How was it possible? In four years he had abandoned five novels. The great Sardinian family saga seemed like the only novel that made any sense, and yet . . . It was useless, it was bullshit. Absolutely, he really needed to go and spend ten days or so in Majorca to clean up his mind.
While he began looking for Cabras's number again, the landline rang. He was sure that on the other end of the line there was definitely a pain in the arse. But he decided to answer anyway. It might be that bitch, his agent, ringing to apologise.
He put on an annoyed tone of voice.
‘Hello? Who's speaking?’
‘Ya poofter!’
Fabrizio closed his eyes and bent backwards, like a football player who stuffs up a penalty kick.
Paolo Bocchi. The quintessential pain in the arse. For reasons beyond his understanding, that creature kept buzzing around him like a mosquito thirsty for blood. Professor Paolo Bocchi always had access to any psychoactive substance that either nature or chemistry offered humankind.
A little bit of grass in Majorca, to be honest, wouldn't hurt at all.
‘So, you old poofter, how are you?’
If there was anything which deeply annoyed him, it was the heavy high-school attitude that Paolo Bocchi had towards him. Just because they'd been in the same class together at San Leone Magno high school . . . That didn't give him the right to be so intimate with him.
‘Come on, Paolo, I'm not in the mood today.’ Fabrizio tried to keep calm.
‘Tell me about it. Today I did two nose jobs and a lipo. I'm whacked.’
Professor Paolo Bocchi was head plastic surgeon at the San Roberto Bellarmino clinic. He had studied under the great Roland Chateau-Beaubois and was considered to be number one in the capital's plastic surgery field. He had restored the youthfulness to many old biddies. His only problem was that he sucked it up like an old woodfired oven.
‘Hey! I did it! I read The Lion's Den. Can I give you my opinion? Fantastic!’
‘Congratulations, it came out eight years ago.’
‘How do you get into people's heads like that? You can really see them, the characters. I swear, better than a film. The nurses didn't believe I could read a whole book . . .’
‘Well,’ Fabrizio tried to cut him off, ‘listen, I'm busy at the moment, I'm about to leave for Spain. In fact . . .’
A scream: ‘What? What about Chiatti's party?’
Fabrizio smacked himself on the forehead. He had completely forgotten about Salvatore Chiatti's party. The invitation had come two months ago. A piece of square Perspex with gold letters written in bas-relief, strictly personal.
For a year everyone had talked only about that party. According to what everyone said, it was shaping up to be the most exclusive and over-the-top event of the last few decades. Missing that sort of affair seriously damaged one's VIP status. But Fabrizio just wasn't psychologically prepared to face mundane situations. To get through a social test like that, you have to be one hundred per cent, witty and chirpy as never before. And at the moment he was as witty and chirpy as a Ugandan refugee.
Salinger. Concentrate on Salinger.
Fabrizio shook his head. ‘Naaaah, that megalomaniac mafioso builder? Never! It's so tasteless.’
‘Are you out of your mind? You don't understand how much that crazy megalomaniac has spent. We're talking about millions, here! You can't miss something like this. Everybody'll be there. Music, arts, football players, politicians, models, everyone! The world's greatest circus. You could write a novel about it.’
‘No listen, Paolo, I know these parties by heart. They bore you shitless. And it's exactly this sort of attention-seeking that I have to avoid. Think of Salinger . . .’
‘Who?’
‘Forget it. Anyway . . . I'll give you a call when I get back, right . . .?’
‘Are you sure?’ Paolo Bocchi was incredulous. ‘I think you're fucking-up big-time. There'll be . . . how can I say it . . .’ The great surgeon was a wizard with the scalpel, but a lexical disaster. ‘You just don't get it . . . They'll be throwing pussy at you. Two days of drinking and screwing in the park. You're crazy.’
‘I know, I know. Look, I've got problems with my publishing house. And I'm just not in the right mood.’
‘Relax, I'll fix it for you.’ Paolo Bocchi laughed deeply.
‘Leave it. I've stopped using that stuff.’
‘Whatever, do whatever the fuck you wanna do. But just so you're clear on this: Larita will be singing, too. It's the only thing that has leaked about the party. Do you get what that means?’
‘Larita? The singer?’
‘No, Larita the dry cleaner! Of course, the singer.’
‘Who cares?’
‘She's won I don't know how many Grammies and platinum discs.’
Fabrizio wanted to hang up. ‘All right, Paolo, I'll think about it. Now just let me go.’
‘Good boy, think about it. Nurse, hurry with that drain, it would be good to get out of here before Christmas . . .’
‘Where the hell are you?’ asked Ciba, speechless.
‘In the operating room. Don't worry, I'm using earphones. See ya, mate.’
And the phone went dead.
Ciba went back into the living room to look for Cabras's essay. And he noticed a piece of paper stuck to the desk lamp.
Good Morning Fabrizio,
My name's Lisa, I'm the girl who brought you home last night.
Forgive me for saying so, but you were really in pieces. How much did you have to drink? I don't know what happened to you, but I'm happy to have been the one to save you. I was lucky enough to meet you in person and to discover that you're even hotter in real life than on TV. I could have taken advantage of you.
I undressed you and put you on the sofa, but I'm an old-fashioned girl and I don't do certain things.
And being here in your house, the house of my idol, of the best writer in the world is incredible.
It's too much. No one will believe me.
I'm never going to wash the arm that you autographed for me ever again.
I hope you'll do the same thing with your hip.
Fabrizio lifted his t-shirt. And he saw, in the region of his left buttock, the unreadable remains of a phone number. ‘No! The shower!’ He continued reading.
Always remember that you are the best, that everyone else is one hundred metres below you.
Now, that's enough compliments, you must be sick of people like me. Call me, if you feel like it.
Lisa
Fabrizio Ciba re-read the note three times, and with each reading he felt his body and his spirit perk up.
He said to himself, fully satisfied: ‘You are the best. You are always the best, everyone else is one hundred metres below you. I could have taken advantage of you.’ He pointed at the window and said: ‘I love you, sweet Lisa.’
That's who Fabrizio Ciba is! Fuck you all!
He had the childish desire to scan the letter and send it to that bastard Gianni & co., but instead he turned the stereo on and slipped in a CD of an old live recording of Otis Redding. The woofer in the huge Tannoy speakers began to shake and the little blue VU meters of his old McIntosh amplifier began to sway as the singer from Georgia struck the first notes of ‘Try A Little Tenderness’.
Fabrizio loved that song. He liked the fact that it began softly, relaxed, and then slowly grew until it changed into an unstoppable rhythm with the husky, kneaded voice of old Otis acting as a counterpoint.
The writer took a beer out of the fridge and began dancing naked in the living room. He jumped around like the great Muhammad Ali before a fight and yelled at the entire universe: ‘Fuck you! Fuck you! I am Ciba! I am the coolest of them all!’ Then he leaped up on the Gae Aulenti coffee table and, using the can as a microphone, began to sing. At the end of the piece he flopped down on the sofa, exhausted. He was breathing heavily, his stomach as swollen as the hull of a boat, but he was still strong. It took more than this to cut him down. He wouldn't run
off to Majorca with his tail between his legs. It came naturally to him to think of the writer F. Scott Fitzgerald. He'd lived his life in sin, between wonderful parties and beautiful women.
He was back again. The old fighter.
Fabrizio Ciba began to hunt, amidst the papers and the mail that crowded his desk, for his invitation to the party.
25
The Wilde Beasts of Abaddon, on board their leader's Ford Mondeo, were stuck in traffic. The GPS navigator told them that they were a kilometre and a half from Villa Ada, but the road blocks on Via Salaria had created a traffic jam on the Olimpica and on Via dei Prati Fiscali.
Mantos, at the wheel, observed his adepts in the rear-view mirror. They had been very good. They had removed their piercings and washed up. Silvietta had even dyed her hair black. But ever since they had left Oriolo they had been quiet, long-faced, wearing worried expressions. He needed to rouse them; that was what a leader did.
‘So, guys? Are you ready?’
‘A little worried . . .’ Murder's mouth was dry.
Silvietta nibbled at her lip. ‘I've never been this nervous, not even for the General Psychology exam.’
Mantos put the indicator on, pulled over to one side of the Olimpica and looked at them: ‘Do you trust me?’
Zombie's face had the same complexion as a boiled cauliflower. ‘We do, Master.’
‘Listen to me. The mission, as you know, is a suicide. There is still time for you to drop out. I'm not forcing anyone. But if you decide to stay, then we have to be a perfect team, as synchronised as a Swiss watch. We have to be ruthless and have faith in the Evil One who watches over our heads.’
At that point he turned on the radio and the chorus from Carmina Burana filled the car. ‘O Fortuna velut luna statu variabilis, semper crescis aut decrescis.’
‘Listen to me! We are the most evil of them. And I want Larita's head. Once inside the Villa, no one will foresee our attack. They'll all be having fun, drinking, they lower their defences and we will knock them down. Zombie, in the back there's a rolled up bathroom mat. Get it, but be very careful.’
The adept stretched into the boot and placed the roll into Saverio's hands. The leader of the Wilde Beasts of Abaddon laid the mat in his lap and slowly and solemnly he unfolded it.
A ray of sunshine shone through the window, making the iron sparkle.
‘Vita detestabilis nunc obdurat et tunc curat’. The chorus continued its impetuous crescendo.
Mantos, struggling slightly, raised the weapon above the head rests.
‘This is the Durendal, the precise reproduction of Orlando's sword used at Roncisvalle.’
‘Nooooo!’ the adepts said in unison. ‘It's gorgeous!’
Saverio opened the car door. ‘Let's get out of the car.’
Silvietta squeezed his shoulder to stop him. ‘Wait, High Priest, they can see us.’
‘It doesn't matter. We'll hide behind the car.’
The Beasts got out and crouched behind the Ford.
‘Kneel down.’ Saverio placed the blade of the Durendal on the heads of his adepts. ‘Murder! Zombie! Silvietta! I, Mantos, your Charismatic Father, high priest of Evil and humble servant of Satan, name you Champions of Evil. May no one dare to break our oath, now and for eternity! We will go all the way with this mission. Unto the final sacrifice of our very own lives. Now let's kiss!’
The Beasts all hugged and kissed, feeling moved.
‘What the hell are you doing? Have you lost your minds?’
They turned around.
Saverio's cousin, Antonio Zauli, at the wheel of his van, was looking at them, astonished.
‘No . . . It's just that . . .’ stuttered the leader of the Beasts.
‘Come on . . . You're running late . . . You've gotta register. Jump in.’
He let them in through the West Gate, the service entrance. There were three entrances into the Villa. Two were closed and only to be used in case of emergency, while the third one, on the Via Salaria, was the main entry, to be used by the guests. Ten-metre-high impressive iron gates ran along tracks, controlled by hydraulic pumps.
The service entrance was patrolled by a private security service who checked the goods going in and coming out. Behind it lay the registration point, a two-storey structure made of glass and anodised steel. The staff, from the cooks to the beaters had to be registered before they could gain access inside.
The Wilde Beasts of Abaddon stood in line. There were about thirty people in front of them, mostly coloured.
‘I feel like I'm at the airport,’ Zombie, who had once gone to Köln to see an AC/DC concert, commented.
When it was their turn, a security guard made them complete a long questionnaire and sign a contract written in really small letters. Then he stamped an indentifying barcode on their wrists. From there, crossing a low, dimly lit corridor, they came to a room with rows of metal lockers where they could leave their clothes and pick up their uniforms. Silvietta got dressed in the women's changing room. They had given her a black skirt, a white blouse and ankle boots with thick rubber soles. When she reappeared, the others began laughing and making fun of her. No one had ever seen her in a skirt. But they had to admit that she didn't look bad at all.
A notice board stated in many different languages that it was strictly forbidden to take any personal objects including mobile phones, cameras and video cameras inside the Villa.
‘How will we get the sword through? And our tunics? We can't do the ritual without out tunics,’ Murder whispered in Mantos's ear.
Mantos had hidden the tunics in his backpack, but held the bathroom mat rolled up around the Durendal under his arm.
He clearly hadn't considered this. So now what? The most important thing was to make them think that everything was under control.
‘No worries. Take it easy.’
He took a deep breath and walked through the metal detector, praying the alarm wouldn't sound.
But that wasn't the case.
‘Come over here,’ one of the guards, weighed down by a bulletproof vest, gestured at him. ‘What have you got there?’
Mantos unrolled the mat nonchalantly.
The guard shook his head. ‘Weapons aren't allowed in.’
Mantos shrugged as if this was the hundredth time this sort of nuisance had happened to him. ‘It's not a weapon. It's just a replica of a Durendal that belonged to Orlando and before him to Hector.’
The man took off his dark glasses, showing two little eyes about as expressive as a bedside lamp. ‘What do you mean?’
The leader of the Beasts looked towards his adepts, who, along with the security guard, were waiting for an answer. He smiled. ‘I mean that it is exclusively of aesthetic value.’ It sounded like an excellent answer to him. One of those definitive answers, for which there is no reply.
‘What's it for?’ the guy enquired.
‘What's it for? Let me explain.’ He took a big breath and jumped in. ‘It's for cutting the roast meat. I'm assigned to the cutting of the red meats. And the clothes that I have in my backpack are needed for a magic show. I am Magician Mantos, and these are my three assistants.’
The security guard scratched the shaved nape of his neck. ‘So, let me get this straight, you are a magician assigned to the cutting of the red meats?’
‘Exactly.’
Some of the guy's few cast-iron certainties snapped. ‘Just a moment.’ He moved away to confab with someone who was probably his boss.
Then he returned and said: ‘OK, you can go.’
The Beasts stiffly passed through the check-in area and came to a courtyard full of cases of wine, food and containers. On one side was a row of parked mini electric buggies like the ones used on golf courses. The square was surrounded by a metal fence and warning signs were hung along it: ‘WARNING. ELECTRIFIED FENCE.’
As soon as they were alone, the Beasts were unable to hold back their joy.
‘You legend, Mantos! You're the best!’ Murder gave his master
a couple of affectionate slaps on the back.
Silvietta huddled up to the high priest. ‘Too cool, the story about the meat-cutting magician.’
‘I wonder what those two said to each other. You threw them off,’ Zombie sniggered.
‘Enough! That's enough.’ The leader tried to hold in check the praises of his adepts.
‘Again?! So you're poofs, then?’ Antonio yelled at them from behind the wheel of his buggy. ‘Come on, hop in. Hurry up. I'll take you to the kitchen area. There's loads of stuff to do and the guests will be here soon.’
Mantos looked around. ‘What's all this security for?’
Antonio pushed down on the accelerator: ‘You'll find out in no time.’
They passed through the gates and drove along a small dirt path immersed in the forest. At first they didn't notice anything, and then Zombie thought he saw something jumping from branch to branch. Then they heard the shrill cries.
‘Gibbons. Don't worry. They're harmless.’
‘Nooooo . . . Unbelievable! Look!’
Zombie pointed at something past the forest. Where the trees thinned out began a huge field of green, green grass where gnus, gazelles and giraffes were grazing. Further on, in a slimy lake, they could see the muddy rumps of a pod of hippos. Flocks of vultures flew overhead.
Mantos was incredulous. ‘It's like the zoo safari at Fiumicino.’
‘That's nothing yet. Just wait and see,’ Antonio smiled smugly.
On their right, hidden behind a row of holm oaks, they noticed a sort of miniature electrical plant. Huge transformers painted green to blend with the surrounding vegetation, created a dull humming sound. Colourful pipes stuck out of the structure and were rooted in the earth.
‘This is the source that powers the whole park,’ Antonio explained. ‘Chiatti produces his own electrical power with gas. It's cheaper than buying it from Acea, given the amount of kilowatts he needs to supply the fences, light the park, and send electricity to the computer room.’
Let the Games Begin Page 11