He hadn't been to Naples in years. He was fairly certain the last time had been in 1860; he had just been passing through with Garibaldi's men, looking to do something that felt
useful and
exciting since '48 had collapsed around his ears. Not being a nation made one restless, unsurprisingly, and he had spent an exceeding amount of time drifting through the courts and armies of the Ottoman Empire, France, Hungary, and so forth, only setting foot back in his own territory (which he still thought of as
his, regardless of what Russia and Prussia and Austria said) during the uprisings that blew out every decade or so. Naples brought back tender memories of those times–or as tender as they could be–of camaraderies forged in battle and of the sheer
delight in watching Austria crumble.
They probably weren't so sweet for Lovino. Feliks had heard that the Southerners weren't so gung-ho about unification as the Northerners were, but he couldn't really say; it had been Feliciano who he was closer to during those times, when they regarded the Austrian Empire with similar eyes of distaste. He regretted that he hadn't kept somewhat better communications with the Italians after the World War, when they had both, finally, achieved their goals, but could he really be blamed? They all had their own problems to deal with then, trying to reimagine the world as larger and closer than they had previously thought, trying to fend off age-old enemies and restore burnt-out friendships. And nations could go a long time without talking to each other.
Still, maybe he would've seen this coming if they'd shared a few more afternoon teas to talk religion and music over. Maybe he wouldn't have been able to stop it, since, let's face it, their personal relationships mattered much less than the affairs of state, but… It still felt odd, wrong, somehow to hear these rumors about Feliciano and have no idea how they came to be, to not even know to what extent they were true. And even then, he was going around his long-time friend and erstwhile ally's back to contact the brother that (rumor had it) was firmly beneath the younger counterpart's thumb. The world was heading to strange and terrible places these days, and it was bringing him with it, perhaps more than he'd like to admit.
He disembarked at the tram stop furthest from central Naples. There wasn't anyone waiting for him, which, in the case of Lovino, he expected, and in the case of the Gestapo, was good. The wire he'd sent ahead had been as vague as possible, listing the time he anticipated arriving and a simple
'I'd like to talk.' He'd tried to convince the operators to let him include a doodle of a pony as a signature, but they'd flat-out denied him and his offers to figure it out for himself, so he'd had to settle for initials which was boring and anyone who knew what to look for could obviously decipher it. So it was a good thing that apparently not a lot of people down this way knew what to look for.
He hailed down a cab once he'd hobbled onto the road, and started a stilted conversation with the driver about whether he knew the
'Residenza Vargas, è una fattoria qui vicino? Forse quindici a venti minuti? Lei conosce?' The Italian tasted rusty in his mouth, and scraped past his tongue in awkward syllables. It had been a language he knew as fluid as water before the nineteenth century, but he had gradually stopped practicing the more they came into this one, and not even a long memory could make up for the gaps in vocabulary and delays in thinking that time accrued. At least the driver seemed to understand him, looking like he recognized the name, and it was easier than expected when the man nodded and gestured him on. Hoping it wasn't a trap, Feliks climbed in–if he had been in better condition, he would have walked the distance himself, but it was a tiring affair to do so on his crutch.
He looked out the window as the car rolled towards the city limits, taking in the sights of a world that was still whole. The fields lacked pockmarks, the roads were paved (more or less), and the buildings stood tall and proud. Not even Budapest was so untouched, especially after the Nazis invaded there too. It was… a change, for sure. Feliks didn't know if it made him feel
good or not; the scenery would be easier on the eyes for however long he was here, but he had his own ruined cities to return to eventually, to wait for as they gathered dust, and corpses, and spent shells. But in front of his eyes right now, there was just blue sky reaching to meet the horizon, grains long-cultivated, and somewhere beyond all that, the sea.
By the time the cab stopped, Feliks had nearly dozed. The halt woke him immediately, and he looked out the window to see that they were parked at the end of a long driveway lined with trees, which terminated at the steps of a lovely farmhouse. "Non posso proseguire, è proprietà privata," the driver explained.
Feliks nodded.
"Che ore sono?"The driver glanced at his watch. "Le tredici meno un quarto."
He still had a bit of time before he'd said he was slated to arrive, then.
"Grazie." Feliks paid the driver, then clambered out of the cab, grabbing his meager belongings with him. As the car turned on the quiet road and trundled back towards Naples, Feliks put his weight on his good leg and stretched, breathing in the air that was blessedly free of smoke and tasted of just slightly of salt. He promised himself that if this war ever saw its end, he'd spend a month somewhere with warm beaches and a lot of sun, maybe Antalya, if Sadık would have him. For now, there was business to take care of.
Heaving his combination travel-and-business bag over his shoulder, he repositioned the crutch under his arm and started the trek towards Lovino Vargas's countryside residence. It was a relief to see that nothing appeared unusual–no military vehicles, no soldiers patrolling the premises, no scopes blinking at him from off into the distance. Had he a more efficient means than his wounded leg, he would have circled around the back just in case, but he doubted he'd be able to make it across untrodden ground without much difficulty. He was just going to have to trust that his luck would hold out. Hefting himself onto the front step, he raised a hand and knocked.
Southern Italy The translations aren't so important, but here they are:
"Residence Vargas, it's a farm near here? Perhaps 15-20 minutes? Do you know it?"
...
"I can't proceed, this is private property."
"What time is it?"
"Quarter before one."
"Thank you."
