Chapter Ten

I woke up on the top deck of the ferry. The sun was already high and people ran about and leant over the rails. Reaching out a hand from my sleeping bag I woke Gary who was laid nearby.
"Time to wake up."
"No it isn’t. It’s too early." he mumbled.
"We’re pulling into port."
"It’s an Island on the way. Let me sleep."
"Don’t you want to see it?"
"Seen one island, seen them all." he muttered.
"What Island is it?" I persisted.
"Corfu, Tenerife what do I care?"
"It must be Corfu."
I didn’t expect it to be so green. I scrambled out of my sleeping bag and went to the railings.The morning sun sparkled in the water. Everything was crystal clear and beautiful. It was great to be alive. Helene was a lifetime away. We had been so far and done so much.
Crowds of people gathered on the deck weighed down with Rucksacks and cases, waiting to get off. Full of envy I wanted to get off too and go and swim in that crystal clear water. But we were on a mission. A mission to get back to England before the money ran out. Staying in Corfu would deplete our scant resources even further.
The ferry docked at Brindisi later that day. Near the harbour was a small corner shop selling Pizza. Pizza in big rectangular metal trays. Sold by the kilo. We ordered two kilos of Pizza and then walked with it to a wine shop where we bought a bottle of Italian red. Chianti.
In a small piazza we sat and ate. High buildings surrounded it on all sides. Buildings with balconies and washing hanging from the railings. Old men sat on benches talking. Leaning forward on walking sticks positioned between their legs. Children ran about playing and we sat on the wall of a small fountain in the centre eating our Pizza and drinking the red wine. Full up with pizza and red wine. It was time to sleep again. We’d blown a lot of money on the ferry and couldn’t risk wasting anymore on another hotel so we walked to the Station and caught a train to Naples. We were used to sleeping on trains by now. The rythm and the movement and that, by now, familiar compartment smell, lulled us to sleep. We were used to being woken to show our railcards. We did it in our sleep. The next morning only a vague memory of a conductor remained. All conductors were the same.
The train arrived at Naples early in the morning and we decided to go straight to Pompei. It was shut. Six o’clock and aready it was getting warm, insects buzzed in the morning air. Everything was still. The long spring grass was already starting to turn brown in the sun. We kicked up and down the dusty road. Sending up little clouds of dust as we scuffed our feet. Then we lay in the grass chatting. It seemed odd to be just sitting on the side of the road, far from home at this early hour. I imagined what I would have been doing if I was at Helenes farm. Listening to the cows waiting to be milked. Waiting for Helene to come skipping out of her front door to greet us. She’d be smiling, full of life. But this was Italy, six in the morning on the side of a road. It was surreal, we were just sitting there waiting, not going anywhere, not travelling. We were just, at this place and time, being.
At seven the gates to Pompeii opened. We had the place to ourselves. We walked the streets of Pompeii, looked in doorways read the tourist information boards. But what really caught my attention were the lizards scurrying about the walls, the butterflies flitting about, the flowers growing through the cobbles of the streets, I saw life all around me. I knew what Pompeii was of course, an almost perfectly preserved town that had been buried by ash from a volcano. It was a monument to death and disaster. A time capsule capturing that moment when the town ceased to exist under an apocolyptic avalanche of burning pumice. But here was life all around me, and I marvelled at it all. The ruins meant nothing. Life carries on no matter what. Helene was gone now, my dream of Helene in ruins, life had carried on.
By the time we had finished our tour of the lizards and insects, coachloads of tourists began to arrive. A whole sea of humanity, dressed in sun hats, holiday shirts, short trousers and sandals, all chatting and laughing amongst themselves and full of expectancy and excitement about ticking off another from their list of "must do’s". And then all going to the souvenir shop to buy postcards, pencils they’ll never use and key rings. I bet they never notice the lizards.
We sped on northwards.
Rome. The centre of civilisation. Pennies in the fountain.
"Let’s see the colloseum." I suggested.
"Why?"
"It might be interesting."
"It’s a ruin. It’s falling down. How can you tell what it is? It might collapse on us while we’re walking round." I could tell he was joking.
"Philistine. What do you want to see?" I said.
"The Vatican." Gary pronounced.
"Since when did you get yourself any religion?"
"I didn’t. But you never know, we may get inspired."
"What and become born again Christians or summat?"
"How can you be born again? You never believed in the first place."
"Did you?"
"Not as I can remember, although I did go to church."
"Actually I did too. Mother and Father would send us to Church on Sunday mornings and from there we had to go to Sunday school."
"They didn’t go to Church with you then?" asked Gary.
"No they went to the evening service instead."
"You know what that was all about don’t you?"
"What?"
"The Sunday morning shag of course. Get the kids out the house and voila! ‘s’easy."
"I never thought of that. I bet they never went to church in the evening either. I bet they went to the bar."
"Now we’re getting to the bottom of it. You see religion is a tool. It always has been. In the beginning they used it to scare the shit out of people keep them under the thumb, with stories of hell and damnation, fire, floods and pestilence. Now it’s to get a shag on Sunday morning without worrying that the kids are going to come rushing in mid stroke."
"Your logic is impeccable Gary. Why hasn’t anyone else thought of that?"
"It takes a genius." he said blowing on his finger nails and buffing them on his shirt. "Any thing else you need to know about religion, just ask me. But I’ll tell you one more thing about sex and religion."
"What’s that?"
"Vaseline."
"What about it?"
"Well did you know Vaseline is the favoured sexual product of the Athiest?"
"Is it? I can guess what they use it for but why particularly for athiests?"
"well being as Athiests don’t send their children to church they have to put Vaseline on the bedroom door knob and to keep the kids out."
"OK let’s go to the Vatican. find us some religion." I said.
We walked up the steps to the Vatican and went in. As usual the Americans were there, chandelier with Pentax and Nikons. And despite the stern warning on the signs "Strictly no photography" they were using flash.
We ignored them and stood amazed in the centre of the Cathedral. Shafts of light beamed down through the darkness illuminating a statue of the virgin Mary. Even for non believers like us it was a beautiful sight. The floor was scrupulously clean and shone like a mirror. There was a hush, the only sounds were distant shuffling of feet, occasional scraping of a chair leg on the floor, the creak of a pew being sat on and the distinctive phut followed by that high pitched whine of a camera flash.
I turned to Gary "They’re really pushing their luck with that flash gun."
The Americans had no such worries, rules were there to be ignored, after all they were American. The greatest power on the earth. Rules didn’t apply to them they were exempt.
Gary nudged me "Looks like they have pushed their luck too far now. Here come the Vatican guards."
Two of the Vatican Guard dressed smartly in their medieval uniforms marched toward the Americans from a far corner. We stopped and watched, if we had been religious we’d have been thanking God that the Americans had finally got their come uppance.
We stared in disbelief as the two guards marched straight past the Americans and continued in OUR direction.
The two guards aproached us. "Bonjourno." we said smiling.
"You must leave." There was no pleasantry, no returning of our smiles or greetings.
"What! Why?"
"No photography."
What is the matter with these people. Have we got a fucking label stuck to us saying "arrest us now, we’re trouble"?
"But we don’t even have a camera." I held my hands out for them to see. "NO CAMERA!"
"No photography. We see you."
Did you fuck as ever see us.
"It wasn’t us it was the Americans." Gary pointed to the group of Americans walking across the nave.
"You must leave. Now!" .
They grabbed us and pushed us toward the door.
"I want to speak to the Pope."
"You are leaving."
"We demand to speak to the Pope." It was a ridiculous thing to say, but we were innocent. As usual, young and easy targets. After a while you learn accept the status quo. This is how it is. This is life. It’s all part of growing up. A rite of passage. You are young you are the target. You get older and things change. WE were marched to the front door and firmly shown the way out.
We sat on the steps outside the Cathedral. Things couldn’t get any worse.