Page 35 of Marcello

And overflow channels between caverns that were so small, even a toddler couldn’t have crawled through them.

I even saw ’o Munaciello.

We encountered another group that was wrapping up their tour. The guide was a grizzled old guy, five and a half feet tall, probably around 60 years old. He had a head of white hair, a wrinkled face, and a week’s worth of stubble. He wore old jeans and a flannel shirt under his bright orange vest, and he spoke gruffly to his group in Neapolitan-accented Italian.

“Hey, everybody, this is my fellow tour guide Giacomo!” Pasquale announced, then looked directly at me and tilted his head like, This is the guy! “He knows the tunnels inside and out, better than anybody else at Sotto Napoli.”

“Pecché nun saje nu cazzo,” the old guy grunted in Neapolitan.

Literally it meant, Because you don’t know a dick, but the most accurate translation in English was Because you don’t know shit.

The Italians all laughed. They probably didn’t catch the full meaning, but cazzo was the same in Neapolitan and Italian, so they got the idea.

The Americans and Germans in our group looked confused as to why all the Italians were laughing.

Pasquale just grinned. “Ah, that Giacomo – he’s quite the joker! If you will, everybody, let his group through before we start walking again!”

The rest of the tour was magnificent.

Everywhere I looked, it was like something out of a Hollywood adventure movie –

But the most interesting thing wasn’t on the tour.

It came afterwards.

Pasquale and I walked up the ramp to street level after the tour had ended.

“So, did you enjoy it?” he asked.

“It was great – even better than I could’ve imagined.”

“I’m glad you liked it! Yeah, this is a pretty sweet gig – and it allows me to spend a lot of time on my real passion!”

As Pasquale started talking about art, I tuned out –

Because as soon as we entered the walkway of arches and columns, I saw him:

The Camorra thug.

He was leaning against one of the arches and smoking a cigarette as he stared out into the street. He was probably my age, maybe a little older.

He had to have been Camorra. He was wearing a bright red track suit, and there were ugly tattoos on his neck and forearms where he’d rolled up his jacket sleeves.

During the tour, everything had been so amazing that I’d completely forgotten why I’d come in the first place –

So when I saw the guy, I froze in my tracks.

Pasquale noticed I’d stopped and turned around. “You okay?”

“Is that him?” I whispered.

Pasquale followed my gaze and whispered back, “Oh – yeah, that’s him.”

“Huh.” I turned away from the Camorra thug and looked at Pasquale. “Do you guys have any job openings?”

Pasquale looked completely taken aback. “Uh – I don’t know – maybe. You’re seriously interested in working here?”

“Everything I saw today was awesome. And I’m pretty tired of washing dishes for nine euros an hour.”