A weakness of Serena's that would cost him dearly.
Tomorrow, when she thinks about what happened, she'll go crazy. She'll be even more selfish, overbearing and insensitive than ever. She might even tell her old man about it.
He was unable to hate her, in spite of everything. He'd had to stop himself from saying: ‘Me, too. You don't know how much. More than anything else in the world.’
But now, with a clearer head, he felt differently. That word no kept buzzing around in his head. The gutless cockroach phase was over. The metamorphosis had ended, and now all he needed to do was take flight and disappear.
He'd made a promise to the Beasts, and he would keep it. He would sacrifice Larita to Satan and they would become the world's most famous sect. Saverio Moneta would prove to the world how sick they were in the head.
The police would catch them. That was certain. And the idea of spending the rest of his days in jail terrified him. There were really nasty people in there. Killers, mafia, real psychopaths. Of course, if he went to jail as Mantos, the Lord of Evil, the monster who had decapitated the singer Larita and bathed in her blood, they might all be afraid of him. And they would leave him alone.
Maybe . . . Maybe not . . . Maybe they're Larita fans. And they'll kill me like they did with that poor fellow Jeffrey Dahmer.
This whole jail thing was a real nuisance.
Unless . . .
He smiled in the dark. There was a way.
He got up from the bed. He opened the wardrobe. He took out a black tracksuit that he had bought with the idea of using it to go jogging, something he had ended up never doing. He slipped it on and pulled the hood over his head. He was walking out of the room when Serena mumbled: ‘Where are you going?’
‘Just go back to sleep.’
22
‘Do you need a hand?’
What?
‘Can you hear me? Can you hear me?’
What? Who?
Are you all right?
A voice. A woman.
Fabrizio Ciba squeezed opened his eyes. ‘I'm not well . . . Help me . . . Please.’ He grabbed the ankle of the black figure standing in front of him.
‘Oh my God, but you . . . You're the writer . . . Of course, you are Fabrizio Ciba! What are you doing lying on the ground? I'm so excited to meet you.’
‘Yes . . . Ciba . . . That's me . . . I'm Fabrizio Ciba! Please, help me, take me to . . .’
With the little clearheadedness he had left, Fabrizio realised that if he went to the hospital it would end up in the papers. And they would write that he was an alcoholic, or worse. ‘No. Home. Take me home . . . Via Mecenate . . .’
‘Of course, of course. I'll take you straight home. Did you know, you are my favourite writer? Much better than Saporelli. I've read all of your books. I loved The Lion's Den. Would it be indiscreet for me to ask you for your autograph? I don't have your book with me, though.’
Fabrizio smiled. He loved his readers.
‘Now I'm going to get you into the car.’
He felt himself being lifted by the armpits. He saw a car with the doors open. The woman dragged him over and helped him into the back seat.
I'm still the best, I'm not all washed up . . ., he said as he fainted.
23
Zombie, Murder and Silvietta were enjoying a good chat about films.
They were spread out across a couch and they were passing around a homemade chillum made from a bottle of Rocchetta water. A grey-coloured mix of vodka and smoke sat on the bottom. The plastic sleeve of a Bic pen, which held a double-paper joint, stuck out of a hole. They'd just finished watching Blackwater Valley Exorcism. All three of them were enthusiastic about the film and had agreed that it was better than the much-acclaimed The Exorcist. For a start, everything was based on a true story and, according to their criteria, true stories are better than invented stories. Also, the first scene was unbelievable: Isabel, the daughter of a poor family of Texan farmers, ate a live rabbit. It was a fresh, uncontrived film, and you could see that the director and the actors had given it their all, despite the low budget.
Silvietta began rolling another joint. She was the group's official roller.
‘What do you reckon, Zombie, is Blackwater better than Omen?’
Zombie yawned. ‘Good question . . . I don't know.’
Silvietta yawned, too. ‘I'm stuffed. This Moroccan is brutal.’
Murder lifted his back off the couch and stretched his arms. ‘What about if we went to bed?’
The Vestal passed her tongue over the glue on the paper and, with a technical move, sealed the joint and lit it up. ‘All right, let's smoke our goodnight joint.’ Then she began tidying the heavy metal CDs, the tattoo magazines and the greasy bags from the fried courgette flowers and ascolane olives spread across the floor. When she overdid the grass, she got an attack of housewife syndrome. ‘Zombie, why don't you sleep here?’
‘Well . . . I don't know . . . Better not,’ said Zombie as he searched for his army boots. ‘Tomorrow morning I've gotta take my mum for some medical tests at Formello.’
It wasn't true, but the springs in the couch where they let him sleep were broken. And he hated always looking like he didn't have any women friends, which was true, by the way.
Also, those two swore that they hated couples in love, those lovey-dovey sorts and romantic crap like Valentine's Day, and yet as soon as they got the chance they would go off by themselves, as if he didn't exist.
What harm would it do them to sleep all three of them together in the big bed? Not that he wanted to have group sex (even if, in fact, he wouldn't have minded), but hadn't they taken the Satanic oath of brotherhood? He just couldn't understand what Silvietta found so endearing in that hick, Murder. Zombie was a thousand times better. Agreed, he did have that problem with the gastric oesophagitis, but with the medicine he'd almost got it under control.
Zombie picked up a shoe off the floor. ‘No . . . I'll go home. I prefer to.’
Murder carried his one hundred kilos of fat to the fridge in the corner kitchen. ‘It's up to you.’
Silvietta threw the window open to clear the room of smoke. Outside, the rain had nearly stopped. She stayed there for a bit, staring out at the night, then she turned towards the other two.
‘What sort of plan do you guys reckon Mantos wants to offer us?’
Murder pulled out an old jar of mayonnaise and inspected it. ‘I reckon he doesn't have a clue. He's got no more ideas, he's flat. Didn't you see him at dinner? All antsy . . . I told you we should have gone along with Paolo and joined the Children of the Apocalypse. At this hour, right now . . . Think of the orgies, the sacrifices.’
Zombie tied bows in his laces. ‘They're in Pavia. It's ages away. And I've gotta work.’
Murder stuck a finger in the yellow cream and lobbed it into his mouth. ‘See how dead wrong you are. The Children of the Apocalypse organise their raids for the weekends. You go up there on Friday and on Sunday evening you come down on the train. Monday, you're back at work.’
Silvietta ran her hands through her hair. ‘Yeah, I suppose . . . Even if, at the end of it all, between getting there and back, it costs a wad.’
Zombie scratched his jaw. ‘I'll tell you something else. Saverio doesn't have the charisma of a Kurtz Minetti or, I dunno, a Charles Manson. Let's admit it, the Wilde Beasts of Abaddon are dead!’
‘They were never even born,’ Murder corrected him.
‘No! That's not true.’ Silvietta poured the washing-up liquid in the sink. ‘It's just a phase. You know that Saverio's been having a lot of family problems. I really trust him, though, and I won't give up on him. If it hadn't been for him, I wouldn't have become part of the Beasts, and I would never have met you guys. And also we agreed we'd give him another chance.’
‘Yeah . . . It's true. We owe it to him,’ Zombie repeated, barely convinced.
At that moment the intercom buzzed.
Murder looked at the other two. ‘Who the hell i
s that?’
Silvietta huffed. ‘It must be the old lady from downstairs.’
‘And what does she want?’
‘She says that when we talk, she can hear everything. At the residents’ meeting, the other time, she caused a stink. Just kept going on and on.’
Murder lowered his voice. ‘So what should we do? Be mute?’
‘No. But Murder, my darling, I've told you a thousand times to speak softly.’
‘If there's someone who speaks loudly here, it's him.’
Zombie put his hand on his forehead. ‘Of course. At the end of the day, it's always my fault.’
The buzzer rang again.
Silvietta moved towards the intercom. ‘What do I do? Should I answer? What should I say to her?’
Murder shrugged his shoulders. ‘Tell her not to be a pain in the arse.’
She took a breath and lifted the receiver. ‘Yes?!’ She was silent for a moment, then pressed the button. ‘All right. I'll let you up.’
Murder threw himself over the chillum, to hide it. ‘Are you mental? You let her up?’
Silvietta opened the front door. ‘It's Saverio.’
One minute later, the leader of the Wilde Beasts of Abaddon appeared. He was dressed all in black. Sunglasses. And had his hair shaved off.
Zombie moved closer to him. ‘Saverio, what have you . . .?’
Mantos gestured to him to shut up, then, with a theatrical movement, he took off his sunglasses and looked them up and down, one by one.
‘I know, you're thinking that the great Mantos is finished. That he's lost the spark, worrying about his family and work.’
Murder lowered his head guiltily.
Saverio stared at him, disappointed. ‘Murder, you were the first person who I let read the Tables of Evil. You, you didn't even know what the Satanic courts were. You don't trust in your Master. This is a sect united by its faith in the Malign. Remember that it is extremely difficult to get into, and extremely easy to get out of.’
Murder murmured: ‘Aw, come on, Saverio. I didn't mean to . . . I mean . . . you know . . .’
The leader of the Wilde Beasts of Abaddon looked out the window, then stared at them again.
‘From now on, Saverio Moneta doesn't exist any more. He died on this stormy evening. From now on, only Mantos, the high leader, exists. What day is it today?’
‘The twenty-eighth of April, I think,’ said Silvietta.
‘Mark this date. Today is the turning-point of an epoque. The Beasts will come out of the shadows and conquer the light. This date will be added to the Satanic calendar and remembered with horror by the Christian calendar.’ The leader of the Beasts raised his arms to the ceiling. ‘I am the Charismatic Father. I am the wolf that carries death in the Good Shepherd's flock. I am the one that has had the idea!’
‘I knew he was a legend,’ Silvietta screamed excitedly at the other two. ‘See? I told you.’
‘Tell us, Mantos!’ Murder stretched out his hand towards his rediscovered Charismatic Father.
The leader lowered his arms and pulled a CD out of the pocket of his tracksuit. He threw it on the coffee table in front of the sofa.
Zombie jumped backwards, as if it was a tarantula.
‘Oh my God, what the hell are you doing with a CD of that bitch Larita?’
Mantos pointed at the disc. ‘Did you know where she recorded this live performance? In Lourdes. Did you know that her song “King Karol”, in honour of Pope Wojtyla, has been in the top ten for six months?’
Murder made a disgusted expression. ‘Traitor . . . She converted to Christianity. She is an enemy of Satan.’
Silvietta sat down in her boyfriend's lap. ‘Hey, don't be too harsh. I read an article in People where she explained why she abandoned the Lord of Flies. She was going out with Rotko, the lead singer of Remy Martin, and they both started down the tunnel of drug abuse. He's still a junkie, but she got free of it thanks to Don Toniolo. In rehab, she saw the light and converted to pop.’
Mantos shut her up. ‘Larita will die at the hands of the Wilde Beasts of Abaddon. This is the mission.’
A heavy silence fell over the room.
A dog somewhere in the distance began to howl.
Zombie scratched his head. Silvietta bit her nails. Murder cleaned his glasses on his t-shirt, then let out a deep breath and said: ‘That's huge! Really huge! I didn't expect anything like this.’
‘How will we do it? Have you got a plan?’ Zombie stuttered.
‘Obviously. In Rome, tomorrow, there's going to be a party where all of the VIPs of Italy will be in attendance. Larita will sing during the party. We will be hired as porters. When the time is right, we will kidnap Larita and we will soak the earth in that bitch's blood.’
‘But first we can bonk her, right?’ Zombie asked, visibly excited.
‘Of course, first we'll have a Satanic orgy. The next day, the Wilde Beasts of Abaddon will be on news programmes throughout the world. This is serious stuff we're talking about, not rumours of decapitated nuns. Each one of you will become a hero in the Satanic field, and an enemy throughout the rest of the world.’
Zombie caressed his throat. ‘But they'll catch us for sure, Saverio. I don't wanna go to jail.’
Mantos shook his head. ‘You won't go to jail.’
‘How's that possible?’
‘Don't worry.’ The leader of the Beasts spun around slowly, then stopped and put his hands on his hips. ‘They won't ever catch us. Because we will commit suicide.’
The Beasts studied each other silently.
Murder spoke first. ‘Hey, hang on a second. Are you serious, Saverio? Isn't that taking it a bit too far?’
‘First of all, don't ever call me Saverio again. Second of all, don't be afraid. Death will taste of sweet liqueur to us. We will find ourselves sitting beside Lucifer.’ Mantos lifted his arms. ‘Now kneel and honour your Charismatic Father.’
The three of them bowed down with their heads to the floor.
Mantos bent over, touched the crowns of his adepts’ heads and, opening his eyes wide, began to laugh.
PART TWO
The Party
When dining outside, the Romans often discuss which is the most beautiful park in the city. In the end, inevitably, first place is disputed by Villa Doria Pamphili, Villa Borghese and Villa Ada.
Villa Doria Pamphili, behind the suburb of Monteverde, is the largest and most scenic; Villa Borghese, right in the centre of the city, is the most famous (who hasn't been on the Piazzale del Pincio, which offers an unforgettable view over the centre of Rome and Piazza del Popolo?); of the three, Villa Ada is the oldest and the wildest.
In the modest opinion of the author of this story, Villa Ada beats the other two hands down. It's very big; about a hundred and seventy hectares of woods, lawns and thorn bushes squashed between Via Salaria, the Olimpica Viaduct and the Sports Centre of Acqua Acetosa. It still houses squirrels, moles, hedgehogs, wild rabbits, porcupines, weasels and a rich community of birds. It must be the sense of total abandonment and negligence, but as soon as you enter one of the woods there's a feeling of being in a forest. The city and its sounds disappear and you find yourself amidst one-hundred-year-old pine trees, laurel bushes, muddy tracks that wind around impenetrable blackberry bushes and fallen tree trunks, fields of poison ivy and large lawns covered in weeds. Amidst the branches you can catch a glimpse of old abandoned buildings covered in ivy, fountains taken to pieces by wild fig trees and bunkers destined, to who knows what purpose. If you aren't extremely familiar with the park it's best not to venture in there alone, or you risk getting lost for days. The subsoil of the Villa is covered with the Catacomb of Priscilla, where the early Christians buried their dead.
In the northern part, beyond the big artificial lake, is a tree-covered hill called Forte Antenne because at the end of the nineteenth century the Italian Army built fortifications upon it to defend Rome from French attack. When Rome hadn't yet come into existence, in that position la
y the city of Antemnae. The name, according to the Roman historian Varrone, derives from ante amnem (in front of the river) because that is the point where the Aniene runs into the Tiber. From that position, the city dominated the river traffic that headed towards the ford at the Tiberian Island. In 735 AD Romolo conquered the city, its citizens were welcomed as Romans, and tenant farmers sent to occupy the land. From the third century AD onwards, the city fell into neglect and was abandoned. The highlands of Antemnae, during the centuries of Roman decay, housed the Alaric Goths who, coming from the north, prepared to attack Rome. Nothing more was said for centuries and centuries, until the seventeenth century. The area had become the farming estate of the Irish College. Then, in 1783, the land was bought by Prince Pallavicini, who built a country house on it. Ownership passed in the mid-eighteen hundreds to the Potentian Princes, and was sold in 1872 to the Royal Family, who turned it into their Roman residence. Victor Emanuel II, who was a great lover of the art of hunting, then acquired other lands that bordered with his, to turn it into his hunting lodge.
Upon his death he was succeeded by Umberto I, who moved his whole court to the Presidential Palace. The country house was bought for five hundred and thirty-one thousand lira by the Swiss Count Tellfner, the administrator of the Royal Family's assets, and he named it in honour of his wife, Ada, with whom it seems he was deeply in love.
In 1900 King Umberto I was killed by an anarchist. His successor, Victor Emanuel III, decided to move back to his grandfather's villa, and it was the official residence of the Royal Family until 1946, the year in which the monarchy was ousted, and the king and his kin were forced into exile.
The villa now passed to the Italian Government, with the exception of the Royal Villa, which the Savoys generously granted to the Egyptian Government as a token of their gratitude for hospitality received during the exile of 1946. The building subsequently became the Egyptian Embassy.
From that moment onwards, Villa Ada became public property and was transformed into a city park. New roads were designed, specially equipped tracks for athletes were set up, artificial lakes were dug and many non-native trees were planted.
Let the Games Begin Page 9