Larita began to squeal, too: ‘Help! Help!’
The man puffed and unpuffed his cheeks, looked at them for a second, let out a strange guttural call, a sort of ultrasound, and then dove back down.
Saverio couldn't believe his eyes. ‘Did you see him, too?’
‘Yes.’
‘He's a nutter. You don't know what he said to me before. Who the fuck is that guy?’
Larita took a moment to answer. ‘It looked like Matteo Saporelli to me.’
‘And who's he?’
‘He's a writer. He won the Strega award.’ Her voice went up an octave. ‘Look! Look over there!’
A beam of light fell down from a hole in the vault of the catacomb and died in the slimy waters.
Saverio, fighting against the current that tried to pull them in the opposite direction, put in a huge effort and managed to get them under the hole.
It was a long cylinder dug into the earth. The walls were covered with roots and spiders’ webs. Up top they could see the branches of a fig tree swaying in the wind, and behind that the pale sky of the Roman dawn.
Larita let go of Saverio and grabbed on to the rock. ‘We can make it . . .’ She stretched out her hand, but it was too high. She tried to push herself upwards by kicking her feet, but nothing. ‘If I had some flippers . . .’
She won't be able to make it, Saverio said to himself as she tried again to push herself up to the edge of the hole. It was about seventy centimetres from the water's surface and there was nothing to grab on to on the tuff rock, as smooth as a slab of marble. She would never make it, kicking with her legs alone.
Larita was out of breath. ‘You try. I can't do it.’
Saverio pushed up with his kidneys, but as soon as he moved his leg he let out a scream of agony. A stab of pain as sharp as a scalpel shot through the flesh of the injured limb. He fell back down, without any strength. He drank in a heap of water.
Larita grabbed him by the hood of his robe before the current carried him away. She pulled him to her. ‘What's the matter? What happened to you?’
Saverio squeezed his eyes tight and struggled to keep himself afloat. In a soft voice, he murmured: ‘I think I have a broken leg. I've lost a lot of blood.’
She hugged him, laid her head against the nape of his neck and began to sob. ‘No . . . What do we do now?’
Saverio could feel a lump of tears pushing against his sternum. But he had sworn he'd be a man. He took three deep breaths and said: ‘Hang on . . . Don't cry . . . I might just have an idea.’
‘What?’
‘If I prop myself against that niche, you climb onto my shoulders, and then you grab on to the walls of the hole. From there, the rest is easy.’
‘But what about your leg?’
‘I'll just use my left leg.’
‘You sure?’
‘I'm sure.’
Saverio took a hold of the wall. Every movement took a huge amount of effort, and he was slowed down by a tiredness like he had never felt before in his life. Every cell, tendon and neuron in his body had run out of energy. Along with his blood, he was draining out his final reserves of energy.
Come on, I beg you, don't give up, he said to himself, as he felt his eyes fill with tears.
With his good foot, he touched the wall until he found a niche he could push up from. He stretched out his arm and grabbed on to a small outcrop. ‘Quickly! Climb up on me.’
Larita climbed up, using him like a ladder. She put her feet on his shoulders and then one on top of his head.
He was forced to push down on his other leg as well, so that he wouldn't lose his hold.
Please . . . please . . . hurry up . . . I can't take it any longer, he screamed into the water.
He suddenly felt the load lighten. He looked up. Larita had made it to the hole and was propping herself up with her legs on the edge. With one hand she held on to a root protruding from the rock face.
‘I made it.’ Larita was out of breath. ‘Now give me your arm and I'll pull you up.’
‘You can't . . .’
‘What do you mean, I can't?’
‘The root won't hold our weight . . . You'll end up back in the water.’
‘No. It's strong. Don't worry. Give me your hand.’
‘You go. Call the rescuers. I'll wait here. Go on, hurry up. Don't think about me.’
‘No. I won't leave you here. If I leave, you won't be able to bear up and you'll be carried away by the current.’
‘Please, Larita . . . Just go . . . I'm dying . . . I can't feel my legs any more. There's nothing you can do.’
Larita began to cry, shaken by sobs. ‘I don't want to . . . It's not fair . . . I'm not leaving you. You . . . what's your name, I don't even know your name . . .’
Saverio had only his mouth and nose above the surface of the water. ‘Mantos. My name is Mantos.’
‘Mantos, you saved my life and I can't leave you to die. I beg you, let's at least give it a try.’
‘But if we don't succeed, will you promise to leave?’
Larita dried her tears and nodded.
Mantos closed his eyes, and with the little strength he had left he pushed himself upwards and stretched his hand out towards Larita's. He managed just to touch her but then fell back, his arms wide open as if he'd been shot in the chest. His body sank, bobbed to the surface again for just a second, and then the current pulled him under. He didn't fight it. He was carried down to the bottom.
At first his body didn't want to give up, and fought not to be overcome. Then, beaten, it quietened and Saverio could hear only the water ringing in his ears. It was beautiful being able to let himself go like that, let himself be carried downwards in the dark. The water that was killing him was extinguishing the last flames of life.
How liberating, he said to himself, and then he could think no longer.
76
A tiny little spot kept the sun anchored to the horizon, when Fabrizio Ciba opened his eyes again.
He saw a vaulted ceiling of golden leaves, clouds of midges, butterflies. Bird calls echoed all around him. And he could hear the water running and dripping softly, like in a shower. He breathed in the smell of wet earth. On his shoulders, the back of his neck, and on the wet rags he was wearing, he could feel the soft warmth of the sun.
He lay there, without thinking about anything. Then slowly the memories of the night, the catacomb, the wall of water that had buried him, clotted together into one thought. A very positive thought.
I'm alive.
This awareness cradled him, and he began to reflect on the fact that this terrible experience would be left behind. Over time it would lose its dramatic force, and over the next few months he would begin to remember it with a mixture of amusement and regret. And it would mean something.
The human mind works that way.
He was surprised by his own wisdom.
The time had come to figure out where he was. He pulled himself up onto his elbows and saw that he was lying on a bed of mud and sand spread over two small, tree-covered hills. A stream of water flowed through the middle. There were bones everywhere, shoes, a riding hat and a huge crocodile, tummy-up, its abdomen swollen and white. Flies were buzzing around it.
He stood up and stretched, happy to not have any injuries, feeling a little battered but otherwise in good shape. And he realised he was hungry.
That's a good sign. It's a sign of life.
He walked in the direction of the sun. He overtook the woods, yawning, but then had to stop when faced with a breathtaking vision.
A small opening appeared in the vegetation. He could see the Via Olimpica off in the distance, with the usual morning traffic jams, the deserted rugby fields at Acqua Acetosa, the still, grey bend in the Tiber River. Further down, the viaduct of Corso Francia covered in cars, and the Fleming Hill covered in luxuriant vegetation.
Roma.
His city. The most beautiful and oldest city in the world. He had never loved it as much as he did
in that very moment.
He began to conjure up a café, a Roman café, any one would do. With the waiting staff in their jackets and bow ties crowded around the sugar-strewn bench. The custard-filled croissants. The apple tarts. The tramezzini. The sounds of saucers and cups being knocked against the sink. The tinkling sound of teaspoons. The Corriere dello Sport.
He almost skipped down the hill. If he didn't remember wrongly, the exit was in that direction. He found a path and began to descend the staircase, two steps at a time, that led across the woods towards the lake.
There was something, a strange object, right in the middle of the path. He slowed down. It looked like it was made of metal and had wheels. He moved a little closer until he realised what it was.
A wheelchair.
It was knocked over onto its side. As well as the chair, there was also a body lying across the steps. Fabrizio, holding his breath, moved closer.
At first he didn't recognise him, but then he saw the bald head, the ears that stuck out. The Vuitton fecal-collection sack.
He put his hands through his hair. Oh God, it's Umberto Cruciani.
The old master, on the ground and without his chair. He looked like a soldier crab that had its shell removed.
Fabrizio didn't need to touch him to understand that he was dead. His eyes were wide open beneath his thick eyebrows. His toothless mouth was agape. His hands curled up.
He must have fallen down the stairs.
Fabrizio bent over the cadaver of the great writer and closed his eyes.
Another great had departed the earth. The author of Western Wall and Bread and Nails, the masterpieces of 1970s Italian literature, had departed, leaving the world a poorer, sadder place.
Fabrizio Ciba was shaken by a sob, by another and by another again. He hadn't cried once during that whole crazy night, but now he burst into tears like a little boy.
He wasn't crying for the suffering, but for the joy.
He dried his tears, caressed the bony face and with a flick of his wrist he ripped the 40Gb USB key from around Cruciani's neck.
He smiled as he sniffed. ‘Thank you, Master. You saved me.’
And he kissed him on the lips.
77
Larita had managed to emerge from the well. The roots had helped her to clamber up to the top.
Now she was walking, with her head lowered, across the field where gnus, buffalo and kangaroos calmly grazed.
She couldn't stop thinking about the image of Mantos's hand brushing against hers as he gave her a letter before disappearing into the black waters.
She pulled the saturated piece of paper from her pocket.
There was something written in faded but legible handwriting.
‘For Silvietta.’
Who was Silvietta? And, above all, who was Mantos?
A hero who had appeared from nowhere and had sacrificed himself to save her.
Maybe Silvietta was his sweetheart.
The singer was about to open the note, when she heard police sirens.
With the piece of paper in her hand, she began to run.
Croissants
78
The fire brigade, after many hours’ work, had finally managed to breach the wall surrounding the Villa. It was easier than knocking down the solid steel gates. They had sealed off the zone, which had filled with onlookers, police cars, dozens of ambulances, journalists and photographers. The guests were coming out in dribs and drabs. Many of them were only just able to stand and were greeted by medical teams, who laid them down on stretchers. Corman Sullivan had been wrapped in an inflatable hyperbaric chamber. Antonio, Saverio's cousin, his head bandaged in a huge gauze turban, was sipping hot tea. Paco Jimenez de la Frontera and Milo Serinov were talking on their mobiles. Cristina Lotto was hugging her husband. Magic Daniel was down to his underpants, and was arguing with old Cinelli and a Chinese dressed up as an acrobat.
Larita pushed her way through the people. Her heart was beating loudly and her hands were trembling with excitement.
A young nurse came up to her with a blanket. ‘Come with me.’
The singer gestured to her that she was fine. ‘One moment, just one moment.’
Where was he? And if . . . She didn't even want to finish that thought. Too sad to think.
She couldn't see him anywhere. Then she noticed a knot of journalists pushing to get closer to someone. Fabrizio was there, answering the interviewers’ questions. Even though he was enveloped in a grey blanket, he looked in great shape.
A burden was lifted from Larita's heart. She moved closer to get a better look at him.
Oh man, I like him so much.
Luckily, he hadn't seen her. She would surprise him as soon as he'd finished talking to the journalists.
79
‘So, tell us . . . What happened?’ asked Rita Baudo from TG4.
Fabrizio Ciba had decided not to talk to the press, to be cranky and stand-offish as always, but when he had seen the journalists running towards him, forgetting about all the other VIPs, he had given in to the temptation to bask in the attention. And then there was the fact that the hand he had in his pocket was holding a USB key that instilled him with 40Gb of strength and courage. With the other hand he touched the lobe of his ear and put on the expression of a survivor.
‘There's not much to say. We ended up at the party of a psychopathic megalomaniac. This is a sad parable of a presumptuous and proud human being who believed that he was Caesar. In a certain sense a tragic hero, a figure from another age . . .’ He could have gone on pontificating for the rest of the day, but decided to cut it short. ‘I will soon write the chronicle of this night of horror.’ When a photographer focused on him, he brushed back the tuft of rebellious hair that fell in front of his teary eyes.
Rita Baudo wasn't satisfied, though. ‘But what do you mean? Can't you tell us anything more?’
Fabrizio waved at them with his hand, as if to say that although he was emotionally unsettled, he'd had the decency to speak to the press, but now he needed some privacy. ‘Please forgive me, I'm very tired.’
Just then, with the tact of a prop in a rugby match, Simona Somaini burst in amidst the journalists.
The blonde actress was wrapped up in a microscopic Red Cross blanket that strategically revealed her flat tummy, a tiny thong covered in mud, and her amazing tits with nipples as big as thimbles hidden beneath her tattered bra.
‘Fabri! There you are! I was afraid . . .’ she said, kissing him on the mouth.
Ciba's green eyes flew open, and for a tenth of a second they expressed a doubt, then closed again whilst the two of them remained entwined, amidst an explosion of flashes.
Right then Simona, as if it was a curtain on a stage, let the blanket fall to her feet, showing off her 40-26-36 figure.
When they ran out of oxygen, she laid her head, with its savannah-coloured hair, against his neck and dried her sparkling eyes for the cameras.
‘During this terrible night, despite everything, we have found out . . .’ She turned to Fabrizio. ‘Do you want to tell them?’
Fabrizio raised an eyebrow, looking perplexed. ‘What, Simona?’
The actress paused, but then she recovered, bent her head to one side and whispered in embarrassment. ‘Go on, let's tell them. For once, let's not hide. We are human beings, after all . . . especially today. After this terrible adventure.’
‘Can you be more explicit?’ the journalist from Rendez-vous asked.
‘Well, I don't know whether I can say.’
The correspondent for Festa Italiana pushed a microphone in her face. ‘Please, Simona, speak up.’
Fabrizio realised that Somaini was a genius. He squeezed the USB key in his pocket, and knew that he loved her. That was the final coup de theatre, the just conclusion that would make him the most important man at the party, the most envied of them all. He breathed in deeply and said: ‘We've decided to get engaged.’
The journalists, paramedics and the onlookers behi
nd the barriers started clapping enthusiastically.
Simona tickled her nose against his neck like a pussycat. ‘I'll be his Marilyn.’
Fabrizio asked for a moment of silence. ‘And I wanted to celebrate by giving you an exclusive preview. I have finally finished my new novel.’ And he added: ‘And I won't be publishing it with Martinelli.’
Somaini hugged him tightly, lifting up her delicious ankle. ‘Darling, what wonderful news! I can't wait to read it. I'm sure it's a masterpiece.’
A big Porsche Cayenne now came into sight, honking its horn. The fat head of Paolo Bocchi popped out of the window. His face was still flushed. Sitting in the passenger seat was Matteo Saporelli, snoring away. ‘What a fantastic party! The best I've been to in the last few years! Guys, do you want a lift?’
Fabrizio took Simona's hand. ‘Yes, to the airport.’
‘No worries!’ said the plastic surgeon.
‘Where are you taking me, darling?’ asked Simona, all excited.
‘To Majorca.’
80
Larita had watched the scene up until the two of them kissed.
Then she had slipped on a tracksuit, hidden beneath the hood and managed to slip away from the circus before anyone could recognise her.
She had had the same bad luck as ever. That night she had met another arsehole. But luckily he had disappeared from her life before he could do any real damage.
In the palm of her hand she still had the note that Mantos had given her. She opened it carefully, so as not to tear it. Smudged, but still legible, was written:
I FELL IN LOVE
WITHOUT KNOWING WHAT LOVE IS
AND I LOSE MY LIFE
WITHOUT HAVING EVER LIVED IT.
EDO AKA ZOMBIE
The End
PART FOUR
Four Years Later
Villa Ada, following the terrible night of the big party and Sasà Chiatti's death, had returned to local council ownership. And Romans began to hang out there again as if the Chiatti era had never existed.
To be honest, very little was left of all that splendour. A memorial plaque at the entrance from Via Panama with the names of the VIPs who'd died. The train tracks already bound in the branches of the ivy.
Let the Games Begin Page 28