Let the Games Begin

by Niccolò Ammaniti

  A couple of warthogs and a pair of vultures called Gino and Nunzia, both as fat as turkeys from scavenging around the rubbish bins. All the other animals had ended up in bioparks around the peninsula.

  Everything else had returned to being the same old Villa Ada. Immense, tangled, dirty, thorny, dusty, a hideout for stray dogs, sewage rats and non-European citizens without residency permits. The hundred-year-old pine trees, sick to their core, continued to fall on passers-by. The fields were once again overrun by thorn bushes. The green smelly lakes nests for tiger mosquitoes, coypus and turtles. Dogs had reappeared without their muzzles, policemen flirted with au pairs, cyclists dressed in reflective clothing, bongo-players, joint-smokers, and old men sitting on park benches.

  But on the 29th of April, exactly four years from the night of the party, on a sunny but chilly Roman day, Murder and Silvietta were there.

  Lying on a tartan blanket, they were having a picnic with maccheroni omelette, supplí and mushroom pizza.

  For the last three years they had decided that that day would be dedicated to the memory of Mantos and Zombie.

  Not that they did much to honour their friends, but they were happy like that. They took a day off work (they had opened a family business for treating terracotta tiling in Oriolo), hopped into the Ford Ka and headed to Rome. And if the weather was nice, like today, they had their picnic, read a bit and sometimes even squeezed in a nap in the open air.

  That's how they remembered their friends.

  This year was special, though. They had brought along Bruce, their two-year-old son, who was now able to walk and, if you didn't keep an eye on him, could take off on those shaky legs and end up who knows where.

  Silvietta glanced up from her book. ‘Go on, go and get him . . .’ she said to her husband.

  Murder stood up and yawned. ‘You really like that book, don't you?’

  ‘A Light in the Fog is fantastic. I can't stop reading. I reckon it's even better than The Lion's Den. Ciba has become a much more mature writer. And these stories about the farmers from lower Padania are so touching.’

  Murder bit into his pizza. ‘How does he know so much about those people? He's always lived in Rome.’

  ‘He's a genius. Talent, pure and simple. I remember when he read that poem at the party. He's such a special person.’ Silvietta looked around. ‘Go on, get going. Be a daddy. Go and get Bruce.’

  Murder stretched his arms above his head. ‘All right, my queen, I will return your child to you.’ He gave her a kiss and walked off to the rides, where the baby had headed.

  Silvietta stared after her husband, for a second, as he wandered away. She really needed to sew the hem of his torn jeans. Then she dived back into the novel. She was fifty pages from the end. But not even three minutes later, she heard Murder calling her.

  ‘Honey . . . Honey . . . Come quickly.’

  Silvietta closed the book and left it on the blanket. She found her husband and son next to a German Shepherd puppy. The little boy kept stretching out his hand towards the animal, which was running around him, wagging his tail.

  Bruce wasn't afraid. The opposite. He was giggling and trying to catch him.

  Silvietta moved closer to her son. ‘It's nice, isn't it, honey?’

  Murder patted the puppy and it threw itself tummy-up, ready for a proper scratch. ‘Maybe we could get one for him. Look how much he's enjoying it.’

  ‘Who'd take it out?’

  Murder shrugged. ‘Me. No worries.’

  ‘I don't think so.’ Silvietta gave her husband an affectionate punch on the shoulder.

  Murder picked up Bruce, who immediately started whining. ‘Come on, let's go and eat before it all gets cold.’

  But when they got back, the picnic had been plundered. Someone had taken the bag with the supplí, and the omelette had disappeared, too.

  Murder put his hands on his hips and set his legs apart.

  ‘Sons of bitches! You can't leave anything alone for a minute . . .’

  Silvietta grabbed her bag. ‘They didn't even touch my money, though.’

  Murder pointed at a crushed supplí beneath a laurel bush.

  Husband and wife, silently, trying not to make any noise, sneaked over. At first they couldn't see anything, but then they realised that, beneath the branches, crouched down, was a man wearing an old tatty tracksuit and a strange headdress made of pigeon feathers and small bottles of Coke. He was stuffing down their picnic.

  ‘Hey! You! Thief!’ Murder yelled at him. ‘Give that back!’

  The man, caught redhanded, jumped back in fear. For a second he turned around and looked at them, just for a second, then he picked up the omelette from the ground and, limping, disappeared into the vegetation.

  The two of them stood there, petrified.

  Silvietta put a hand over her mouth. ‘Don't tell me that that was . . .’

  Murder was staring at the bushes, then he swallowed and looked at his wife.

  ‘No. I won't tell you.’

  Acknowledgements

  And now we've come to the thank-you page.

  First of all, I have to thank Antonio Manzini. Thank you, my friend, without your tightrope-walking fucking around, your inventions, your encouragement, this story would never have existed. Then I thank Lorenza, who sees further than I do, and I thank my wonderful family. A special thanks also goes to Vereno, Marino, Massimo and Sauro for having built me the best hideout in the world, and to Marco, the orchestra conductor of a little act of foolishness. Then come Severino Cesari and Paolo Repetti, Antonio Franchini, Kylee Doust and Francesca Infascelli, for having supported me while I paddled upstream.

  And of course, how can I forget Nnn . . . nnn . . . nnn . . . ntwinki and Nicaredda, my silent and caring life companions.

  Obviously, this novel is the product of my imagination and of turbulent dreams. If you see any things or facts that remind you of reality, that's your problem. For the history of Villa Ada and the Olympic Games, I plundered Wikipedia and other websites. I would like to say one last thing. Villa Ada is in a state of terrible decay. One of the last green lungs of a metropolis smothered in smog and stunned by noise is about to die. If the public institutions don't intervene soon, by attempting to treat the sick pine trees (treat doesn't mean decapitate), reclaim the lakes and repair the buildings, which are crumbling, we will lose another piece of this old and tired city that is Rome.

  See you next time.

  No animals were harmed or mistreated during

  the writing of this novel.

  CHANNELLING GREAT

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