you say stop, I'll stop, and we'll go back to my flat and argue about the socks."

"Good," said Giulia, and leaned in.

He kissed her slowly, his hand coming up to rest against her cheek, the taste of red wine warm on his lips. The sea breeze lifted her hair, and the sunset light turned everything gold. When they parted, a little boy beside them clapped and shouted something about amore in dialect, and both of them went scarlet.

"Green?" asked Enzo, grinning.

"Green," said Giulia. "Very green. Now buy me a chestnut, Enzo, before the boy takes all the good ones."

"Anything for you," said Enzo, and bought her the biggest paper cone on the seafront.

Later, when they walked back up through the alley in the dark, the washing on both balconies stirred softly in the evening air, and Giulia looked up at the sagging line across the gap, and, for the first time, did not bother to count the sheets.