Naples

I still have my midsummer packing when I head out to Arlanda. The same luggage I had on the solo trip in Norrland. The white coat I walked around in in Skellefteå, as if I were about to buy the town. And a thick cashmere sweater.

They’ll be obsolete in a boiling Europe. But I have nowhere to put them.

I worry about all the mosquito bites on my legs. That they’ll swell in the sun and hurt when I walk. The thought of being seen as old.

I’d also rather have taken the train or driven than flown. But I’ll have to accept. A transport.

Naples.

We get one evening there before moving on.

My Swedish party meets up with some Neapolitans I know.

They’re from another time. When D was still alive. I remember standing in the cold, crowded church in Naples and hearing his older brother speak.

Now we meet again. But no one has planned anything. They excuse themselves with work and don’t come with us into the night. When we’re leaving, the dinner has already been paid for.

Next day.

Ischia.

Two days.

Would gladly have stayed longer.

Back to the mainland. Rental car to a village in the mountains north of Agropoli. Our party is the size of a wedding without anyone getting married.

Something must be celebrated.

Wine with lunch. Cold cuts. Pasta. Secondi.

I optimize too much in Stockholm.

The nights here end late.

Every day begins with a resistance, but I quickly learn it can be overcome.

Another sweet breakfast.

Coffee. Sun. Swimming. Beer.

After lunch, everything from yesterday is forgiven.

Last day. Back in Naples.

I squeeze onto a sofa in the room I haven’t paid for. Feel like a freeloader, but say nothing.

I skip the hotel breakfast with the others. I go out instead.

Thirty degrees.

Still, the air fans against the skin.

Drink coffee. Eat a typical pastry. Step into a courtyard to see a baroque palazzo said to have been built for ordinary people.

Out on the street again. A little way ahead, a fruit shop.

Suddenly I want to know what it feels like to sink my teeth into a fruit. I don’t need a kilo, so I try one euro for a nectarine.

It works.

I ask if I can wash it.

The fruit seller shows me inside. All the way in, where the sunlight doesn’t reach.

I reach my hands in under the cold water.

Wash the nectarine.

Then my hands.

Not thoroughly enough, the old man decides. He takes my hands and guides them deeper under the tap. Washes them. Washes my arms.

The water cools.

I smile. “Buono.”

He holds my arms. Points at my shoulders and my chest hair. “Bello.”

My arms are still cooling under the tap.

In his hands.

They stroke further up. “Bello.”

If it’s anything other than kindness he means to show, he gets away with it. The air, the scent, the cold, the light have me in their grip.

Have to get back to the hotel.

Clean. Cooler.

I text someone about what happened. Have time to regret sharing it.

Get a quick reply.

Wait to read it.

Bite into the fruit.