Let the Games Begin Page 2

  Luckily an attendant, with a blonde pageboy haircut and wearing a blue suit, appeared. As soon as she recognised her favourite author, with his rebellious fringe and big green eyes sitting astride the old-style Vespa, she almost fell over.

  ‘Let him through! Let him through!’ she screeched in a thin, high-pitched voice. ‘Don't you know who this is? It's Fabrizio Ciba!’ Then, her legs stiff with excitement, she walked up to the writer. ‘I sincerely apologise. Oh God, this is so terribly embarrassing! I'm so sorry. I'd just gone off for a second and you arrived out of nowhere . . . I'm sorry, I'm so sorry . . . I . . .’

  Fabrizio lavished the girl with a smug smile.

  The attendant looked at her watch and rubbed her hand across her forehead. ‘It's very late. Everybody will be expecting you. Please, go, go.’ She shoved the bouncer out of the way, and as Fabrizio passed by her she shouted: ‘Afterwards, would you mind signing a copy of your book for me?’

  Ciba left the Vespa in the parking area and walked towards the villa, his footsteps as light as those of a middle-distance runner.

  A photographer, camouflaged behind the laurel bushes, popped out onto the tree-lined avenue and ran towards him.

  ‘Fabrizio! Fabrizio, do you remember me?’ He began following the writer. ‘We had dinner together in Milano in that Osteria . . . La compagnia dei naviganti? I invited you to come to my dammuso on Pantelleria and you said that you might come . . .’

  The writer raised an eyebrow and gave the scruffy hippie, covered in cameras, the once over.

  ‘Of course I remember . . .’ He didn't have the faintest idea who the man was. ‘Sorry, but I'm late. Maybe some other time. They're expecting me . . .’

  The photographer didn't relent. ‘Listen, Fabrizio, while I was brushing my teeth I had a brilliant idea: I want to take some photos of you in an illegal dumping ground . . .’

  Standing in the doorway of Villa Malaparte the editor Leopoldo Malagò and the head of public relations for Martinelli, Maria Letizia Calligari, were gesturing to him to hurry.

  The photographer was struggling to keep up, with fifteen kilos of equipment hanging around his neck, but he wouldn't be deterred.

  ‘It's something out of the ordinary . . . striking . . . The garbage, the rats, the seagulls . . . Do you get it? The magazine, Venerdì di Repubblica . . .’

  ‘Maybe some other time. Excuse me.’

  And he threw himself in between Malagò and Calligari. The photographer, exhausted, bent over holding his side.

  ‘Can I call you in the next couple of days?’

  The writer didn't even bother to answer.

  ‘Fabrizio, you never change . . . The Indian got here an hour ago. And that pain in the arse, Tremagli, wanted to start without you.’

  Malagò was pushing him towards the conference hall while Calligari tucked his shirt into his trousers and mumbled, ‘Look what you're wearing! You look like a tramp. The room is full. Even the Lord Mayor is here. Do your fly up.’

  Fabrizio Ciba was forty-one years old, but everyone thought of him as the young writer. That adjective, frequently repeated by the newspapers and other media, had a psychosomatic effect on his body. Fabrizio didn't look any older than thirty-five. He was slim and toned without going to the gym. He got drunk every evening, but his stomach was still as flat as a table.

  Leopoldo Malagò, nicknamed Leo, was thirty-five but looked ten years older, and that was being generous. He'd lost his hair at a tender age, and a thin layer of fluff stuck to his skull. His backbone had twisted into the shape of the Philippe Starck chair he spent ten hours a day sitting in. His cheeks sagged like a merciful curtain over his triple chin, and he'd astutely grown a beard, albeit not one bushy enough to cover the mountainous region. His stomach was as bloated as if someone had inflated it with an air-compressor. Martinelli obviously spared no expense when it came to feeding its editors. Thanks to a special credit card, they were free to gorge themselves in the best and most expensive restaurants, inviting writers, paper-smearers, poets and journalists to feasts disguised as work. The outcome of this policy was that the editors at Martinelli were a mob of obese bons vivants with constellations of cholesterol molecules floating freely through their veins. In other words, Leo – despite his tortoiseshell glasses and his beard that made him look like a New York Sephardim and his soft, marsh-green-coloured suits – had to rely on his power, on his unscrupulousness and his obtuse insistence for his romantic conquests.

  The same did not apply to the women who worked for Martinelli. They began working in the publishing house as frumpy secretaries, and in the aggressive years they improved consistently thanks to enormous investments in themselves. By the time they reached fifty, especially if they had a high-profile position, they became algid, ageless beauties. Maria Letizia Calligari was an emblematic example. Nobody knew how old she was. Some said she was a young-looking sixty-year-old, some an old-looking thirty-eight-year-old. She never carried any identification with her. The gossipmongers whispered that she didn't drive simply to avoid having to carry her driving licence in her purse. Before the Schengen treaty came into force, she would go to the Frankfurt Book Fair by herself so that she didn't have to show her passport in front of any colleagues. But she had slipped up once. At a dinner party at the Turin Book Fair she accidentally mentioned that she had met Cesare Pavese – dead since 1950.

  ‘Please, Fabrizio, don't rush poor Tremagli as soon as you walk in the door,’ Maria Letizia urged.

  ‘Go on, show us your stuff. Kick his arse.’ Malagò pushed Fabrizio towards the conference hall.

  Whenever Ciba walked into a venue, he used a secret ritual to get himself pumped. He thought about Muhammad Ali, the great boxer, about how he shouted and moved towards the ring encouraging himself: ‘I'm gonna kill him! I won't even give him the chance to look at me before he'll be down for the count.’ He did two little jumps on the spot. He cracked his neck. He tousled his hair. And, as charged as a battery, he walked into the grand affrescoed room.

  3

  The leader of the Wilde Beasts of Abaddon was at the wheel of his Ford Mondeo amidst traffic moving towards Capranica. The stretch of road was lined with shopping centres that stayed open late, and there were always delays. Usually, waiting in a traffic jam didn't worry Saverio. It was the only moment of the day when he could think about his own business in peace and quiet. But now he was running very late. Serena expected him for dinner. And he had to stop by the chemist's, too, and pick up some paracetamol for the twins.

  He was thinking about the meeting. It would have been hard for it to go any worse than it did, and as per usual he had got himself into trouble all on his own. What made him think he should say that if he didn't bring in a plan within a week the sect could disband? He didn't have even a scrap of an idea, and it's common knowledge that laying down the guidelines for a Satanic mission takes time. He had recently tried to come up with some kind of plan, but nothing had occurred to him. Even the super-bargain month he'd organised at the furniture shop had been a washout, and he was still stuck there from morning till night, with the old man all over him as soon as he tried to take one step.

  He had, though, stumbled on a bit of an idea a while ago: vandalise the Oriolo Romano Cemetery. On paper, it was a lovely plan. If carried out properly, it could work out really nicely. But when he'd taken it under closer consideration, he'd decided to abandon it. To begin with, opposite the cemetery there were always lots of cars coming and going, so it had to be done late into the night. The surrounding wall was also more than three metres high and scattered with pieces of broken bottles. Groups of teenagers hung out in front of the entrance gates and occasionally were even joined by the Porchetta sandwich van. Inside the graveyard lived the caretaker, an ex-soldier who was off his rocker. Absolute silence would be needed, but when uncovering graves, pulling up coffins, removing bones and piling them in heaps, a bit of commotion couldn't be avoided . . . although Saverio had even thought of crucifying the ex-soldier head-downwar
ds over the mausoleum of the Mastrodomenicos, his wife's family.

  Too complicated.

  His mobile began ringing. On the display he read ‘SERENA’.

  Saverio Moneta had told her the usual story: a Dungeons & Dragons tournament. For two years now, to keep his Satanic activities under wraps, he had told her that he was a champion boardgame-player. But this wouldn't hold up much longer. Serena was suspicious. She kept asking him lots of questions, wanted to know who he played with, if he'd won . . . Once he had organised a fake match with the Beasts to reassure her. But when his wife had seen Zombie, Murder and Silvietta, rather than feeling reassured she had become even more suspicious.

  He took a breath and answered his phone.

  ‘Honey, I know, I'm running late, but I'm on my way. Traffic's hell. There must be an accident up ahead.’

  Serena answered with her usual gentleness.

  ‘Oi! Have you gone completely out of your mind?’

  Saverio slumped in the front seat of the Mondeo. ‘Why? What did I do?’

  ‘There's a guy here from DHL with a huge package. He's asking for three hundred and fifty euro. He says it's for you. So, do I pay him?’

  Oh God, it's the Durendal.

  He'd bought the faithful reproduction of the sword of Roland, Charlemagne's paladin, on eBay. As legend would have it, it first belonged to Hector of Troy. But that dimwit Mariano, his building's caretaker, was supposed to intercept it. Serena wasn't meant to know a thing about the sword.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, pay him. As soon as I get home, I'll pay you back,’ said Saverio, feigning calm.

  ‘Are you mental? Three hundred and fifty euro?! What the hell did you buy?’ Then Serena turned to the DHL delivery man. ‘Would you mind telling me what's in this box?’

  While a spurt of peptic acids nibbled at his stomach wall, the grand master of the Wilde Beasts of Abaddon wondered why the fuck he had chosen such a mortifying life. He was a Satanist. A man who was attracted to the unknown, the dark side of things. But at that very moment there was no trace of anything dark and unknown except for the reason why he'd ended up in the arms of that harpy.

  ‘Excuse me, what's in the box?’ Serena asked the DHL man.

  He could hear the delivery man's voice off in the distance. ‘Ma'am, it's late. It's written on the delivery slip.’

  Meanwhile Saverio banged the nape of his neck against the head rest and mumbled: ‘What a mess . . . what a mess . . .’

  ‘It says that it's from “The Art of War” from Caserta . . . A sword?’

  Saverio raised his eyes to the sky and made an effort not to begin howling.

  ‘What do you want a sword for?’

  Mantos began shaking his head. A huge billboard on the side of the road caught his eye.

  THE HOUSE OF SILVER. WEDDING LISTS.

  UNIQUE AND EXCLUSIVE GIFTS IN PURE SILVER.

  ‘It's a gift, Serena. It's a surprise. Don't you get it?’ His voice had risen a couple of octaves.

  ‘Who for? I reckon you've lost it.’

  ‘Who for? Who could it be for? Have a guess?’

  ‘What would I know . . .?’

  ‘For your father!’

  There was a moment of silence. ‘My father? What would he do with this sword?’

  ‘What else could he do? He can hang it over the fireplace, can't he?’

  ‘Over the fireplace? In the mountains, you mean? In the chalet up on Rocca Raso?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Serena's voice softened instantly. ‘Oh . . . I didn't expect you to be so sweet and thoughtful. Pussycat, sometimes you really know how to surprise me.’

  ‘I have to hang up now because I shouldn't talk on the mobile while I'm driving.’

  ‘All right, pussycat. But come home quickly.’

  Saverio hung up and threw the phone into the glove compartment.

  4

  In the conference hall of Villa Malaparte there were people everywhere. Many stood along the side corridors. Some university students were sitting cross-legged in front of the speakers’ table. Others were perched on window sills. It was surprising that nobody was hanging from the Murano glass chandeliers.

  As soon as the first photographer spotted the writer, the flashes started popping. Three hundred heads turned and there was a moment of silence. Then, slowly, a murmur rose. Ciba walked down the aisle while six hundred eyes watched him. He turned backwards for a second, lowered his head, touched his ear lobe and put on a fearful expression, trying to appear slightly awkward and embarrassed. The message his body language sent out was simple: I am the greatest living writer on earth, and yet even I can run late because, despite everything, I am a normal person. Just like you all are. He looked exactly the way he wanted. Young, troubled, with his head in the clouds. With his tweed jacket worn through at the elbow and his baggy trousers two sizes too big (he had them made in a kibbutz near the Dead Sea), with his waistcoat bought in a charity shop on Portobello Road, with his old Church shoes, which had been given to him the day he graduated from university, with his nose that was just a little too big for his face and that wild tuft of hair that fell over his green eyes. A star. An English actor who had been given the gift of writing like a god.

  As he moved towards the table Fabrizio studied the components of the crowd. He guessed that ten per cent were officials, fifteen were journalists and photographers, at least forty per cent were students (actually female students popping with hormones), and thirty-five per cent old bags on the verge of menopause. Then he added up the percentage of these wonderful people holding a copy of his book or the Indian's book to their chest. Easy done. His was a powder-blue colour with the title written in a bright blood red, while the Indian's was white with black writing. More than eighty per cent were powder blue! He managed to make his way through the last few bunches of people in the crowd. Some shook his hand, some gave him a brotherly slap on the back as if he had just returned from a stint on some celebrity reality TV show. Finally he reached the presenters’ table. The Indian writer was seated in the middle. He looked like a turtle who had his shell slipped off and a white tunic and black-rimmed glasses put in its place. He had a peaceful face and two small, wide-set, watery eyes. A carpet of black hair combed back with hair oil helped him to not look like an Egyptian mummy. When he saw Fabrizio, the Indian bent his head forward slightly and welcomed him, pressing the palms of his hands one against the other. But Ciba's attention was immediately drawn to the female creature sitting next to Sawhney. About thirty years old. Mixed heritage. Half Indian and half Caucasian. She looked like a model, but those glasses perched on her petite nose gave her the air of a primary school teacher. A Chinese chopstick held her long hair together in a dishevelled manner. Loose locks, the colour of tar, fell around her delicate neck. A narrow yet voluptuous mouth, lazily open, stood out like a ripe plum above her pointed chin. She was wearing a white linen blouse, open just enough to show off her cleavage, which was neither too small nor too large.

  A C cup, Fabrizio calculated.

  Her bronze-coloured arms came to end in fine wrists covered in heavy copper bracelets. Her fingers were tipped with nails painted black. While Fabrizio took his seat, he peeked under the table to see if she was just as well-set down below. Elegant legs appeared from underneath a dark skirt. Her thin feet were wrapped in Greek-style sandals, and even her toenails were covered in the same black polish as her hands. Who was this goddess come down from Olympus?

  Tremagli, seated on his left, looked up from his sheets of paper, a stern expression on his face. ‘Well, Mr Ciba has decided to honour us with his presence . . .’ He made a point of staring noticeably at his watch. ‘I believe, if you agree of course, that we may begin.’

  ‘I agree.’

  For Fabrizio Ciba, the highly esteemed Professor Tremagli, without beating around the bush, was a huge pain in the arse. He had never attacked him with one of his poisonous reviews, but he had never praised him either. Quite simply, for Professor Tremagli, Ciba's wor
k did not exist. Whenever he talked about the current, regrettable, state of Italian Literature, he began to go into raptures over a series of little writers only he knew, and for whom the sale of one thousand five hundred copies would trigger a family party. Never a mention, never a comment about Fabrizio. Finally, one day, on Corriere della Sera, when asked directly ‘Professor, how can you explain the Ciba phenomenon?’, he had answered: ‘If we must talk of a phenomenon, it's a passing phenomenon, one of those storms greatly feared by meteorologists but which pass by without causing any damage.’ And then he'd clarified: ‘However, I haven't read his books thoroughly.’

  Fabrizio had foamed at the mouth like a rabid dog and thrown himself onto his computer to write a fiery reply to be published on the first page of La Repubblica. But when his ire had died down he had deleted the file.

  The first rule for each true writer is: never, ever, not even on one's deathbed, not even under torture, reply to insults. Everyone expects you to fall into the trap and reply. No, you have to be as intangible as a noble gas and as distant as Alpha Centauri.

  But he had felt like waiting for the old fogey on his front doorstep and ripping that fucking walking stick out of his hands and beating it down on his skull like it was an African drum. It would have been so enjoyable, and it would have strengthened his reputation as an accursed writer, one of those who answered literary insults with his fists, like real men, and not like fuckwit intellectuals using bitter comments in page three of the Culture section. Only thing was, that fogey was seventy years old and he would have ended four paws up in the middle of Via Somalia.

  Tremagli, in a hypnotist's tone of voice, began a lesson on Indian Literature, starting with the first texts in Sanskrit dating back to 2000 BC found in the rock cave tombs of Jaipur. Fabrizio calculated that it would take him at least an hour before he made it to 2000 AD. The first ones to be anaesthetised would be the old biddies, then the officials, then everyone else, including Fabrizio and the Indian writer.