Napoli

   It was dusk as Joe approached the Paradiso. The proprietor was on a high stepladder lighting the last of his hanging kerosene lanterns for the evening trade. Joe realized that was what gave the piazza such a warm glow. All but the hospital’s lights were kerosene lanterns. Even the different uniforms and the transport vehicles that constantly rimmed the park were gentle on the eye in this softer glow that improved the shabbily dressed Italians as well as the urchin population cluttering Santa Maria La Nova for whatever business they could drum up with passing GIs.

   Joe stood near the ladder watching the silver-haired man. A voice boomed from behind. “Hey there, Vittorio, old boy. Turn around!” An Aussie officer stood on the seat of a jeep waving an arm to attract his attention. “Hey, Vito, my man. Over here!”

   Joe made a mental note. The man’s name was Vittorio. Vito for short. Vito peered from his ladder trying to place the grinning homely face of the Aussie. An answering smile came to his lips.

   “Marteen!” he called back. “Com-e ’stai? ’Ow you are? Why you no come see Vito no more?”

   “Couldn’t, chum. I been in hospital. I leave tonight for home. But I couldn’t go without say­ing goodbye, could I?” Vittorio looked unhappy. Joe watched first one face, then the other, like a man at a tennis match.

   “See, I put you patch awready.” He pointed to the awning overhead and Joe saw the fabric that matched the Aus­sie’s uniform. “Is good one, Marteen. For two din­ners. How ’bout tonight? You and de signorina, si?”

   “No time, Vito. Glad you used my patch. I didn’t need it any more. He moved to let Vito see his other sleeve, cropped and sewn shut near the shoulder. “I’ll post you a card,” he called, falling back into his seat as traffic moved and his driver shot in­to an opening. “Me and a kangaroo!” The man was laughing as the jeep moved out of range. Joe turned to see Vittorio’s response. Tears on his cheeks, the man reached down blindly for the next step and lost his footing. If Joe hadn’t been there to catch him he’d have fallen and hurt himself. Full of his grief, he climbed down while Joe steadied the ladder.

   “Thanks you, signor,” he said, smiling through his tears. Joe carried the ladder through a narrow door next to an ancient stove in his small kitchen and deposited it where Vittorio gestured. An unlit cigarette in his mouth, Joe lean­ed in the doorway, watching the man tend his pots, bubbling on the gas jets. He offered one to Vito. “Mai! Never! Not wid’ cooking, caro. Makes de bad taste.” Oh! Joe put the cigarettes away, telling himself, I almost made a big mistake there. He didn’t want to offend this man.

   Vito got bread, fresh from the oven, and sliced it into large chunks. It smelled wonderful, reminding Joe how very hungry he was. Intuiting this, Vito gave him one. Joe ate with gusto. As Vito filled napkin-lined baskets with bread, he said, “’Wittout you, I think I no serve de dinner tonight. So, you eat wit’ me, si?” Joe muttered something about time, but the man pressed. “You say no, signor soldier, stasera it make me feel bad.” Joe felt funny. Not that he wanted to go, but he wasn’t used to Neapolitan candor. “Come, we sit here.” Vito indicated a small table near the front. “We eat, an’ Vito make work de same time.” He went to the kitchen.

   Joe thought of trying to help, then worried it might also be bad manners on such short acquaintance. He was going to make an excuse and leave when he saw her. The Fabroni dame. Bundled in a kind of trench coat, she sat at a table near him.

   “Aah! Ketti!” Vito intoned fondly when he saw her. He changed direction and set the tray he was carrying on her table,. It held a small carafe of red wine, a full basket of bread, and a wine glass. “Minestrone comin’ pronto,” he said. She was smiling at Vito, a hand on his arm in an obvious gesture of affection. Joe felt strange­ly happy about these two knowing each other. How diffe­rent she looked without the prim nursing cap and starched white uniform. Tonight her neatly pinned hair shimmered like silk in the lamplight. Joe took a pencil from his pocket, and an order pad he’d noticed on a chair at his table and sketched what he could see of Ketti.

   Her face evo­ked another age with its high cheekbones and narrow eyes tilted at the corners. When she smiled and spoke, he saw the vibrations of her white throat, the dimpling corners of her mouth. Even the heavy shading of lashes on her cheek when she looked down after Vito left. God, what a face! Joe was stunned. It almost took his breath away. And for the first time he wished he was an artist, capable of reproducing that loveliness on canvas.

   He was so absorbed in trying to capture the play of light on her mobile face that he didn’t notice the tray Vito left on their table, didn’t see people seating themselves all around him. He only had eyes for her. He poured himself a glass of wine and sipped it as he drew, too busy to see Vito rushing in and out of the kitchen, serv­ing his customers. But all too soon, after a few list­less spoonfuls of the soup Vito pressed upon her, she stood and called to him that she was going. Vito came rushing over to say goodbye.

   Joe fought and conquered a compelling urge to leave wi