The Story of X: An Erotic Tale Read Free Page B

have never had an orgasm from actual sex. And
     God almighty, I want this to change. I have had enough of being good and dutiful and
     studying so hard. Just give me one summer, please, one summer of hedonism. And sex.
     Lots and lots of proper sex.
    Maybe I am a slut; maybe Jess is right—maybe my inner slut has just been waiting to
     emerge, like a garish butterfly from the albino chrysalis of the Good Daughter. A
     butterfly of the Borgetto, a teetering tart in Prada, an unashamed young mistress
     of a very rich man. I think I’d rather like to be that, just for one summer . Then I could grow old happily, and tell my gratifyingly shocked granddaughters about
     my one libertine summer in sinful and sensuous Naples.
    Oh, Gran, you are such a card!
    The clothes are hung in the big old wardrobe; my last task is to unpack the laptop
     and plug everything in. This is less stressful than unpacking the clothes. There is
     a rickety wooden trestle table, which will suffice as a desk; I can tuck it against
     the wall.
    The laptop booted up, and keyed into the apartment wireless—shared with Jess—I begin
     my work. Sourcing the history of the organized crime gangs of southern Italy. This
     will be the first third of my thesis, and it is already nearly finished. Then comes
     the field research. Interviews. Expeditions.
    Adventures.
    I go over my thesis so far.
    The Camorra.
    The origins of the Camorra, an organized crime syndicate centered in Naples, are not
     entirely clear. It may be a direct descendant of a Spanish secret society, the Garduña,
     founded in 1417—during the Bourbon Kingdom of Naples. Alternatively, it may have emerged
     out of small, native criminal gangs, already operating among the poorest elements
     of Neapolitan society, toward the end of the eighteenth century . . .
    The hours pass. I stare, dry-mouthed, at the screen. Palazzo Roscarrick. I could just
     google it. Palazzo Roscarrick . . .
    The ’Ndrangheta . . . The Camorra . . . The Sacra Corona Unita . . .
    Dammit. I google it. And it takes just one hundred seconds to source: on a website
     dedicated to Neapolitan art and architecture. Jessica was right. “Palazzo Roscarrick”
     is celebrated in art history circles. And it really is about a ten-minute walk away.
    I am seized with the desire to go there. Now. But I mustn’t. But I must. But I can’t.
     But I can. I can’t not go there. Why can’t I go there? This is my job, this is my thesis. I have an excuse,
     no, I have a reason . I could have stayed at home in boring San Jose researching organized crime on the
     Net, but I am here in Napoli to see it for real. And Marcus Roscarrick is, apparently,
     a man who can tell me more: he gives money to mafia victims.
    Why does he do that? Out of guilt?
    Before my conscience or my common sense is able to contradict, I take off the shorts
     and pull on some jeans and sandals and a simple white top. Nothing brash. Maybe one
     bracelet. I like the way Jessica’s bangles show off her suntanned wrist. Maybe another
     spray of perfume? Yes. Definitely. Sunglasses? No.
    Okay, yes.
    The walk should take ten minutes. But I still walk fast along the hot and crowded
     streets. Past van drivers and motorcyclists, past trattorias and fashion stores, past
     red-faced men delivering trays of fresh white creamy mozzarella to the upscale restaurants,
     where the cooks take a pre-lunch break down the side lanes, sneaking cigarettes by
     the potted cypresses.
    Then the street opens out and becomes more spacious, and ancient—and confusing. Via
     Chiaia has turned into a series of marble steps and descending esplanades. I gaze
     around, bewildered, lost among the hurrying businessmen in exquisite suits and the
     policemen sharing one enormous pizza outside a cafe. The city rises abruptly from
     sea level here; do I go up or down? Climbing one flight of polished and venerable
     steps, I look left, and right, and I start to worry—but no. Wait. That’s it.