Evenings are best for listening: The cool damp air lifts sounds from ground and trees, sounds you’d never otherwise hear, and carries them to you like the Wise Men’s gifts.
Stefan was careful to drive the speed limit—he had no license, and the vehicle was stolen. But there were no daughters, or sons, of Greek gods close on his trail. A Police of State car passed him. A Carabinieri car passed him. Neither driver paid him, or anyone else on the crowded road, any mind.
The meds humming through his system, and his muse, Euterpe, hovering in his heart, helped, but still he remained unsteady. Shaky-hand, sweaty-skin.
As for his most recent participant in the composer’s art, Ali Maziq, he thought nothing at all. The skinny little creature no longer existed to Stefan. He’d played his part in Stefan’s journey to Harmony—and a fine contribution he had been.
He hummed a bit of “The Waltz of the Flowers.”
Gasp, two, three, gasp, two, three…
The car rose to the crest of a hill and he pulled onto the weedy shoulder and stopped. He gazed over the fields of Capodichino. This district, now a suburb of Naples, had been the site of a heroic battle: the Neapolitans against the Nazi occupiers on the third day of the famed—and successful—uprising known as the Four Days of Naples in 1943.
These fields were home to Naples airport and a number of businesses, small factories and warehouses. Modest residences too.
And here you would find something else, something that insistently drew the gaze of any passerby: the Capodichino Reception Center, one of the largest refugee camps in Italy. It was many acres in size and filled with orderly rows of blue plasticized tents, Ministero dell’Interno emblazoned in stark white letters on the roofs.
The camp was surrounded by an eight-foot fence topped with barbed wire, though it was flimsy and little-patrolled, Stefan noted. Even now, so late, the place was bustling. Many, many people milled about, or sat or squatted. He had heard that all the camps in Italy were vastly overcrowded, security inadequate.
All of which was great for Stefan, of course. A chaotic hunting ground is a good hunting ground.
Having verified that there were few guards, in vehicles or on foot, patrolling the roads surrounding the camp, he now pulled back onto the road and maneuvered his old Mercedes forward. He parked not far away from the main entrance, climbed out. He walked closer, mixing with a cluster of lethargic reporters, probably backgrounding human interest pieces. Protesters too. Most placards he didn’t understand but several were in English.
Go Back Home!
Scanning the camp: It was even more crowded than when he’d first been here, just recently. But otherwise, little had changed: Men in taqiyah or kufi skullcaps. Nearly all the women were in hijabs or wearing other head coverings. A few of the arrivals had suitcases but most carried cloth or plastic bags, filled with their only remaining possessions in the world. Some clutched the thick quilted blankets they would have been given by the Italian navy, after their human smugglers’ boats had been interdicted—or after they’d been fished from the Mediterranean. A few still held orange life vests, also given out by the military and NGOs and, occasionally, the smugglers themselves (at least those worried that drowned customers were bad for business).
Many of the refugees were families. The second-most populous group seemed to be single men. There were hundreds upon hundreds of children. Some playing, cheerful. Most sullen, bewildered.
And exhausted.
The soldiers and police officers were plentiful and, given the many different uniforms, must have come from a number of branches of government. They seemed weary and stern but appeared to treat the refugees well. None of them paid the least attention to Stefan, just like the other day.
Chaos.
Hunting ground…
Something caught his eye. Stefan could see a man slipping out at the far end of the fence, through a slit cut vertically in the link. Was he escaping? But, watching, he noticed the man stroll nonchalantly up to one of a dozen vendors ringing the camp, selling food, clothing and personal items. He made a purchase and then returned.
Yes, the camp security was porous.
Stefan bought food from one of these stands, a Middle Eastern dish. It was tasty but he had little appetite. He simply wanted some calories for the energy. He ate as he walked up and down the roadway along the camp. He then returned to the main gate.
Soon a large panel truck arrived, its precious cargo yet more refugees, with varying degrees of dark skin and wearing garb typical of North Africa, he supposed. Some too, he guessed, would be from Syria, though the journey over so many kilometers of rough sea—to the western shore of Italy—seemed unimaginable.
He heard, in his mind’s ear, the creak of boards of the frail ships, the thump of the Zodiac boat pontoons, the unsteady stutter of struggling motors, the cries of babies, the slap of waves, the call of birds, the hiss and flutter of wind. Eyes closed, shivering as he was momentarily overwhelmed by hearing sounds he could not hear. He calmed and wiped the sweat, putting away the tissue. See, he thought to Her, I’m being careful.
Always, for his muse.
The thirty-odd refugees disembarked from the newly arrived truck and stood near the entrance to the camp, under the eyes of two guards. No machine guns. Just white leather holsters containing pistols on lanyards. They were directing the arrivees into a processing station—a long, low table where four aid workers sat, over clipboards and laptops.
Stefan moved closer yet. It was so crowded that no one paid him any mind. He was near to a couple who stood sullen and exhausted looking—nearly as tired as the two-year-old child asleep in the mother’s arms. They stepped to the table and the husband—they wore wedding rings—said, “Khaled Jabril.” A nod to his wife. “Fatima.” Then he brushed the child’s hair. “Muna.”
“I’m Rania Tasso,” said the woman they stood before. Heads nodded, but no hands were shaken.
Khaled was dressed Western—jeans and a counterfeit Hugo Boss T-shirt. Fatima was scarfed and wore a long-sleeve tunic, but was also in jeans. They both had running shoes. The little girl was in a costume, yellow. Some Disney character.
The woman reviewing their passports, Rania, had dark-red hair, done in a double braid, down to the small of her back. The radio on her hip and badge dangling from her neck meant she was an employee of the organization. After some minutes of watching her, Stefan decided she was very senior, perhaps the director of the camp. She was attractive. Her nose was Romanesque and her skin an olive shade that suggested her Italian ancestry was mixed with Greek or perhaps Tunisian.
The refugees answered questions. And, oh my, Stefan did not like Fatima’s voice one bit. “Vocal fry,” the tone was called—a condition afflicting more women than men, he believed. A rasping, growling quality to the voice.
She spoke more words.