"You must take a ride on the area around Naples," Monica said to him
sensuously. "Along the ancient Roman way, you’ll find the best market of
prostitution since Giulio Cesare. Young, beautiful, mostly black. The prices
are very low. And they are so... Nice!"
She was happy to see him back. She really was. Taking care of his sexual life.
"Really?"
"Yes, complete service it’s gonna cost you ten dollars."
Ulysses tried to take Monica with him. He pried her. But Monica didn’t want
to go. She didn’t like women or boys on the street. She was too easily
moved. "I can’t think about sex knowing that they're doing it to pay bills.
Ten orgasms and they pay the telephone. Twenty and the rent is over. I feel
bad to know that an orgasm of mine would be valued just ten dollars."
Ulysses stared at her.
"I know," she said "it is strange. But, I mean, I don't want to know which is
the price of a night of love."
"Of sex," said Ulysses.
"Love" insisted Monica. "You choose her. You check out the one you like. So
it's love. Light affection, feeling or emotion: you might call it as you
want, but I think it's love. And I don't want to know how much someone could
offer to me for one hour of love."
Ulysses was driving to Naples alone. The panorama was changing: along the
street there were trees and bushes and reeds: and everything was dirty. The
vegetation seemed to be siphilitic, the green of trees was dull and dusty.
Along the street groups of bitches and policemen.
Policeman?
What the hell were they doing? Selling themselves for a sadomasochistic orgy?
Ulysses stopped the car. What the hell were they doing? Checking orgasms’
speed limits? They were just looking around.
Ulysses had a terrible thought. Were they controlling the young workers? The
number of clients and the amount of money earned by the girls? Probably they
were paid by the local mob to make clients sure that nothing bad would
happen. That place was protected by the mob and the police. Ulysses was
smiling. It was not possible.
No, the Italian government was offering a restoring service after a bill.
Policemen and bitches were working together. That was it.
A car arrived. A girl came down and everybody said "ciao", very kindly, to
the driver, a ugly short fat Italian almost invisible in his mercedes. The
girl kissed on the cheeks one of the two policemen, the taller, and gave him
some money. He checked the amount and put it in his pocket. Slapped her on
the back and smiled to his friend.
"She is a good worker," he said.
Ulysses couldn’t believe it.
But he didn’t have time to think. They were staring at him. He didn’t know
what to do. They were moving. The hands on their guns. Ulysses tried to smile.
A nightmare.
They inquired everything. Looked at his writings, fortunately they didn't
understand English, and at his documents asking the reason for each thing.
They were a little nervous when they discovered he was a journalist.
One of them was with the gun in his hand. Playing strangely with it.
"I have to go," said Ulysses. "You certainly have to work a lot!" A new car
with a new client was stopping by.
Ulysses was driving slowly. He had a strange smile on his face. In his hands
he was wrinkling a piece of paper: an improbable bill for having stopped in
a no parking area. Five hundred dollars and no receipt. He could have had
fifty orgasms or one orgasm with fifty girls. He was smiling. The car was
running much over the speed limits, he had already paid for it. Everything
was happening forty miles away from Naples.
What the hell was he going to find in Naples?
