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I looked at Colonel Palese, and he was dead too. The voice that proceeded from his lips was watery, cold, glutinous, like the horrible gurgling that issues from a dead man's mouth if you rest your hand on his stomach. The soldiers flopped down on to their left heels in limp and weary attitudes and stared at me fixedly, with a softer, more distant look. I said: 'We are the volunteers of Freedom, the soldiers of the new Italy. It is our duty to fight the Germans, to drive them out of our homeland, to throw them back beyond our frontiers. The eyes of all Italians are fixed upon us.

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It is our duty once more to hoist the flag that has fallen in the mire, to set an example to all in the midst of so much shame, to show ourselves worthy of the present hour, of the task that our country entrusts to us. I want to be sure you understand. Slowly, in a dreadful gurgling voice, he said: 'It is our duty to show ourselves worthy of the shame of Italy. Under his left armpit was a black spot of blood which gradually spread over the material of his uniform.

I watched that black spot of blood as it gradually spread, my eyes followed the old Italian colonel, with his uniform that had belonged to an Englishman now dead, I watched him slowly move away and heard the squeaking of his shoes, the shoes of a dead British soldier, and the name of Italy stank in my nostrils like a piece of rotten meat.

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This bastard, dirty people. I am a bastard and a dirty Italian too. But I am proud of being a dirty Italian. It isn't our fault if we weren't born in America.

I am sure we should be a bastard, dirty people even if we had been born in America. Don't you think so, Jack? Life is wonderful. But don't say that. It's a figure of speech. I like Italians. I like this bastard, dirty, wonderful people. No people on earth has ever endured as much as the people of Naples.

They have endured hunger and slavery for two thousand years, and they don't complain. They revile no one, they hate no one - not even their own misery. Christ was a Neapolitan.

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What do you suppose is the matter with me? You're in a black mood today. I didn't mean to offend you, Jack. I like Americans. I like the pure, the clean, the wonderful American people. I know you like Americans. But take it easy, Malaparte. To hell with Naples, Malaparte. It was not the smell that comes down at eventide from the alleys of Toledo and from the Piazza delle Carrette and Santa Teresella degli Spagnoli. It was not the smell from the fried-fish shops, taverns and urinals nestling in the dark and fetid alleys of the Quarrieri that stretch from Via Toledo up towards San Martino.

It was not that nauseating, stuffy, glutinous smell, composed of a thousand effluvia, a thousand noisome exhalations - mille delicates puanteurs, as Jack put it - which at certain times of day pervades the city and emanates from the withered flowers that lie in heaps at the feet of the Madonnas in the chapels at the corners of the alleys. It was not the smell of the sirocco, which smacks of bad fish and of the cheese that is made from sheep's milk. No, it was not that smell of cooked meat which broods over Naples towards sunset, when la chair des femmes a l'air bouillie sous la crasse.

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Parties of dishevelled, painted women, followed by crowds of negro soldiers with pale hands, were parading up and down Via Toledo, cleaving the air above the thronged street with shrill cries of 'Hi, Joe! Hi, Joe! They formed long lines, and each stood behind a seat. On the seat, their eyes closed and their heads lolling against the backs or sunk upon their breasts, sat athletic negroes with small round skulls and yellow shoes that shone like the feet of the gilded statues of the Angels in the church of Santa Chiara.

Yelling and calling to one another with strange guttural cries, singing, or arguing at the top of their voices with their neighbours, who looked down from the windows and balconies as though from boxes at the theatre, the capere sank their combs into the negroes' curly, woolly hair, drew them towards them with both hands, spat on the teeth to reduce the friction, poured rivers of brilliantine into the palms of their hands, and rubbed and smoothed the patients' wild locks like masseuses. Bands of ragged boys knelt before their little wooden boxes, which were plastered with flakes of mother of pearl, sea-shells and fragments of mirrors, and beat the lids with the backs of their brushes, crying 'Shoeshine!

Groups of Moroccan soldiers squatted along the walls, enveloped in their dark robes, their faces riddled with pockmarks, their yellow, deep-set eyes shining from dark, wrinkled sockets, inhaling through quivering nostrils the dry odour that permeated the dusty air. Faded women, with livid faces and painted lips, their emaciated cheeks plastered with rouge - a dreadful and piteous sight - loitered at the comers of the alleys, offering to the passers-by their sorry merchandise. This consisted of boys and girls of eight or ten, whom the soldiers - Moroccans, Indians, Algerians, Madagascans - caressed with their fingers, slipping their hands between the buttons of their short trousers or lifting their dresses.

Two pounds of lamb cost far more. I'm sure a little girl costs more in London or New York than here - isn't that so, Jack? How much can a little girl of eight or ten weigh? Fifty pounds? Remember that on the black market two pounds of lamb cost five hundred and fifty lire, in other words five dollars and fifty cents. During the last few days the prices of girls and boys had dropped, and they were still falling. Whereas the prices of sugar, oil, flour, meat and bread had risen and were still on the increase, the price of human flesh was slumping from day to day.

A girl between twenty and twenty-five years of age, who a week before was worth up to ten dollars, was now worth barely four dollars, bones included. This fall in the price of human flesh on the Neapolitan market may have been due to the fact that women were flocking to Naples from all parts of Southern Italy. During recent weeks the wholesalers had thrown on to the market a large consignment of Sicilian women.

It was not all fresh meat, but the speculators knew that negro soldiers have refined tastes, and prefer meat not to be too fresh. Yet Sicilian meat was not in great demand, and even the negroes refused it in the end: negroes don't like white women to be too dark. Every day there arrived in Naples, on carts drawn by wretched little donkeys or in Allied vehicles, but mostly on foot, parties of sturdily built, robust girls, nearly all of them peasants, attracted by the mirage of gold. They came from the Calabrias the Apulias, the Basilicata and Molise.

And so the price of human flesh on the Neapolitan market had been crashing, and it was feared that this might have a serious effect on the whole economy of the city. Nothing of the kind had ever been seen in Naples before. It was certainly a disgrace, and the vast majority of the good people of Naples blushed with shame because of it. But why did it not bring a blush to the cheeks of the Allied authorities, who were the masters of Naples?

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In compensation, negroes' flesh had risen in price, and this, luckily, was helping to re-establish a certain equilibrium on the market. I certainly had no intention of offending him, nor of poking fun at him, nor even of being disrespectful to the American Army - the loveliest, the kindest, the most respectable Army in the world.

What did it matter to me if the flesh of a black American cost more than that of a white American?


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I like Americans, whatever the colour of their skin, and I proved it a hundred times during the war. White or black, their souls are pure, much purer than ours.