Duty And Duplicity; Book 5 Of Poacher's ProgressChapter 13: See Naples And Die free porn video
Those who have been on the Grand Tour assert the most picturesque vistas of Naples are viewed when arriving by sea. I cannot vouch for the veracity of that statement, for when I approached Naples by sea it was teeming with rain, and acres of grey cloud blotted out everything, other than the stench, of the city.
As soon as I landed at the Mole hackney cab drivers surrounded me, eager to carry me off to the hotel of their choice. However, Capitano Ponti had suggested La Croce d’Oro would best suit me, and I ordered the nearest driver to carry me thence.
I had decided to use the identity of Compton Bassett, Lord Clonygowan, during my visit. I thought it highly unlikely any Englishman making the Grand Tour would have knowledge of Compton. By all accounts he rarely left his estate at Mountmellick, other than visits to a high-class brothel in Dublin three or four times a year – it must be an Irish thing. I knew Compton’s history, and could give a full account of his life if challenged.
After a light supper at my hotel I went for a stroll around the town.
The rain had ceased, and fortunately so had the unpleasant odour first encountered. I surmised the Naples sewage system, such as it was, could not cope adequately with a deluge of rain, either that or I had lost my sense of smell.
Two particular features of Naples immediately struck me. One was the flagstones of lava used on carriageway and pavement, the other the absence of street walking whores.
Even so, I was accosted by a pimp who assured me a bella signorina, in a carriage parked nearby, would give me the experience of my life. I did not doubt him, and was intrigued to learn Neapolitan harlots carried out their profession in hackney cabs, as did their sisters under the skin in Pall Mall.
It was during my stroll I discovered the ‘Trattoria Rico’, and made a quick inspection of the interior. No one resembling the description of Francesco Caracciolo given me by Claudia appeared to be in the place.
I decided to call in on the morrow, after making myself known at the British Consulate and casting my eye over William Hickey.
Hickey was not as I pictured him - a man about town, with a wide circle of acquiescences. Instead I met a foppishly dressed but listless looking fellow with a speech impediment, making him difficult to understand. It struck me the reason he wrote at such length was to compensate for his lack of fluency in speech. However, I had him to thank, if that is the correct word to use in the circumstance, for first alerting me that Becky could be in Naples.
The redoubtable Mrs Hyacinth Marjoribanks-Bouquet, who had also noted a girl in Naples I assume was Becky, had sadly departed this life, probably due to apoplexy when encountering the behaviour of young Englishmen on the Grand Tour
Francesco Caracciolo, on the other hand, was everything I had expected, when eventually meeting him. He was a swarthy, thickset gentleman, with gold earrings, a flamboyant moustache, and manners to match.
I found him seated at a table in an alcove at the Trattoria Rico, with two men who could only be mariners.
I strode up to the table and fixed him with a steady look.
“I have come from The Falcon.” I said in my best Italian, not knowing if Caracciolo spoke any English.
Fortunately, he spoke excellent English, far better in vocabulary, diction, and pronunciation, than my Italian. He glanced up at me, and then spoke in barely recognisable Italian – I learned subsequently it was the local Neapolitan patois – to his companions, who swiftly took themselves off to another table.
“Please, sit down.” He indicated a chair, regarding me coolly as I sat before him.
“I am not a great lover of the English. They hanged my uncle, and the one eyed, one-armed, admiral who committed the foul deed became a great English hero. I only talk to you because of my high regard for The Falcon.”
“Well, I am Irish, and my name...”
“English, Irish, you are all the same,” he said.
A genuine Irishman would have dissuaded him of that erroneous view by punching his lights out. I was only a pseudo-Irishman, but even so made him aware of his horrendous error.
“Like a Neapolitan and a Tuscan are the same?”
He had the good manners to acknowledge his transgression.
“In that case I apologise for the insult.”
He held out his hand. “I am Francesco Caracciolo. Who have I the honour of addressing?”
I shook his proffered hand. “Compton Basset, sixth Baron Clonygowan.”
He spoke in rapid Neapolitan to the man behind the counter, then turned to me and smiled.
“I have ordered a bottle of Aglianico, to celebrate the occasion of me hosting an Irish Milord.”
Within minutes a bottle and two glasses were delivered to our table. Caracciolo poured two generous measures.
“Slante!” He said, raising his glass, then laughed on seeing my amazed face.
“That is the only Irish I know. I once shipped with an Irishman as my first mate. He would drink the entire crew under the table, then go and fight the crew of the ship berthed next to us in harbour.”
Caracciolo shook his head in wonder. “He would be as sober as a Franciscan friar the next morning.”
He took a drink from his glass before saying. “So, why are you interested in this girl, Becca di Acuto?”
“She is the sister of a good friend of mine, who is greatly concerned he has not heard from her for over two years. He knew I intended taking the Grand Tour and asked me to make enquiries in Naples, err, Napoli, as it was from here her last letter was posted.”
“And how do you know Signora Garibaldi?”
“We have a mutual acquaintance.” I paused before saying, “Sigismund von Metzendorf.”
I could see the name meant nothing to him.
“Your friend’s sister has not been seen in or around Napoli for over three months. She was the constant companion of Giuseppe di Campania, before being recruited by Cleopatra to work in Cleopatra’s Palace.”
I had to appear ignorant. “What is Cleopatra’s Palace, some sort of theatre?”
Caracciolo nearly choked on his wine. “Not exactly,” he said after regaining his breath. “In fact, it is a bordello, besides being a gaming house and dining and drinking place.”
“In what capacity was my friend’s sister employed?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “I have no idea. I have no need to visit bordellos for female company. The only times I have been in the palace is to avail myself of one of their rooms for hire, when my married female companion’s ardour had to be quickly quenched.”
“Then it is with this Cleopatra I need to speak. How can I meet her? When can I meet her?”
“No one, other than her closest business partners, gets to meet her. You might see her going about in Cleopatra’s Palace, but she is covered from head to ankle in a chador, and wears a burka covering her face. Some say she is Egyptian, others that she is Syrian. What is known is her influence in the royal court of the Kingdom of Two Sicilies and that she has a bodyguard of six Nubians, armed with sharp scimitars.”
“You say my si – my friend’s sister was previously Giuseppe di Campania’s companion. Can you be more specific?”
Caracciolo gazed at me for a moment before speaking.
“Giuseppe di Campania is a pimp, and has a gaggle of young women who he refers to as his ‘Tour Guides’. He rents out these females to visiting English Milords as escorts, showing them the sights and sites of Napoli. The only guiding the girls do is to guide an English pene into their Neapolitan figa...”
“And my friend’s sister was one of these tour guides?”
He shook his head. “No, she was more to Giuseppe than just a whore. He treated her with great respect. She was in fact the teacher of English to those girls he had acquired as tour guides...”
Once again, I interrupted him. “Acquired? A peculiar choice of word, Capitano.”
“But a well-chosen word, Milord. Before the start of the Grand Tour season, Giuseppe takes on several young, attractive, girls, from the poorest and meanest quarters of Napoli. He pays the family two Piastras for the girl, and becomes their legal guardian. The girls are then groomed to attract Englishmen on the Grand Tour. They were taught basic English by Becca di Acuto, and also, more importantly, basic hygiene, dress sense, and table manners. Some girls are so successful in fuelling a man’s passion, and then sating same, that often the turista will ask the girl to accompany him on the rest of the Grand Tour. This is where Giuseppe makes his fortune. He transfers the guardianship documents to the Englishman for a considerable sum of money. By now the girl has wormed her way so deep into the turista’s affections the man will pay any amount to have her by his side. Last year three girls were sold on to Englishmen.”
“But that is slavery.”
Caracciolo shrugged. “Maybe so, but it is legal.”
“And what happens to the girls? Do they return to England with their ‘guardians?”
“I doubt that. Even the most passionate affair ends when reality sets in. What young Englishman, destined to succeed to a title, or hold high office in government, banking, or commerce, will want a Neapolitan harlot as his companion when back in the more stultified atmosphere of England? The girls are usually abandoned in Milano before the journey across the Alps, or in Paris before the journey across the English Channel. However, wherever the girls are left you can be sure they are intelligent enough to make a living, bolstered by the amount of money and jewellery extracted from their erstwhile guardians.”
I nodded in agreement; attractive young females always have one valuable asset to fall back on.
“So when my friend’s sister began working at Cleopatra’s Palace Giuseppe not only lost his mistress but also his golden goose?”
I saw he did not understand my figure of speech and explained.
“He lost the woman who was mainly responsible for the success of his money making activities, unless he has found another English female to train his Tour Guides.”
Francesco nodded his understanding.
“He was heartbroken when she went to work for Cleopatra, and as far as I know no other female has replaced Becca in his affections, or in the business of training the girls.”
“It seems I should speak to Giuseppe di Campania. Where can I find him?”
“You are in luck, Milord Clonygowan. Tonight is the Grand Ball of the New Year. Everyone who is anyone in Napoli will attend. I will take you as my guest and introduce you to Giuseppe.”
I had clean forgotten the New Year of 1823 began the following day.
Since Mimi’s departure to Nice I had been fully focussed with the search for Becky and had lost track of time.
Francesco arranged to meet me later that evening at La Croce d’Oro and take me to the ball. We left with a firm handshake. I returned to my hotel, and ensured my clothes were laundered and valeted well enough for an attendance at a grand ball.
Francesco and his carriage arrived promptly at six post meridian. En route to the ball Francesco gave me details of Giuseppe di Campania.
As I had suspected his name was an alias, Giuseppe di Campania had been born Antonio Rosso, the son of a whore from the meanest quarter of Napoli.
“He was a pickpocket, a throat slitter, and a pimp,” Francesco said, “Who soon progressed up the ranks of the criminal gang of his quartier until becoming the Chef. Now he is only a pimp, although he will slit a throat if he takes a mind to it.”
“Why did he change his name?”
“Antonio, or Giuseppe as we now must call him, made a fortune smuggling slaves and opium from the Balkans into the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies via the port of Bari. He then became aware of the money available if he smuggled weapons to those Greeks who fought against the Turks. He found there were wealthy, gullible, foreigners willing to fund these Greeks, and invented Giuseppe di Campania, the scion of a noble Italian family of fighters for freedom of the people. The English, French, Scandinavians, and Austrians were completely taken in, and gave him great amounts of money.”
Myra
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