Let the Games Begin

by Niccolò Ammaniti

  But it's happening now, for fuck's sake.

  She remembered that film. It was the story of a model employee, with a perfect family, who gets stuck in traffic, lets go of the brakes and starts massacring people with a pump-action shotgun. Her husband was exactly the same as that guy.

  Saverio moved slowly towards the bed.

  ‘You don't know me, Serena. You have no idea what I am capable of. You believe you know everything, but you know nothing.’

  Serena saw that her husband was holding the sword. She let out a little scream and pushed herself against the wall.

  ‘Shut up! Shut up! You'll wake the babies! Ahhh . . . Exactly! Let's talk about babies. You think I don't know why you insisted we go in vitro? It's not because of our age. You thought I ate all that bollocks about our age. No! It's because I disgust you so much.’ Saverio raised his arms, and the sword, showing off his nudity. ‘Go on, tell me. Am I that disgusting?’

  Serena Mastrodomenico was no expert on psychotic syndromes, despite having attended the two-year university course in Psychology. But popular wisdom suggested that you should always agree with a psycho. And in that moment it seemed to be the most appropriate behaviour.

  ‘No . . . No . . . Of course you aren't disgusting,’ she stuttered, surprised that she still had breath to speak with. ‘Listen to me, Saverio. Lay down the sword. I'm sorry for what I said to you.’ She swallowed. ‘You know that I love you . . .’

  He began to shake, overwhelmed by laughter. ‘No . . . You're too much, please . . . Now you've gone too far. You love me! You love me? That's the first time I've heard you say it since I met you. Not even when I gave you the engagement ring, did you say it. You asked me if you could exchange it.’ He turned his heard towards the window, as if someone was there. ‘Do you get it? Do you get what it takes to be loved by your own wife? And they say that marriage is a tradition in crisis.’

  She had to run for it. The window that opened onto the balcony was closed and the venetian blinds were down. And even if she managed to open it, they were on the third floor, and below was the tarmac of the car park. If she screamed for help, he would hit her with the sword. The only thing left to do was to beg for mercy and call on the good old Saverio, who had to be hidden somewhere inside the sick mind of this schizophrenic.

  But that was unthinkable. In forty-three years, Serena had never asked anyone for mercy. Not even the Orsoline nuns who hit her on the knuckles with a ruler. Serena Mastrodomenico's personality had been forged according to the strict Lutheran ethics of the Thyrolean Masters of the Axe. Papa, who had spent his youth as an apprentice in a carpentry factory in Brunico, had told her that the most precious woods snapped but never bent.

  And you, my darling star, are as hard and precious as ebony. And you will never let anyone walk all over you. Not even your husband. Promise me. Yes, Daddy, I promise.

  And so there was no way she would beg mercy of that useless bloodsucking piece of shit Saverio Moneta, son of a modest Osram factory worker and an uneducated housewife. She had cleaned him up, she had let him into her bed, she had got her saintly father to accept him, she had welcomed his worm-eaten sperm to make children with, and now that very man was threatening her with a sword.

  Serena grabbed the alarm clock from the bedside table and threw it at him, grinding her teeth: ‘Fuck you! Kill me! Come on, if you've got the guts. I'm not scared of you, you cockroach without balls!’ And she gestured with her hands for him to come towards her.

  18

  The building where Margherita Levin Gritti lived was old and elegant, with a large entryway that hid a small door.

  Fabrizio Ciba pushed the gold-coloured intercom button. A spotlight placed on top of a video camera shot a ray of light straight into his eyes. His teeth chattered as he waited half a minute before buzzing again. He looked at his watch. Ten past midnight.

  From a stochastic point of view, it was highly improbable that she wasn't in. It just wasn't possible to line up this much bad luck in one thing after another. It would have been like throwing dice and getting seven ten times in a row.

  He held down the button. ‘Answer! Answer! Wake up!’

  And, thank God, a voice answered: ‘Who is it? Fabrizio, is that you?’

  ‘Yes, it's me. Let me in,’ he said towards the eye of the video camera.

  ‘What are you doing here, at this time of night?’ She sounded incredulous.

  ‘Let me up. I'm soaked.’

  The woman didn't speak, then: ‘I can't . . . Not tonight. I'm sorry.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Fabrizio couldn't believe his ears.

  ‘I'm sorry . . .’

  ‘Listen, something seriously terrible has happened. Martinelli want to give me the flick. Let me in,’ he ordered. ‘I'm not here to have sex.’

  ‘I am having sex.’

  ‘What, you're having sex? I don't believe it!’

  ‘Why can't you believe it? What do you mean?’ His agent's voice tensed.

  ‘Nothing, nothing. Right, don't worry, let me in anyway. I'll fill you in quickly, dry off and call a taxi.’

  ‘Use your mobile to call.’

  ‘You know I don't use a mobile. Listen, you stop fucking for a moment and then you pick up again after. It's no big deal.’

  ‘Fabrizio, you don't realise what you're saying.’

  Ciba felt the anger expand inside his guts. ‘You are the one who doesn't realise! Look at me, for fuck's sake!’ He opened his arms wide. ‘I'm soaked! I could get pneumonia. I feel sick! Open this bloody door, for fuck's sake!’

  His agent's voice was firm. ‘Call me tomorrow morning.’

  ‘So you're not going to let me in?’

  ‘No! I mean it, I'm not letting you in.’

  Fabrizio Ciba exploded. ‘Right, you know what that means? Fuck you! Fuck you and your pathetic woman-friend. I know it's the poetess, who else would it be? Whatever the fuck her name is . . . Whatever, the two of you can both fuck right off, you big fat lesbians. You're fired.’

  He walked off, kicking parked cars.

  19

  What a woman! What a lioness!

  Saverio Moneta had always known that his wife had balls, but he didn't think she'd go so far. She was willing to risk her life to put up a fight. That's exactly why he'd decided to marry her. His father and his mother, and all of his relatives (even the ones from Benevento, who had only seen her once), had warned him that she wasn't right for him. She was spoiled, she would henpeck him, squash him, cut him down to the level of a Filipino servant. But he hadn't paid attention to anyone and married her.

  He stretched out the sword and pointed it at her throat. ‘And so you're not afraid?’

  ‘No! You make me sick!’ Serena spat at him.

  Saverio smiled as he wiped his cheek. ‘Huh, so I make you sick.’ He slipped the tip of the Durendal in the buttonhole of the night dress, and with a flick of his wrist he clipped off the top button.

  Serena was tense, her painted red claws ready to scratch him.

  ‘Now I'm going to kill you.’ Saverio clipped off the second button on her night dress. Her boobs, as big as two cantaloupes, with their small dark nipples scared into pointyness, appeared in all their synthetic splendour.

  ‘What are you doing? You sicko! Don't you dare . . .’ hissed Serena, her eyes two dark slits.

  Saverio placed the blade beneath her throat and pushed her up against the headboard. ‘Quiet! Be quiet! I don't want to hear your voice.’

  ‘You're worthless.’

  He grabbed her by the hair and held her head down on the pillow. Then he flung the sword away and with his right hand squeezed her neck like one would a poisonous serpent, before throwing himself full force on top of her.

  ‘So, now what are you going to do? What you gonna do? You can't move. You can't scream. You're scared, aren't you? Admit it, you're scared.’

  Serena didn't give in. ‘I'm not scared of anyone.’

  Saverio realised he had a roaring erection and h
e wanted her like crazy. ‘I'm going to show you . . .’ He ripped her pants off and bit her on the buttock. ‘I'm going to show you who's boss here.’

  A suffocated scream came out of the pillow. ‘If you try it, I swear on our children I'll kill you.’

  ‘Kill me! Kill me, go on. I don't give a shit about my life anyway.’

  He pushed her legs open and slid a hand between her thighs. He made room and penetrated her sharply. His dick sunk inside her right up to her boiling guts.

  Like a cat gone crazy, she pulled her arm free and with a flash of her claws scratched four bloody stripes across his chest.

  ‘You're raping me, you pig. I hate you . . . You don't know how much I hate you . . .’

  Saverio, high on pain, was pumping away desperately. His head spun as the blood swirled in his ear drums.

  Serena had managed to lift her face from the pillow and mumble, ‘Stop it! You make me sick . . . You make me . . .’ She was unable to go on because she began to arch her back, offering herself to Saverio.

  Saverio realised that he had done it. The slut was enjoying it. Today was his day!

  But now there was a problem. At that crazy speed, he wouldn't be able to hold out long. He could feel the orgasm climbing the tendons of his legs. It bit into his thigh muscles and, unperturbed by his own will, it was aiming straight for his arsehole and his balls. He thought of Sting. That son of a whore, Sting, who could apparently fuck for four hours straight without coming. How did he do it? He remembered that in an interview the English rock star explained that he learned the technique from a group of Tibetan monks . . . Something like that. Anyway, it was all a question of breathing.

  Saverio, holding himself up with one hand on his wife's scapula and the other against the wall, began breathing in and out like a dodgy outboard motor, trying to slow the rhythm.

  Beneath him, Serena was wriggling around like the tail cut off a lizard.

  He grabbed her by the hair again and squeezed her tit. ‘You love it. Say it!’

  ‘No. No. I don't love it. It makes me sick.’ And yet, she didn't look as if it made her sick. ‘Arsehole. You're a disgusting arsehole.’ She slapped the mattress and hit the clock radio, which awoke from its slumber and began singing ‘She's Always A Woman’ by Billy Joel.

  Another unmistakable sign that Satan was on his side. Saverio told his disciples that he loved Sepultura and Metallica, but he secretly adored old Billy Joel. Nobody else wrote songs as romantic as his.

  He squeezed his teeth and, with renewed vigour, began hammering her again. ‘I'm going to snap you in two. I swear, I'm going to snap you. Cop this, you tart.’ And he stuck a finger in her ass.

  Serena's whole body stiffened. She stretched out her legs and arms, and lifted her head, looking at him with a pained expression. And then she gave in, sighing, and whispered: ‘I'm coming . . . I'm coming, you fuck. Fuck you, arsehole.’

  Saverio finally let himself go. He relaxed his thighs and came with his mouth open. Exhausted by the effort, sweating all over, he flopped onto Serena's neck and stuck his mouth in her hair. ‘Now tell me you love me,’ he sighed.

  ‘Yes. I love you. Now let me sleep.’

  20

  Fabrizio Ciba had given up looking for a taxi on Corso Vittorio Emanuele. The long boulevard was packed with cars. The bass from woofers made the cars pulse. In a corner he saw a bar with lights on. He catapulted himself inside.

  A suffocating heat. A head-spinning stink of sweat. People everywhere pushing each other in the narrow space. And they were dancing. On the bar. On the tables. An orchestra made up of wild Caribbeans was playing a crappy ear-piercing salsa.

  A short guy with blond fringe and wearing a wrestling vest pulled up in front of him. He was wearing a sort of cowboy belt tied around his waist, loaded with shot glasses instead of bullets. He was holding a bottle in his hand. ‘You look like crap. Have a tequila boom-boom. It'll do you good.’

  Fabrizio necked it. The alcohol warmed his frozen innards. ‘Again.’

  The guy poured him another.

  He necked this one two. ‘Ahhhh! Better. Another!’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  Fabrizio nodded. He placed a soaking wet fifty-euro bank note on the bar. ‘Pour and don't ask questions.’

  The waiter shook his head, but obeyed.

  Fabrizio made a disgusted face as he threw the shot into his stomach. Then he looked at the young man. ‘Listen, my name's Fabrizio Ciba, and I have a . . .’ He stopped. The short-arse's eyes showed only a glacial emptiness. He didn't have the vaguest idea who Fabrizio Ciba was. He was looking at him as if he was a hobo. ‘Is there a phone I can use?’

  ‘No. There should be a phone box in Piazza Venezia.’

  Fine, the writer said to himself, he'd have to fall back on the usual method he used with idiots like this guy. ‘Listen, I'll you give another hundred euro if you take me to Via Mecenate. It's not far from here, it's behind the Colosseum.’

  The fringe-haired guy shrugged. ‘I wish! But I've gotta work.’

  ‘You can't do this to me! Fucking hell, I didn't ask you for the moon.’

  The waiter poured a shot and slammed it down on the counter. ‘Here, this one's on me, but then you piss off. That's a good boy.’

  Fabrizio threw the tequila down in one go and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. ‘If you're in trouble, no one helps you out, right?’ He took two steps backwards and ended up on someone's feet.

  A female voice complained. ‘Ouch! This wanker smashed my big toe!’

  He tried to look her in the eye, but the lights from the bar were pointed right in his face. He lifted his hand in apology, but a male voice barked at him: ‘Listen . . . We've had enough of you. Look what you did to her!’

  ‘So what? I don't get it . . . She's about as good-looking as a clam . . . Don't shellfish have a higher level of pain tolerance?’ He closed his eyes and noticed that the music had stopped. ‘I bet that none of these gentlemen . . .’ He was unable to go on. He had to take a seat. He opened his eyes again and the room with all those fuzzy faces began spinning above him. ‘What a terrible world yours is . . .’ he slurred and tried to grab on to the short-arse, but instead collapsed on the floor amidst people's legs.

  ‘Kick him out!’ ‘We've had enough!’ ‘It's always the same story round here.’

  ‘All right . . .’ He got up, with the help of someone.

  And before he realised he was back outside, beneath the downpour. The cold and the rain were like the crack of a whip, and he felt a little more lucid. He'd cover the last one and a half kilometres home on foot in the rain.

  He made it to Piazza Venezia with his eyes closed and his legs trembling, the cars honking at him. Via dei Fori Imperiali appeared before his eyes. It looked never ending. Off in the distance, like a mirage, the Colosseum glittered, shrouded in water. The rain struck hard on the sampietrini, which shone in the light of car headlights.

  All he needed to do was walk with his head down.

  I've gotta throw up, though.

  He kept thinking back to that arsehole Gianni as he stabbed him in the back, that bitch his agent who hadn't let him in, and those pieces of shit in the bar.

  Tomorrow . . . I'll get . . . a new agent . . . and I'll send a tough email . . . to Martinelli.

  The Colosseum was getting closer. Lit up, it looked like an Italian Christmas cake.

  Fabrizio was bushed, but he accelerated the pace using his last bit of energy.

  I'll leave Martinelli.

  He realised he was out of breath and that a frozen claw was ripping open his heart.

  Oh God . . .

  He lifted his gaze skywards and reached out his hand as if to hold himself steady with something. Then he tripped and the footpath bent in two and came up at him, hitting him on the cheekbone.

  He registered that he was now lying on the ground and was falling unconscious. He vomited something acid and alcoholic, which diluted in a puddle.

  Heart attack.

>   His head had transformed into a fiery ball. His ears housed a jet motor. The Colosseum, the road, the lights, the rain span around him, melting into shiny coils.

  He tried to stand, but his legs couldn't hold his weight. He fell again. He began dragging himself towards the street on his arms, while cars drove past without even slowing. He lifted a hand and murmured:

  ‘Help! Help! Please . . . Help me!’

  Fabrizio Ciba, the international bestselling writer of The Lion's Den, the presenter of the culture programme Crime and Punishment, the third-sexiest man in Italy according to the weekly magazine Yes, understood that nobody was going to stop and help him, and that he would die in his own vomit opposite the Fori Imperiali. He could see the photo of his body melted on the ground. In the background, the Roman ruins.

  It will be in all the newspapers. What will they write? Like Janis Joplin.

  His arm flopped back down. He lay there wondering why, why did this have to happen to him?

  I haven't done anything wrong.

  Everything was turning hazy. All he could see were purple dots.

  He leaned his head on the ground and closed his eyes.

  21

  Mr and Mrs Moneta were lying on the bed. Outside, the storm was beginning to die down.

  Saverio looked at his wife. She was sleeping facing the other way, a mask over her eyes.

  Just after they had finished making love, Serena told him that she loved him. He shouldn't believe her. Serena was as treacherous as a scorpion. To get her to say it to him, he'd been forced to rape her.

  But in the end she came.