He began to study the Filipino pensively, as the man continuously flicked the beast's neck. The track was getting narrower and darker, and there was no sign of the tiger. The last rays of sunshine were cutting through the undergrowth and strange calls could be heard in the air – it was impossible to tell whether they were birds or monkeys.
A weak moan rose up from the third elephant. Pisu's face had taken on the colour of Terra Di Siena. ‘Come on, I beg you, give me . . . a Travelgum . . . a travel plaster . . . a banana . . . I'm dying.’
‘Again!’ the Russian's girlfriend answered impatiently. ‘You hard of hearing? We haven't got one.’
‘You think it's funny, but I . . .’ The poor guy didn't get to finish his sentence because a river of yellow vomit spurted out of his mouth and spilled down the neck of the elephant driver.
The Filipino turned around. ‘Fuck you!’ he said, and shook the clam-and-baby-calamari-ring salad off his turban. ‘Gross!’ And with a flick of his wrist, he whipped the soap star in the face.
‘Ahhhhhh!’ screamed Fabiano as he wobbled out of the basket and flopped down into an enormous puddle at the elephant's feet.
‘Hombre at sea!’ shouted Paco Jimenez de la Frontera.
Except for Khaled Hassan, who was waving wildly at his fallen companion, nobody really cared what happened to poor Pisu. The elephants, in their ancient wisdom, kept up their slow onward march, abandoning the actor from Marquess of Cassino to the mercy of the wild beasts in the park.
45
The leader of the Wilde Beasts of Abaddon was full of energy. He was heading straight towards death, and the Beasts were with him again. He turned to tell them to start singing a conciliatory song to Satan and saw Murder and Silvietta walking along calmly, hand in hand, as if they were off on a picnic.
Murder really is lucky, Mantos said to himself.
Saverio Moneta, in forty years, had never been loved like that. Before Serena, the leader of the Beasts had only had a couple of affairs during the dark years of accountancy. Nothing special, they lasted a couple of weeks, because if you went out with a girl then in the eyes of your classmates you were less of a loser. More than going together, they were associations of mutual aid.
He had noticed Serena Mastrodomenico as soon as he had been hired at the furniture shop. She was so tanned and slim, she reminded him of Laura Gemser, the actress from Emanuelle Nera. An onanistic topos of his years of puberty.
He was crazy about Serena, but he saw no way of making her his. He was the last of the accountants and she was the owner's daughter. She paraded like a goddess in a miniskirt through the corridors of the shop and Saverio dreamed of just being able to talk to her, to invite her out to dinner on the Bracciano lake. She didn't even condescend to look at him, though. Even if she walked by him every day, she had never even noticed him. And that was the way it should be. Why should an elegant, worldly woman be interested in a no-hoper like him? A guy who didn't even have a car. A guy whose eyesight had faded reading huge volumes on the mysteries of the Templars and the Bermuda Triangle.
One evening Saverio was in the office, checking over the six-monthly budget again. His colleagues had gone home and he was alone in the furniture shop. He had bought a slice of mushroom-and-prawn pizza, and every now and then he took a bite, making sure he didn't stain the books. He had his headphones on and was listening to ‘The Ride of the Valkyries’ at full volume.
Suddenly he'd raised his eyes. On the other side of the corridor, the door to Egisto Mastrodomenico's office was open, and the light was on.
It couldn't be the old man. He had left for the Country Style Furniture Fair in Vercelli.
A thief had slipped in and he hadn't noticed? He was just about to call security, when Serena came out of the room carrying loads of shopping bags in her hand. Saverio Moneta's heart had exploded. Shaking all over, he had taken the headphones off and shyly raised one hand to say hi, but she hadn't even responded. But then she came back in and had tipped her head to study him better. ‘All on your lonesome?’
‘Ummm . . . yeah . . .’ he had managed to say, trying to sit upright in his chair.
She had walked into the accounting office and glanced around as if to check that there really wasn't anybody else there. Saverio had never seen her looking so good. She must have just come from the hairdresser and she was wearing a little pink leotard as tight as the skin on a snake, the zip well splayed over the top of her neckline, and white leather boots that came up to her knees. From her ears hung two gold rings as big as CDs.
‘Are you bored?’
‘No’, Saverio had answered instinctively. But then he'd thought that no right-minded person enjoyed checking the six-monthly budget, and he corrected himself: ‘A little . . . But I'll be finished soon.’
She had touched up her hair and had asked him: ‘Do you want me to give you head?’
Saverio thought he'd heard her ask if he wanted her to give him head. But he must have misunderstood. She must have asked him if he wanted some tea.
‘The drinks dispenser is broken . . . They should fix it by the end of the week.’
‘I asked you whether you wanted me to give you head.’
Saverio couldn't believe his ears. Maybe the mushrooms on the pizza were hallucinogenic.
He kept staring at her with his mouth wide open, like an idiot.
‘So?’ She was chewing gum and had repeated the question just as if she had asked him whether he wanted tea.
‘What?’
‘Do want it or not?’ Serena was getting sick of waiting. ‘What?’ Saverio's mind had stalled.
‘Don't you know what it is? Head is a sexual practice whereby I take your dick in my mouth and I suck it.’
Why was she doing this to him? What had he done to hurt her?
It was obvious. It was a trap so that she could accuse of him of sexual harassment, just like in American films.
‘All right, I get it.’ Serena walked around the desk, knelt down, pulled her hair up, took the chewing gum out of her mouth and passed it to him. ‘Hold this, please.’
Saverio had squeezed the gum between his fingertips while the daughter of his boss, with the cold-blooded ability of a nurse taking the clothes off an injured man, undid his belt and unbuttoned the fly of his trousers.
‘You might like it.’ She lowered his jocks and looked at his cock without making any comments. Then with her right hand she'd grabbed it, weighed it and squeezed like you do with a cow's teat. With her left, she cupped his scrotum and began to roll his testicles in the palm of her hand like they were two Chinese anti-stress balls.
Saverio, his legs wide, squeezed the armrests of his chair with an expression of terror painted on his face. It was astonishing what this woman was able to do with his reproductive organ.
But the show wasn't over. Serena opened her mouth wide, and with her little pointy tongue she had wet her lips and then swallowed the whole thing, right down to his balls. Saverio was terrified that he wouldn't enjoy it in the least, but then all it took was for him to realise that Serena Mastrodomenico was holding in her mouth the entirety of his cock to bring him to an explosive and embarrassing orgasm.
She had wiped the back of her hand across her mouth, looked him in the eye and asked him in a satisfied voice: ‘Listen, tomorrow, would you take me to Ikea?’
He had answered with a single, simple: ‘Yes.’
That had been the first yes. The first of an infinite string.
Saverio Moneta, from that day on, from obscure accountant had been transformed into a sherpa during Serena's raids of the shopping centres, the driver of her SUV, her bellboy, her pony express, her plumber, her satellite-dish repairman, husband and father of her children.
Ah, that was the first and last blow job he ever got in ten years of living with Serena.
Mantos studied Murder and Silvietta.
He was tall and big, and she was so petite. She kept pretending to kick him to get him moving along. He was laughing and stand
ing still on purpose.
Saverio looked back through his memory to a stroll with Serena. Never happened. Maybe in Ikea. Him pushing the trolley, her walking ahead and talking on the phone.
Those two instead, looking at them, you could see that they were accomplices. From the moment they met on the train and talked about their passion for heavy metal and Lazio football club, they had not separated since. If one of them read a book, the other had to read it, too. That way of touching each other, of softly caressing each other that they had. They knew that they could count on each other.
As if they had just taken a blindfold off his eyes, he saw the horror. He had convinced a couple of kids who loved each other to kill themselves because of a problem he had.
You don't believe in love, they do. You hate, they don't.
A claw thrust into his throat and sliced down to his heart. He slowed the pace. He took the backpack off his shoulders. It felt like it had been filled with stone.
‘Did you see them?’ Zombie was walking next to him.
Mantos was unable to say a single word. A lump had formed in his throat. He looked forlornly at his adept.
‘Let them go. They're different from us. They live in the light, we live in the shadows.’
Mantos swallowed, but the lump didn't disappear. He was short of breath. The claw was cutting his lungs to shreds.
‘You still have time. Let them go.’
Saverio gabbed a hold of Zombie's arm as if he had trouble standing. He squeezed his teary eyes and looked at him. ‘Thank you.’
He called to them with the little breath he had left. ‘You two, come here.’
Murder and Silvietta moved closer to him. ‘What's the matter? Are you sick?’
Saverio put his hands in his pockets, he tried to think of a reasonable excuse, but he was too worked up. He managed to say: ‘Go home. Go on.’
Murder stuck out his neck, like he'd misunderstood. ‘What?’
‘Go off home. No mucking about.’
‘Why?’
Bad. You are the son of Satan.
‘You do not deserve to be Wilde Beasts of Abaddon.’
Murder had gone pale. ‘What did we do wrong?’
The leader of the Beasts squeezed his fists in his pockets. ‘You are disgusting. You love each other. You care for each other. It is hate that must nurture you, and instead you are full of love. You make me sick.’
Silvietta shook her head and looked at Zombie. ‘You told him about the wedding . . . But why? I asked you not to say anything to him.’
Mantos looked at Zombie without understanding. What was she talking about? He was about to ask him, but the adept rushed to say: ‘Yes, I told him that you wanted to get married. I couldn't hide it from him.’
Oh God, they wanted to get married. Why didn't they say anything to me?
Murder looked at him with guilty eyes. ‘I tried to tell you . . .’
They didn't have the guts.
‘But . . . we changed our minds, I swear. We don't want to get married any more. It was a load of crap. We want to stay with you guys, until the end.’
Mantos wanted to hug them. ‘You have broken a Satanic promise. As such, I, the leader of the Wilde Beasts of Abaddon, expel you from the sect.’ He said it with all the evil he had in his body, but in doing so he also ripped off a strip of his heart.
‘You can't do that. It's not fair.’ Silvietta burst into sobs and tried to take his hand.
Mantos took three steps backwards and the girl fell to her knees. ‘I decide what is fair. I order you to leave.’ He turned to Zombie. ‘Come on, let's go.’
Murder hugged Silvietta. ‘Don't cry, my heart.’
What was left of the Wilde Beasts of Abaddon walked off towards the forest without turning back.
46
‘Not even on the Nevsky Prospekt at eight o'clock in the evening do people drive so slowly,’ said Milo Serinov to Paco Jimenez.
‘You are right, hombre. Ahora, I show you.’ The centre-forward leaned out of the basket, towards the driver. ‘Hey . . . niño . . .’
The Filipino turned around and looked up at him. ‘Yeah?’
‘¡Descánsate!’ The centre-forward shoved the poor man, who lost his balance, disappearing without a peep into a blackberry bush. With his proverbial agility, Paco jumped on the elephant's neck and began to thrash the shit out of the pachyderm's head. The beast rolled its eye as big as a frying pan and stared the football player over, but he didn't quit. So it raised its trunk, uttering a powerful trumpet, and began to gallop.
Paco, Milo and their girlfriends squealed excitedly.
Ciba saw the elephant coming towards them from the rear like a locomotive without brakes, and then the two animals began to shoulder each other. The baskets wobbled frightfully.
‘Where the fuck are you going?’ screamed the writer, who almost fell off the edge.
‘Move over, slowcoaches!’ Milo Serinov was really enjoying himself. ‘Let us through,’ screeched Taja Testari, but the branch of a hundred-year-old oak hit her on the nasal septum and a spurt of blood reddened Mariapia Morozzi's dress.
‘Owwwww! That hurt!’ screamed the model, flopping inside the basket.
‘One down!’ screeched Ciba, who had lost his intellectual aplomb and was getting excited.
Even Paco seemed revved up. Nothing could stop him. ‘¡Ándale! ¡Ándale con juicio!’ And he was about to overtake them when, a dozen metres in front, as fast as a high-speed train, they were cut off by the fox, which, who knows how, had managed to do that to its hunters.
When it passed by, they all screamed: ‘The fox! The fox!’
‘This is the tiger hunt. What is the fox doing here?’ asked Larita.
Old Cinelli came out of his coma and, with a flash of his hand, grabbed the rifle from the bottom of the basket, screaming ‘The fox! The fox!’ And he began shooting wildly into the forest.
Bullets whistled all over the place.
The singer curled up with her hands over her ears while Ciba grabbed the barrel of the rifle, trying to rip it from the old nutjob, who kept on pulling the trigger. A bullet hit the metal buckle of the basket on the last elephant in line. The belt unlatched and the heavy metal group from Ancona were flipped out. The musicians landed in a field of nettles.
Finally Cinelli's rifle ran out of ammunition. The old man looked around. ‘Did I hit it, eh? Did I hit it?’
The elephant race swept away everything. Branches, toppled trees, bushes.
A spine-tingling scream rose from the forest on their left. Astride a stallion, Paolo Bocchi was galloping along, twirling a sabre like a Hussar at the Battle of Marengo. He trotted past the elephants and overtook them, shouting: ‘Savoy or death!’ He was wearing only riding breeches. His bare chest was whipped by branches and thorns. As the steed went by, the two elephants became even angrier and increased the pace. The surgeon, as quick as the wind, jumped over a hedge and disappeared into the woods. A moment later a pack of howling dogs scurried beneath the pachyderms’ legs, following Bocchi and the fox. The elephant driven by Paco Jimenez braked suddenly in terror. Rome's centre-forward and the basket took off like bullets and disappeared into the vegetation.
The sound of an English horn rose up from the shadows of the woods. The stamping noise of hooves grew near. Running in the wrong direction, thirty-eight riders materialised, wearing red jackets and thirsty for fox blood. They noticed the elephants blocking their way only when it was too late. In the ranks of the horse riders many fell, others were dragged with their foot caught in the stirrups for kilometres. Few emerged uninjured.
The elephant carrying the film agent Elena Paleologo Rossi Strozzi, the Maghrebi fashion designer and the head of drama at RAI Television overturned like an A112 Abarth on the bend on Monte Mario.
Fabrizio Ciba, still aboard his elephant, realised that their Filipino guide had disappeared. He tried to stop the animal by hitting it with the butt of the rifle, but the beast simply dodged to the side and headed t
owards the thick forest. Old Cinelli spun around, flew backwards, bounced off one of the elephant's buttocks and ended up hanging from its tail. The grandson tried for an, at once, heroic and desperate gesture. He got out of the basket and, holding on to the edge with one hand, tried to grab his grandfather with the other. The old man took his grandson's hand. ‘Pull, pull!’
The two then tumbled to the ground amidst a lot of butcher's broom bushes.
Ciba and Larita were now alone on the back of a crazed beast.
47
Relief and suffering melted together inside Mantos's tormented soul as he made his way through the reeds growing along the edge of the swamp. Zombie was following him in silence.
Since they had abandoned Murder and Silvietta, neither of them had spoken.
The leader of the Beasts kept seeing them there, hugging each other, watching them as they walked away.
He was reminded of Kurtz Minetti's prophetic words. ‘The Wilde Beasts of Abaddon are an INSIGNIFICANT blip. You're over.’ He hadn't been wrong; the situation was desperate. Two fundamental members of the team had left and the plan to kill Larita was leaking water. And there was one more thing that didn't make sense to him. Why did Zombie want to commit suicide? Why hadn't he left with his friends? Weren't the three of them always together? He had slithered up to him like a snake and whispered to him to dump the other two.
Don't tell me that loveable Zombie, all hush-hush, has joined the ranks of Kurtz Minetti?
The priest from the Children of the Apocalypse could have corrupted him and charged him to boycott the assassination of Larita, to make Mantos look like an idiot in the Satanic community, and avenge himself for Saverio saying no. Even that scene he made at the Villa earlier was weird.
Mantos stopped, pretending to catch his breath. ‘Everything okay?’
Zombie, worn out from the effort, placed his hands on his hips and nodded. His face was a darker olive colour than usual.
Let the Games Begin Page 19