The Cameo
by
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He heard a voice behind him arguing with the other barber who was not his favourite among those who ran this salon. "Why should I pay you?" asked the voice, "I save you from all your troubles and keep Manfredi's men away." "Huh," interrupted the barber, "so you save me from Manfredi's men? Who do you think is sitting there?" "He wouldn't dare to show up here," replied the voice. "He has and he does," said the barber, "and he always pays honestly for his shave." "My boys would have told me if they had known he was a customer of yours." "He was a client of ours for a dozen years before you came into this district," replied the barber, "now pay up and get out." "Leave me be, punk." replied the voice, adding more expletives and pushing the barber aside. His back hit his colleague's arm and the brush moved swiftly towards the right eye of Manfredi. "Cretino!" cried the big man, getting up and wiping his eye with the sheet that was thrown around his shoulders. Grabbing a razor from the bench he flashed it across the face of the voice, who ran screaming from the shop. There was a deep slit down his cheek, spreading blood in all directions, a gash that only barely avoided the gangster's eye. Manfredi realised whose was the voice and calmly got back to his seat, making himself comfortable once more. Blood had squirted across the bench and was trickling down the glass. The barber apologised profusely. "Carry on, Alfonso, and don't you dare get soap in my eye again. Tell your colleague that I'll pay for that shit." "I am most sorry, Signor Manfredi, most sorry indeed," said the barber nervously resuming his task. “And don't bother to clean up that mess until I have left,” Manfredi added. “Indeed, Signor Manfredi, indeed. I really am most dreadfully sorry. I am so sorry to try your patience, it has not been the best start for the day, has it?” Alfonso replied, obsequiously trying to begin a diverting conversation. “Oh, get on with it man, and be careful, Alfonso. I don't want to be here all day.” Signor Manfredi had little patience left. Then he quietly invited the barber to clean the mirror in front of him. Alfonso's partner did so as swiftly as he could without disturbing Signor Manfredi more than he had to. “Bravissimo.” said the big man, as he could now see his image in front of him. As the barber completed his work trying desperately not to shake from the fear that now consumed his whole body, he pretended a smile and quietly sang a well-known Neapolitan song. Meanwhile, Manfredi was beginning to enjoy himself once more, to calm down and to meditate upon some new and less ruthless enterprise without the interference of his competitors. “Competitors, Huh!” he thought. * * * * * * Alfonso stood outside the bead curtains of his shop contemplating that morning's distraction while awaiting another customer. He was himself something of a philosopher. A Neapolitan barber had to be. A large part of his clientele came from the business and academic classes that enjoyed the banter of his informed and entertaining wisdom. Neapolitans have a unique vitality, strong passions and a resilience that has enabled them to endure many vicissitudes through the centuries, he thought to himself, with reference to the events that he had just witnessed. He then recalled also a few other incidents of past years. Street crime and squalor detract from this unique character of the people, he thought. It engaged their busy lives from early morning to midday, their sleeping through the afternoon and revival in the evenings. Congregating in populous groups rather than in grand piazzas, they differed from the majority of Italian people, didn't they? he asked himself. The only common traits were gossip and their Faith. His thought changed in another direction as he viewed the architectural scene before him. The funicular rising up to the heights of Volmero had reduced the concept of the city to manageable dimensions. Bureaucratic confusion and government corruption had led to neglect for the architecture and the economy. Alfonso had much to discuss without studying the wider world. He had always listened to sounds, sometimes he would sing the usual songs now popular. From one end of the city to the other people had a dialect of their own, which could be intensely difficult to understand, even for himself. He had made it his hobby to learn most of them so that he could converse with his customers without fear of being misunderstood. He chuckled to himself. He could keep the secrets, just as readily as he could pass on to others facts confided to him by his clients. Alfonso's mind wandered back to the earlier scene. In a sense, the German Poet, Goethe was right in calling the Neapolitans childlike, thought the barber. There is generally a graceful absence of envy, belligerence or nationalism, a strong sense of morality and a clear comprehension of human nature. In his opinion, he considered, the immediate reaction of Signor Manfredi had been out of character. Certainly Neapolitans are unsuited to haste, but then Signor Manfredi, though born in Naples, was really a Roman with a German mother. His temperament was not surprising then, Alfonso thought. His meditations took another turn: Neapolitans don't like bureaucratic administration. There was strong family loyalty, but stronger individuality and an enormous capacity for further enjoyment, and, of course, the use of fireworks. Curiously these faults, if they were faults, went together, according to Alfonso. They were his favourite hobby horses for discussion with his clients. For these reasons, he felt, government corruption and neglect are seen to be intensified by any bureaucratic confusion. Perhaps that was what gave rise to the power of the Camorra. Alfonso was next asking himself why he had not called the Police after the incident when his mind diverted further to the subject of festivals and street parties. Perhaps it was his thought about fireworks that brought this into his mind. After all, he contemplated, a diversity of subjects provided the raw material for good conversation, and a good barber was a good conversationalist. But, as a well dressed business man passed by him into the salon, he went back to work through the bead curtains. There was more than enough in his mind to entertain his next customer without worrying about the Police, he thought, as he tucked a clean white towel around his client's collar.
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About the Book
This is a social history written around the experiences of the author during the time he was working in Italy in the 1950's and 60's , since when he has seen considerable changes. The bustling seaport of the ancient city of Naples was a recovering from the Second Great War (WW2) devastation. You were told "See Naples and die!" - because of the many plagues of cholera, syphilis and other diseases that had caused so much suffering since earliest times. The post-war drug trafficking had begun in earnest. Some of these criminals had the reputation of helping the poor, but all were involved in smuggling, prostitution and misappropriation of funds and medical supplies from relief agencies. Murders were a daily happening perpetrated by the gangs at warfare with each other, and each anxious to exploit the spoils of War and Peace. High rise flats and offices replace the bombed sites of the days when this story unfolds. Local officials, often blackmailed and corrupt, took every advantage of international aid. To combat communism the US employed the particular brand of Mafia and smugglers, commonly known as the Camorra. . Churches lit by home-made candles fashioned with prayer were always open; on Sundays and Feast days congregations overflowed, the men escaping from the rear pews to smoke their cigarettes on the portico while the sermon admonished their women folk or bore their children. Nowadays churches are mostly closed for lack of that religious Faith for which Neapolitans were renowned in ardor and song. Candles are factory made
About the Author
Born under the South Downs in a sleepy Sussex village, Cecil came from a family with roots in that English county and having close links with the City of London of which he is a Freeman and liveried of both the Broderers and the Scriveners companies. He trained as a chemist and worked for some years studying antibiotics but continued his interest in heraldry and history. He had also retained his interest in biochemistry and from time to time undertook quality control work among the tomato fields and processing factories of the Po region of Northern Italy and the Naples area. He found that the quickest way of learning the local dialects that helped him to converse with farmers and to get to know about the personalities of the peasants who worked in the fields was to live with them. Sometimes, that meant sleeping in the corner of a one-roomed cottage and eating from tin plates on the patio. The food was always fresh, and in Naples the fish came off the boats of the morning. He found the local clergy particularly helpful in his quest to know more about those with whom he worked. He retired at the age of 81 after serving for 50 years as Principal of an academic institution concerned with the histories of families. The author can soon be identified in the context of this true story, that is told in the style of a fictional novel