Let the Games Begin

by Niccolò Ammaniti

  Behind him all of the cooks and the skivvies were absolutely still, their eyes lowered.

  ‘No . . . It's just that . . . You never know . . .’

  Saverio's mouth let out words with no construction. He would have owned up, but it was like his tongue had been numbed with an injection of Lidocaine. And he was unable to move his eyes away from the chef's. Two black wells. They were so deep. He felt like he was being drawn in.

  Zóltan grabbed his forehead with one hand.

  The leader of the Beasts felt a pleasant flow of warmth running through the chef's fingertips into his head, and found himself thinking about the maccheroni omelette that his Aunt Imma used to make him when he spent the summers in Gaeta as a little boy.

  He's hypnotising me, he thought for a moment, but straight after that he thought that he had never again eaten such a yummy omelette. It was special because she made it with the puttanesca pasta from the day before. It was thick and tightly packed. Lightly scorched. And it was full of olives and capers. It was a shame Aunt Imma was dead, otherwise he'd have given her a call begging her to make it again. Then he said to himself that, after all, he only needed to beg Zóltan's forgiveness and then he could run home and make that yummy omelette himself. Have we got eggs in the fridge?

  ‘I apologise. You are perfectly right. We are wrong and mortified. But in this instant I need to find out whether Serena has bought eggs,’ Mantos said seriously.

  ‘On your knees,’ Patrovic ordered in a flat tone of voice.

  The three of them, as if they were on remote control, knelt down.

  ‘Heads to the floor.’

  The monk climbed up on their backs.

  It's weird, he doesn't weigh anything, Saverio thought. Maybe he's levitating.

  The chef stood on them silently for a couple of minutes.

  Saverio couldn't see him, seeing as his face was stuck to the floor, but he imagined that the chef was staring at the cooks. Then Zóltan said: ‘Good. I see we've reached an understanding.’ And he got down off the Beasts’ backs.

  All of them nodded and went back to work without making a sound.

  He's telepathic, Saverio realised.

  Then the monk crossed the kitchens, walking stiffly like a wooden statue, as if he was carrying a skateboard underneath his cassock. The cooks bowed and offered him their dishes. He waved a hand over them like a Reiki practitioner.

  Every now and then he murmured: ‘Less ginger. More salt. Too much caraway seed. It needs rosemary.’

  And then, just as suddenly as he had been there, he suddenly wasn't.

  Welcome Buffet

  28

  Even Fabrizio Ciba and the other guests were forced to undergo a similar process to the one the Beasts had gone through to get into the Villa. The writer walked through the metal detector. When it was Somaini's turn, she was forced to leave her mobile phone behind.

  ‘What is this farce?’ the writer asked a hostess.

  The girl explained that Chiatti didn't want the party to become a public event. Hence they were not allowed to send photos, videos or much less communicate with the outside world. For this reason, no journalists had been accredited.

  ‘Don't worry, there are the photographers from Sorrisi e Canzoni. Chiatti gave them the exclusive,’ Somaini confided to him in a soft voice – she was an expert in these sorts of things.

  The two of them left the checkpoint and found themselves facing a small, missile-shaped train, set upon a monorail. On the top was written: ‘VILLA ADA ENTERPRISE’.

  They sat in two black leather armchairs. The loudspeakers of their carriage emitted the voice of Louis Armstrong singing ‘What A Wonderful World’. Paco Jimenez de la Frontera got into their carriage as well, with his long bleached hair and his chiselled jaw that drove women wild. For the occasion the football player was wearing a sparkly tuxedo and a white silk t-shirt. His woman, the statuesque model from Montopoli di Sabina, Taja Testari, was covered from head to toe in a black organza dress that hid her naked body.

  Fabrizio, after the Channel 5 grand gala, had bedded her, but he'd been so drunk that the only thing he remembered was that while they were fucking she had bopped him on the nose, and he had not understood whether it was an erotic game or retribution because he had ripped her dress.

  He was joined by his teammate Milo Serinov, who had hooked up with an ex-showgirl, and was leaving a trail of nauseating aftershave.

  Simona Somaini was still squealing as she snuggled up to Fabrizio Ciba's arm again, glueing her tits to him. The writer suspected that she was doing all of this because the rights to The Lion's Den had been sold to Paramount, and who knows what she hoped for. She didn't know that he had no control whatsoever over the film. The Americans hadn't even wanted to meet him. They had told his agent that they didn't consider it necessary. They had given him a shitload of money on the condition that he didn't make a nuisance of himself.

  The flatscreen TV on the back of the armchair in front of them came to life and the chubby face of Salvatore Chiatti appeared.

  ‘Oh God, he looks just like Minos!’ said Simona, covering her mouth with her hand, surprised.

  Fabrizio was amazed. He hadn't imagined that the actress was an expert in Greek mythology. ‘Minos?’

  ‘Yes, my hairdresser Diego Malara's pug dog. They're identical.’

  She wasn't wrong. The Campanian real-estate agent looked incredibly like that little molosser. The exophthalmic eyes, the small turned-up nose, the round skull set atop his wide shoulders. On the sides, above his tiny ears, grew a strip of silver hair, but otherwise he was completely bald.

  ‘Good morning, my name's Salvatore Chiatti. I hope that this party will exceed anything you could ever imagine. I and my assistants have made every effort so that this may be the case. Now, please, close your eyes. I'm not joking, close them, seriously.’

  The passengers looked at each other and then, feeling a little embarrassed, obeyed.

  Chiatti's voice was becoming more and more honeyed.

  ‘Imagine you are a child again. You are all alone in a little wooden hut, your nana has gone into town. Suddenly the sky starts to grumble. You open the windows and what do you see? At the bottom of the plains a tornado is coming towards you. Terrified, you begin to close the shutters, to lock the door, but the whirlwind is upon the little house in a second and it drags the whole hut, with you inside it, up into the sky. The house is spinning, spinning, spinning . . . And the tornado carries you up high, higher, higher still, beyond the rainbow.’ In the background an instrumental version of ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow’ started to play. ‘And in the end it gently places you in a new, never-before-explored world. In a world where wild and unspoilt nature lives in harmony with mankind. Now you can open your eyes. Welcome to heaven on earth. Welcome to Villa Ada. Hold on tight. One, two, three, we're off!’

  ‘Oh my God.’ Simona Somaini squeezed Fabrizio Ciba's hand as the train departed, thrusting them against the back of the chairs. They crossed a few dozen metres of forest at high speed and then the rail, like a roller coaster, pointed upwards, carrying them above the tops of the pine trees. As they went by, flocks of coloured parrots, ash-coloured cranes and huge vultures with mangy necks flew into the air. Then slowly the train descended again and they found themselves in a green field. They went by herds of gnus, zebra, buffalo and giraffes, which seemed unperturbed by the train. They continued along a small highland where a colony of lions slumbered in the sun next to a pack of African wild dogs, and from there down a slope on which shrubs grew.

  The passengers screamed in excitement, pointing out the animals. Fabrizio thought he saw monkeys in amongst the vegetation. The train took a wide curve, which slowly carried them back up to thirty metres above the ground. From there, they had a complete view of the park. It was an immense green carpet, with the buildings of the Salario suburb and the Viaduct of the Olimpica only just visible.

  In a breathtaking descent, the train slid over a big lake where three house b
oats were moored. The missile then wedged itself underwater in a jubilation of splashing and screams from the passengers.

  Simona was excited. ‘I didn't even have this much fun when I went to the Pirate Waterfall at Gardaland.’

  The train then turned and headed back towards the turreted building with an Italian-style garden and hedges in geometric designs. There the train slowed suddenly and came to a halt. The doors opened with a puff. Hostesses were standing on the platform, waiting to welcome them with binoculars and leaflets with photos of the animals on the reserve.

  ‘Where are the drinks? I need a bourbon,’ Ciba said, stopping himself from expressing all of the profound contempt he felt for Chiatti and that zoo-safari show. Not to mention that little story he had told heavily plagiarised The Wizard of Oz. He would let that disdain grow, he would refine it, render it sublime, and then he would detonate it as forcefully as a nuclear bomb in a mega-article in Repubblica.

  That thought made him feel better. He was still the enfant terrible, a writer as acute and cutting as flying shrapnel who would tear that pathetic circus to pieces.

  29

  At the same time, behind a tool shed, the Wilde Beasts of Abaddon were holding their briefing.

  Mantos was seated on a lawnmower.

  ‘Right, disciples, listen carefully.’

  He pulled out an old copy of the Rome Streetways. He wet his index finger and began flicking through it.

  ‘This is Villa Ada.’ He laid it out on the bonnet and everyone squeezed around. ‘We are here, at the Royal Villa. And from what I read on the programme, the three different hunts will start here in about an hour. They will follow three different routes and then each group will end up in a campsite, where they'll have dinner. After they've eaten, all the guests will regroup and there should be the concert with Larita.’ He snapped his fingers and grit his teeth. ‘What a pity that by then Larita will have been sacrificed. Because we'll kidnap her during the hunt.’

  Silvietta raised her hand. ‘Can I say something?’

  Mantos hated being interrupted while he was explaining a plan of attack. ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘I reckon Larita won't take part in the safari. I know her. She's against hunting. She even participated in a campaign.’

  Fuck, he hadn't thought of that possibility. Mantos acted as if nothing had happened.

  ‘Good work, Silvietta, this is a hypothesis we need to take into consideration. But we can't be certain. We'll find out. And to do so, we have to be as close to the guests and to Larita as possible. We have to dress up like waiters.’

  ‘Listen, Mantos, there's one thing I don't quite get,’ Zombie intervened. ‘Who says we'll be able to get her alone during the hunt? There'll be loads of people about.’

  This time the leader wasn't caught unprepared. ‘Good lad! You are a good lad! And you know why, Zombie? Because you,’ he pointed at him, ‘you will be the one who will stop us from getting caught.’

  ‘Me? How?’

  ‘You're an electrician, right?’

  Zombie scratched the nape of his neck. ‘Well, yeah.’

  ‘Right. At twilight, you'll go to the electricity station, the one we saw on our way in. You'll sneak in and you'll turn the park's electricity off. At that point, without any lighting, taking action will be child's play. Under the cover of shadows, we'll kidnap the bitch. And we'll use this to do it.’

  He pulled a small phial containing a transparent liquid out of his backpack.

  ‘This is a really powerful veterinary anaesthetic, Sedaron. They use it for horses. It only take two drops, and you're out of it. This, I found in the workshops.’ He showed them a stiff plastic pipe. Then he ripped a page from the street map and rolled it into a cone. He took a pin out of his jacket and stuck it into the tip of the cornet. ‘Ladies and gents, here you have a blowpipe. The native Amazonians use this deadly weapon for hunting. At school, I was an ace with the blowpipe. They used to call me El Indio. I'll knock Larita unconscious and then . . .’ He showed them the high ground of Forte Antenne on the map. ‘We'll carry her here . . . where there are the ruins of an ancient Roman temple. And that's where the sacrifice to Satan will take place.’ He looked at them one by one. ‘Right. I think I've made it all clear. Are there any questions?’

  Zombie raised his hand. ‘How am I supposed to cut the wires? With my teeth?’

  ‘Don't worry, there's an answer to that, too. In one of the boxes of cutlery I saw a huge pair of silver poultry shears. You'll use those. Any other questions?’

  Murder shyly raised his index finger.

  ‘What's up?’

  The adept took a deep breath before speaking. ‘You see . . .I was wondering whether you had, by any chance, reconsidered the mass suicide.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘I mean . . . Is it really necessary?’

  Mantos squeezed his hands into a fist to stop himself from getting angry.

  ‘So you mean it's still not clear? Do you want to spend the rest of your life rotting in jail? I don't. This way, we screw them. They'll never be able to arrest us. We have to sacrifice ourselves to become immortal. Do you or don't you want to become legends?’

  ‘You're right . . .’ Murder admitted.

  The others silently nodded.

  ‘Excellent. So now we can proceed to phase one of our plan: Silvietta and Murder go pick up some waiter outfits. Zombie, you go look for the poultry shears. I'll . . .’

  ‘Hey! You four. What are you doing?’ One of Antonio's men had come up behind him. ‘I need a hand. You.’ He pointed at Mantos. ‘You have to take a case of Merlot di Aprilia to the Villa, quick-smart.’

  Mantos whispered to his adepts: ‘I'll see you here again in quarter of an hour.’

  30

  After a thousand doubts about what would be the most effective way to make his entrance, Fabrizio Ciba decided to enter together with Simona Somaini.

  A circular piazza stretched out across the centre of the Italian-style garden, with a big hexagonal stone fountain in the middle. Rose petals floated on the surface of the water. Off to the sides Sicilian carts had been set up and filled with everything on God's earth. Ice sculptures depicting angels and fauna melted under the tepid sunshine of a spring day in Rome. Tables had been arranged in a corner. Trained peacocks, pheasants and turkeys wandered amidst the guests. A group of musicians on stilts played baroque arias.

  Many of the guests had already arrived. People from showbusiness, politicians, and the whole Roma football team, whom Chiatti supported passionately.

  Fabrizio, arm in arm with Simona, made his way through the crowd. He could feel people watching and envying him. He decided to use again the same attitude as he had during the presentation at Villa Malaparte. Confused and bored, forced for inexplicable reasons to mingle with these people who were so different from him. He saw the hard liquor cart.

  ‘Do you want anything, Simona?’

  The actress looked at the bottles of alcohol in horror. ‘A big glass of natural mineral water.’

  Fabrizio drank a couple of whiskies, one after the other. The alcohol relaxed him. He lit up a cigarette and studied the invited guests as if they were fish in an aquarium. Everyone was watching each other, recognising each other, criticising each other, saying hello to each other with a slight nod of the head, smiling at each other pleased to know that they were all part of a community of God Almighties. Fabrizio couldn't work out, though, if the fact that there was an audience to applaud them unsettled them or made them happy.

  Then he realised that off to the side, sitting at a coffee table all alone, was an old man.

  No! I don't believe it! He's here, too . . .

  Umberto Cruciani, the great writer of Western Wall and Bread and Nails, the masterpieces of Italian literature written in the seventies.

  ‘Is that . . .?’ He was about to ask Simona if she recognised him, too, but then he reconsidered.

  What was Cruciani doing there? He had been living in seclusion on a farm in
the Oltrepò Pavese for the last twenty years.

  The master was staring off in the distance towards the hills, his gaze perplexed beneath his bushy eyebrows. He looked like he wasn't even present, as if a bubble of solitude separated him from the rest of the guests.

  ‘What do you reckon to this party? He's gone all-out. Chiatti is already the winner.’

  Fabrizio turned around.

  Bocchi was squeezing a huge glass of mojito into his hand. He was already sweaty, purple in the face, and his eyes were feverish.

  ‘Yeah, nice.’ The writer kept it short.

  ‘In the end, everyone's here. Do you know how many people said they wouldn't come, not even if they paid them, that it was too kitsch? Not a single one is missing.’

  Fabrizio pointed out the old writer to him. ‘Even Umberto Cruciani.’

  ‘Who the fuck is he?’

  ‘What do you mean, “Who the fuck is he?”? He is a master.

  He's up there with Moravia, Calvino, Taburni. Do you realise that forty years after publication his books are still on the bestseller list? I wish Lion's Den sold half as much as Bread and Nails. I could take it easy, I could even give up writing . . .’

  ‘Has he given up writing?’

  ‘He hasn't published anything since seventy-six. But my agent told me that he's been working on a novel for twenty years that he wants to publish posthumously.’

  ‘He won't have to wait too long.’

  ‘Cruciani belongs to a generation of artists that no longer exists. Hard-working people, bound to their native land, to the farm life, to the rhythm of fields. See how concentrated he is . . . It almost looks like he's trying to find the end of his book.’

  The surgeon took a suck on the straw. ‘He's taking a shit.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He's not thinking. He's shitting. You see that Vuitton bag at his feet? It's a fecal collection sack.’

  Fabrizio was crushed. ‘Poor thing. He's a bit weird, too. He hasn't let anyone see a single comma from his new novel. Not even his editors.’