Page 31 of Marcello

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Pasquale retorted. “Anyway, the Greeks mined tufo, the volcanic rock of the region, and started using it for building. It was strong, it was easily quarried and shaped, and it was incredibly abundant. In the process, they created lots and lots of underground tunnels.

“The one thing that wasn’t abundant in Naples was fresh water, so the Greeks got the bright idea to extend the tunnels to the nearest river. They carved an entryway so the water could get through and flow all the way back to the city, and voilà – Naples had a steady supply of fresh water for the first time ever.

“When the Romans took over the city in 326 BC, they improved on the Greeks’ initial system. They waterproofed the tunnels’ walls to stop erosion, created a city-wide underground system so everybody could get access to the water via wells, and they dug big holding tanks to let the trash and gunk settle down to the bottom.

“The Romans did such a good job that Naples kept using the underground water system until the 1880s, when a massive cholera outbreak forced the city to create a more modern system that kept the sewage lines completely separate from the water supply.”

“Ew,” Federica said as she made her fart face.

“Yeah, it was gross,” Pasquale said cheerfully. “They drained the old holding tanks and stopped letting in river water, which was a good thing – because when the Americans started bombing Naples in World War II, the entire population used the tunnels as bomb shelters. Then, when Italy switched sides and the Germans started bombing us, we used them as bomb shelters again.”

“Whoa… so, what, a million people were able to fit inside the tunnels?” I asked.

“Get this: they only needed a couple miles to fit everybody in Naples, but there are literally hundreds of miles of tunnels.”

“WHAT?!”

“It’s true! I’ve heard estimates up to 280 miles, but it’s such a maze down there, nobody knows how many there are. There’s an old guy at work who’s been exploring them his entire life, but even he says he’s not sure how far they go.”

“’O Munaciello?” Federica asked, pronouncing it oh moo-nuh-CHELL-oh.

“Yup.”

“‘The little monk’?” I asked, perplexed.

“During the Middle Ages, back when Naples still used the tunnels for water, all sorts of crap came in from the river. Tree branches – dirt – dead animals – ”

“Ugh,” Federica said, making her fart face again.

“All the trash would plug things up, so people had to go down there and clean it out. But some of those tunnels are very small, so the city found the shortest people they could – ”

“Kids?!” I asked in horror.

“No, no, they were all adults. But there were probably a lot of ‘little people’ working down in the tunnels. Anyway, they wore brown robes – probably so the mud and crap blended in.”

“Ew,” Federica said again.

“Their robes looked like the brown robes that monks wore, so everybody called ‘em ‘little monks.’”

“Ohhhhh,” I said, finally understanding.

“What’s funny is that we still use the term today. If you can’t find your keys in your apartment, you say, ‘A munaciello hid them.’”

“Like a gremlin,” I suggested.

“Exactly. And that’s because, for hundreds of years, lots of people had wells in the courtyards outside their apartment buildings and houses. Which meant that a munaciello, if he were so inclined, could climb up your well in the middle of the night and burgle your home, then disappear back down into the tunnels without a trace.

“To make sure the munaciellos left them alone, rich people used to give them tips every year – basically a bribe not to steal their shit.”

“Like an underground version of the Camorra,” I joked.

Pasquale laughed.

Federica did not.

“Sort of,” Pasquale agreed, “except the munaciellos were mostly honest. Mostly. But that’s why, if you lose something, you say – ”

“The munaciello got it,” I finished.