At the heart of the Spanish Quarter in Naples,
there's a room on the fourth floor
in via Girardi number twenty-six.
The entrance of the building is next to a pharmacy,
the hall is wide and on Sunday it smells of meat sauce.
The black rock ramps are three per floor
and eventually, you get there with shortness of breath.
The floors are checkered in dark colors
and supported by wooden beams vibrating at each step.
The ceiling is high and refined with canvas.
The balcony overlooks the alley,
It has high and heavy shields.
Then if the front terrace doesn't have the laundry laid out,
from there I can see a piece of sea and the blue sky.
There's a room halfway up that steep slope,
at its top left,
In Via Girardi number twenty-six.
Everyone knows everything about everyone.
Mrs. Antonietta is on a look-out.
She's awake at all hours,
and she misses nothing.
A basket goes up and down,
Marlboro cigarettes are the most requested.
There are two squeaky nets in the room,
the mattresses are spring-loaded,
the blankets remind the army ones.
On the walls above my bed,
B&W photos of ‘Sasha Mitchell by Bruce Weber’,
taken from a 1981 ‘For Him’ magazine issue,
beautiful and unattainable like never before.
In the adjoining corner on the other bed,
the photos of a very young and seductive Ornella Muti,
one of them is from the movie ‘The Girl from Trieste’,
she has got her head shaved.
The nights are young and long in the room,
filled with freedom and desire,
bodies cravings out of control,
moans of pleasure stolen from silence,
Solitary hands that often act alone,
while everyone pretends to be asleep.
Crazed hormones belonging to the youngsters,
exhausted bodies whose sap the morning sun regenerates.
Mrs. Antonietta is always there at her window,
she keeps the count of my lovers,
and she doesn't miss any.
She has her favorite one and she's not afraid to say it,
regardless of my embarrassment.
The signs of white nights on the face are barely visible,
the infinite energy of youth keeps them away.
The apartment is crowded,
I often cook so we can have lunch together,
avoiding on the end a big washing up,
while the bathroom is always damned busy.
In that spacious timeless room,
The furniture has heavy taste,
It reminds the WWII and the 50's,
everything is demode’,
and it seems forgotten over the years.
There's a yellowish patina everywhere and on the stuccos.
The table is huge and studying on, comfortable.
The entrance padded chair has a high back.
Everything there creaks when the sun goes down,
the coffees are very often served,
on the drawing board, the nights are long,
starry and warm those in summer.
Laughs fill the voids of silence,
while the stomach bites continuously.
Empty are the pockets,
so many dreams in the drawer,
loves are however young and beautiful.
Everything is caged there,
It's alive but still in time,
so our stories.
Those who have gone from there know it all too well,
they left the best time of their lives,
In that fourth-floor room
in via Girardi at number twenty-six ...