‘I don't, luckily.’ Fabrizio realised that he had nothing to say to the man.
‘I read your book. A little hastily, on the aeroplane, I do beg your pardon . . .’
Fabrizio coughed out a suffocated ‘And?’ He was about to hear the verdict of the winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature. One of the most important writers in the world. The man who had the best press reviews of anyone in the last ten years. A part of Fabrizio's brain wondered whether he really wanted to hear it.
I bet he hated it.
‘I liked it. A lot.’
Fabrizio Ciba felt a shot of well-being float through his body. A sensation like what a drug addict feels when he injects himself with good-quality heroin. A sort of beneficial heat that made the back of his neck tingle, slid down across his jaw, shut his eyes, slipped between his gums and his teeth, went down his trachea, it spread out pleasantly boiling hot like Vicks VapoRub from his sternum to his spine, through his ribs, and skipped from one vertebra to another until it reached his pelvis. His sphincter tensed briefly and goosebumps shot up his arms. A warm shower without getting wet. Better than that. A massage without being touched. While this physiological reaction – which lasted a few seconds – took place, Fabrizio was blind and deaf, and when he snapped back to reality Sawhney was talking.
‘ . . . places, facts and people are unaware of the force that wipes them away. Don't you agree?’
‘Yes, certainly.’ He answered. He hadn't heard anything at all. ‘Thank you. You've made me happy.’
‘You definitely know how to keep the reader interested, how to move the best chords of your sensitivity. I would like to read something you've written that's a bit longer.’
‘The Lion's Den is my longest work. I've recently . . .’ – it was actually five years ago – ‘ . . . published another novel, Nestor's Dream, but that is also quite short.’
‘How come you don't venture further? You most certainly have the expressiveness to do so. Don't be scared. Let yourself go without fear. If I may give you a piece of advice, don't hold yourself back, let yourself be taken by the story.’
Fabrizio had to stop himself from hugging that dear adorable old man. How true what he had said was. Fabrizio knew he was capable of writing THE GREAT NOVEL. What's more, THE GREAT ITALIAN NOVEL, like I promessi sposi to be exact, the book the critics said was missing in our contemporary literature. And after various attempts, he had begun work on a saga about a Sardinian family, from the seventeenth century until the present day. An ambitious project that was definitely much stronger than the Gattopardo or I Viceré.
Fabrizio was about to tell Sawhney all this, but a little humility held him back. He felt obliged to return the compliments. So he began inventing: ‘I wanted to tell you that your novel had me literally inspired. It is an extraordinarily organic novel and the plot is so intense . . . How do you do it? What is your secret? It has a dramatic energy that left me shaken for weeks. The reader is not only called on to weigh the consciousness and innocence of these powerful female characters, but, through their stories, how can I say it . . .? Yes, the reader is forced to transfer your point of view from the pages of the book to his own reality.’
‘Thank you,’ said the Indian. ‘How nice to pay each other compliments.’
The two writers burst out laughing.
9
The leader of the Wilde Beasts of Abaddon was seated at the kitchen table hoeing into a plate of lasagne floating in a lake of reheated Béchamel sauce. It made him feel nauseous, but he had to pretend he hadn't eaten.
Serena, sitting with her feet up against the dishwasher, was painting her nails. As always, she hadn't waited for him for dinner. The television on the Formica worktop was showing Who Wants to be a Millionaire?, Saverio's favourite programme after Mysteries on RAI Tre. But the Wilde Beasts’ leader's mind was far away. He kept thinking back to the phone call with Kurtz Minetti.
I am such a legend. He cleaned his mouth with the serviette. What did I say again? No. I'm not interested. Could he think of any Satanist on the circuit who would have had the guts to turn down an offer to become the manager of Central Italy for the Children of the Apocalypse? He felt like calling Murder to tell him about how he had told Kurtz to fuck off, but Serena might have overheard him, and then he also didn't want them to find out what that shithead Kurtz thought about the WBA. They'd be offended.
He was surprised at how powerfully and confidently he had pronounced that no. He couldn't help himself from pronouncing it again: ‘No!’
‘No what?’ Serena asked, without lifting her gaze from the fingernails she was painting red.
‘Nothing, nothing. I was just thinking . . .’
Saverio felt an urge to tell his wife all about it, but he held back. If she found out that he was the leader of a Satanic sect, the least she would do is file for divorce.
But that no might be the beginning of an existential turning-point. It was a no that would inevitably lead to an avalanche of no's that it was time to enounce. No to working on the weekends. No to having to babysit. No to him always having to take the rubbish out.
‘There's left-over turkey from yesterday. Heat it up in the microwave.’
Serena was standing up and waving her hands.
‘No,’ he answered naturally.
Serena yawned. ‘I'm going to bed. When you're finished, clear the table, take out the rubbish and turn off the lights.’
Saverio looked at her. She was wearing elastic denim shorts covered in rhinestones, patent white-leather cowboy boots and a black t-shirt with an enormous V for Valentino on it.
Not even the girls who hang out at the shopping centres put on that sort of get-up.
Serena Mastrodomenico was forty-three years old, and all those years of sunbathing had dehydrated her like a sundried tomato. She was very skinny, despite having given birth to twins less thank a year ago. From far away she looked great, with her toned physique, those balloon tits and that caffé latte-coloured complexion. But if you moved in closer and took a better look, you discovered that her derma was stretched and leathery like a rhinoceros's, and a tangle of thin wrinkles ran across her neck, the corners of her mouth and her cleavage. Her green eyes, sparkling and lively, sat upon cheekbones that were as shiny and round as two Annurcan apples.
She often wore open-toed shoes that showed off her tapered ankles and delicate feet. She preferred little summer dresses that left room for lacy bras and two synthetic hemispheres to stick out. She covered herself in more ethnic jewellery than a Berber princess at her coronation.
During their long years of marriage, Saverio had noticed that his wife was very popular with men, especially the younger ones. Every time he went down into the factory warehouse the couriers, a pack of letches, would pull him into their banter. They didn't even respect the boss's daughter.
‘Your wife must be something to watch in bed. Forget about these young chicks, she's got experience. She'll open you like a sofa bed.’ ‘Go on, do a sex tape for us.’ ‘Save, how do you keep her satisfied? I reckon she needs a whole team of beasts . . .’ ‘She's the classic type of woman who acts all sophisticated, but in reality she's a total animal . . .’ And other vulgarities it's best not to mention.
If those morons only knew the truth. Serena deplored sex. She said it was crude. She abhorred any type of nudity, and found body fluids and everything that was involved in physical relationships repellent (except for massages, and those only to be done by a woman).
But something in all of this didn't make sense to Saverio Moneta. If sex disgusted her so much, why did she dress like a playmate? And why, of all the vacant spots, did she always park the car right in front of the storeroom?
* * *
Saverio got up from the table and began putting things away. He didn't feel ready for bed, he was too excited. Luckily, the twins were asleep. The time was right to concentrate on the idea that would shake up the WBA and the rest of the world. He took out a note pad and a pen, and grabbed the remot
e control to turn off the television when he heard Gerry Scotti say: ‘Unbelievable! Friendly Francesco from Sabaudia has made it, all hush-hush, to the question worth a million euro . . .’
The contestant was a fidgety little man with a sneer pulled across his mouth. It looked like he was sitting on a hedgehog. Gerry, instead, had the satisfied expression of a tabby cat who's just scoffed a tin of tuna. As if he was about to sprout claws and start scratching the couch. ‘So, dear Francesco, are you ready?’
The little man swallowed and adjusted his collar. ‘Pretty much . . .’
Gerry puffed out his chest and turned towards the audience, enjoying himself. ‘Pretty much? Do you hear what he says?’ Then, suddenly serious, he spoke to the people at home. ‘Which of you wouldn't be nervous in his place? Put yourselves in his shoes. One million euro can change your life.’ He began talking to Francesco. ‘You said your dream was to pay off your house loan. And now what? If you won, in addition to your loan, what would you do?’
‘Well, I'd buy my mum a car and then . . .’ The contestant was suffocating. He gasped and managed to answer. ‘I'd like to make a donation to the San Bartolomeo Institute of Gallarate.’
Gerry studied him down his nose. ‘And what do they do, if I may ask?’
‘They help the homeless.’
‘Well done.’ The presenter encouraged the audience to clap their hands and the audience responded with an uproarious applause. ‘You're a philanthropist. Are you sure we won't see you zooming around in a Ferrari? No, you can see that you're a good man.’
Saverio shook his head. If he won that sum of money, he would buy a medieval castle in the Marche region and turn it into the headquarters of the Beasts.
‘Now, let's take a look at the question. Ready?’ Gerry tightened the knot in his tie, cleared his throat and, while the question and the four answers appeared on the screen, he recited:
WHO WAS ABADDON?
A)
AN ANGLICAN PREACHER OF THE 18TH CENTURY
B)
A DEMON CITED IN THE APOCALYPSE
C)
AN ASSYRIAN DIVINITY
D)
A MAYAN RELIGIOUS FESTIVAL
Saverio Moneta almost fell off his chair.
10
After the revitilising injection to his ego, Fabrizio Ciba's mood was at stratospheric levels. He had written an important novel and he would write another one that was even more important. There was no need to question the reason for his success. Hence, when he saw Alice Tyler talking with the Martinelli sales manager, he decided that it was fine to intervene. He finished his whisky, messed up his hair and said to the Indian writer: ‘Excuse me a moment, I need to say hello to someone.’ And he went on the attack.
‘Here I am, hello there, I'm Fabrizio Ciba.’ He pushed in between the two, then said to Modica: ‘And seeing as you are bloodsuckers and you never pay me a cent for these presentations, I can do anything I want, so I'm taking the most charming and talented translator in the world away from you and off to drink a glass of Champagne.’
The sales manager was a chubby fellow, unhealthily pallid, and the only thing that he managed to do was puff up like a puffer fish.
‘You don't mind, do you, Modica?’ Fabrizio grabbed the translator by the wrist and dragged her along with him towards the refreshments. ‘It's the only way to get rid of him, talk about money. I wanted to congratulate you. You did a wonderful job with Sawhney's book, I personally checked the translation word for word . . .’
‘Don't make fun of me,’ she giggled, amused.
‘It's true, I swear! I swear on the head of Pennacchini! I checked every one of the eight hundred pages, and nothing. Everything is perfect.’ He put his hand on his heart. ‘Just one comment . . . Yes, on page six hundred and fifteen you translated “creel” as fishing basket and not as lobster pot . . .’ Fabrizio tried to look her in the eyes, but he couldn't take his eyes off her tits. And that skimpy blouse didn't help. ‘I'm sorry, but shouldn't you translators be ugly and badly dressed?’
He was clearly sailing. He was back to being Ciba the conquistador, the one for the most important occasions.
‘So, when should we get married? I write the books and you translate them, or the other way round, you write the books and I translate them. No flies on us.’ He poured her a glass of Champagne. He poured himself another glass of whisky. ‘Yes, we really should do it . . .’
‘What?’
‘Get married, right?’ He was forced to repeat himself. He had the vague feeling that the girl wasn't exactly responding to his advances. She wasn't your classic Italian bint, and maybe he needed to use a more subtle strategy. ‘I've got an idea. Why don't we make a run for it? I've got my Vespa outside. Just imagine, everybody here dying of boredom, talking about literature, while you and I drive around Rome having fun. What do you think?’
He looked at her with the expression of a boy who has just asked his mother for a piece of cake.
‘Are you always like this?’ Alice slid her hand through her hair and opened her lips, showing brilliant white teeth.
Fabrizio purred. ‘Like this how?’
‘Well, this . . .’ She paused for a moment in search of the right word, then sighed: ‘Idiotic!’
Idiotic? What does she mean idiotic? ‘It's the childlike part of the genius,’ he proffered.
‘No, we can't leave. Don't you remember? We've got the dinner. And Sawhney . . .’
‘The dinner, I forgot. Right,’ he lied. He'd overdone it, asking her to run off, and now he tried to dam the refusal.
She grabbed his wrist. ‘Come with me.’
As he passed the table, Ciba snapped up a bottle of whisky.
Where was she taking him?
Then he saw the door leading to the garden.
11
It was obvious that Satan had used Gerry Scotti to communicate with him. How could it be that, of all the infinite number of questions that exist in the universe, the authors of the programme had chosen one about Abaddon? It was a sign. Of what, Saverio hadn't the faintest idea. But it was undoubtedly a sign from the Evil One.
The guy from Sabaudia had stuffed it up. He'd answered that Abaddon was an Anglican preacher from the eighteenth century, and had gone back home to his bank loan.
Serves you right. That'll teach you for not knowing who Abaddon the Destroyer is.
Saverio took a pack of Alka-Seltzer out of the drawer, dissolved a tablet in a glass and thought about the day. The last twelve hours had something prodigious about them. Everything had begun with his sudden decision to make the leap with the WB. Then turning down Kurtz Minetti. Now there was even the big question. He had to look for other signs of the presence of the Evil One in his life.
What day was it today? April 28th. What did the 28th of April correspond to in the Satanic calendar?
He went into the lounge room to get his laptop bag. The room was furnished with the ethnic Zanzibar collection. Square-shaped furniture made of black, oily wood inset with diamond-shaped pieces of zebra skin. They gave off a strange spicy odour that left you with a headache after a while. The Pioneer plasma TV was beneath an enormous mosaic Serena had created using shells from mussels and clams and coloured stones picked up on the Argentario. It was supposed to depict a mermaid sitting on the rocks, playing her long hair like it was the strings of a harp.
Saverio connected to the Internet and Googled for the words: ‘Satanist Calendar’. He discovered that the 28th of April didn't mean anything. But the 30th of April was the Night of Walpurga, when there was the grand meeting of the witches on top of Mount Brocken.
He stood up, feeling confused. The way things had gone today, he was sure that April 28th was a Satanic day.
Even if, truth be told, only because the 28th wasn't far from the 30th, the Night of Walpurga.
He went over to the big box next to the front door. He cut the packing tape and opened it. Then, like an ancient paladin, he kneeled before the treasure, slipped his hands into th
e polystyrene shavings and extracted the Durendal. He lifted it using both his hands. The solid steel blade, the hilt in forged iron and handle covered in leather. He had hesitated at length over whether to buy a Japanese katana, but he'd made the right choice when he bought a weapon that belonged to his own cultural tradition. It was so beautiful it took his breath away.
He went out onto the small terrace, placed it before the moon's disc and, just like Orlando at Roncisvalle, he began to whirl it around. He would have loved to challenge Kurtz Minetti to a duel. In his office in Pavia.
Me with the Durendal and him with the double-headed axe.
He imagined himself dodging a blow, turning around and with a sharp swipe decapitating the head priest. Then he would simply say: ‘Come to me! You will be Beasts.’ And all the Children of the Apocalypse would kneel before his presence. That would be a great moment. Except for the fact that Kurtz Minetti, even though he was only as tall as a dick on a tin can, was a disciple of Sante Lucci, a Shaolin Master from Trieste.
Saverio pirouetted and destroyed the clothes horse. The very idea that that gem would end up above his father-in-law's fireplace in Rocca Raso made him feel sick.
The phone began ringing then quickly turned silent. Serena must have answered. Shortly after, he heard her shout: ‘Saverio, it's for you. Your cousin. Tell him the next time he calls at this hour I'll shove his teeth down his throat.’
The leader of the WB went back into the lounge room and put the sword in its box, picked up the cordless and answered in a rushed tone: ‘Antonio? What is it?’
‘Hey there, cousin. How's it going?’
‘Not bad. What's the matter?’
‘Nothing. Actually, there is something. I need your help.’
That's all he needed. Didn't anyone think that even Saverio Moneta had troubles of his own, too? ‘No, look . . . I'm up to my neck . . . I'm sorry.’
‘Wait. You don't have to do anything. I know you're busy. But every now and then I've seen you hanging out with a group of kids . . .’
Let the Games Begin Page 5