Let the Games Begin (22 page)

For his birthday he had asked his father to take him to Rome to eat these wonderful delicacies. And for once his father had done what he wanted. In fact, he had gone too far. Following the advice of Uncle Aldo, who worked for the Ministry of Public Education, he had taken him to the House of the Tramezzino in Viale Trastevere, on the corner of Piazza Mastai.

When young Saverio Moneta had walked into that culinary temple, tears had come to his eyes. Before him appeared walls of tramezzini protected in crystal cabinets. They went from simple prosciutto and mozzarella to one with sausage, mayonnaise and Belgian endive. Ocean perch, rocket salad and stracchino. Finely sliced roast lamb, cocktail sauce and scallops. In one, two or three layers. Right up to the Club Sandwich
Ambassador Grand Royal. A twelve-decker beast stuffed full with sixty-five different ingredients.

‘You've got three thousand lira to spend. Don't waste them.

Pick well,' his father had told him.

The boy ran in a crazed state from one end of the room to the other, without being able to make up his mind. His hands began to sweat and his stomach seized. In the end he had walked out with the banknotes still intact.

Just like now, in the midst of all those headspinning flashes of bare thigh, those lips as swollen as stewed squid, those breasts as rounded as a Brunelleschi dome, Mantos backed up, feeling nauseous, and then noticed a brunette wandering aimlessly amidst all those superheroes.

Larita
. . .

She looked like a university student, with her tartan skirt, black jacket and white blouse.

Mantos began manoeuvring closer to her while Sasà Chiatti kept talking on stage. ‘We have gone over the top to entertain you . . . There are three different types of hunt. Fox hunt, tiger and lion. The fox hunt is only for those of you who know how to ride a horse properly. It will be carried out according to the old rules of the Duke of Beaufort. A pack of thirty beagles is ready and waiting in the kennels. For this hunt, the uniform is compulsory: red or black jacket, in tweed or in pied-de-poule, white tie, white gloves, light-coloured trousers and, naturally, boots and cap.'

A buzz rose from the audience. The guests looked at each other, shaking their heads. ‘What are we supposed to do?' ‘Impossible.' ‘We don't have those sorts of clothes.'

The host reassured them. ‘Don't worry, guys! It's all under control, don't get worked up. The designer Ralph Lauren has generously given us the clothing for the hunts. Behind the Villa
there is a campsite where you kind ladies and gents will find everything you need to get ready. The red tents are for those participating in the fox hunt, orange is for the tiger hunt and beige is for the lion hunt. Afterwards, if you wish, you may take the outfits home with you.'

‘Chiatti, you're a real gentleman!' someone shouted. ‘Ralph, you're the best!' added another.

Mantos had made it to within a few metres of the singer. Larita was standing with her arms crossed, watching the stage, a little bored. She was small, but well proportioned. And she looked out of place.

A beanpole with a black beard and sunglasses, a well-worn leather jacket, snakeskin cowboy boots, threadbare jeans and a flanelette checked shirt had latched onto her and kept laughing and elbowing her, as if they were lifelong friends. She didn't seem to be enjoying herself as much as he was, though.

Mantos was convinced that the cowboy was someone famous. In there, you were either a VIP or a waiter. He had the air of a rock musician.

The leader of the Wilde Beasts of Abaddon's musical tastes ranged between different genres: from Carmina Burana by Orff to Wagner, from Popol Vuh to Dead Can Dance, and last but not least Billy Joel. He couldn't stand Italian music.

When the cowboy took his hat off to wave it at Chiatti, Mantos saw the peace-flag bandana he was wearing underneath.

It was the symbol of Cachemire, the singer of the heavy metal group from Ancona, Animal Death. They were Murder and Zombie's idols.

Cachemire gestured towards Mantos. ‘Hey! Waiter, come here.'

Mantos was forced to face him. ‘Me?'

‘Yeah, you. Come here.'

The leader of the Beasts moved closer, with his head lowered. He offered him the tray with the last glass of Champagne.

‘Have you got a beer?'

‘No, I'm sorry.'

‘Could you run and get me one? Actually, while you're at it, bring me a whole case.'

Mantos nodded.

Larita patted Cachemire. ‘I'm going to take a look around. See you later.'

The Beasts' leader was shocked to hear Larita's voice. It was husky and deep. Tattooed on the nape of her neck, beneath her short hair, she had two little angel wings.

And that is where the Durendal will fall
.

‘All right,' said the cowboy. ‘What hunt are you going to go on? I'm not sure.'

‘I'm not going. I hate that sort of thing.' Larita moved off, and Saverio followed her at a few metres' distance, swearing silently to himself.

The bitch didn't take part in hunts. He really didn't need this right now. Bad luck was really dogging him.

Larita, suddenly, turned around and walked up to him: ‘Excuse me, have you seen Ciba . . .? Fabrizio Ciba?'

Who the fuck is Ciba
?

Mantos's tongue was paralysed, and the only thing he managed to do was shrug.

Larita seemed shocked by his ignorance. ‘The writer! Don't you know him? The guy who read his poem on the stage before.'

‘No, I'm sorry.'

‘Don't worry about it. Thanks, anyway.' Larita slipped away into the crowd.

Silvietta was right. That slut was an animal rights activist. And now how would they kidnap her?

Mantos necked the last glass of Champagne.

 

38

Fabrizio Ciba was also necking a double whisky, sitting at a coffee table by himself. He couldn't even contemplate the risk of the porno film getting onto the net.

‘Bro!'

Paolo Bocchi advanced towards the table with another mojito in hand. By the way he was swaying, he had to be drunk already. His eyes bloodshot, he was sweating like he'd just finished a game of basketball. Under the sleeves of his jacket two dark rings had formed. He had loosened his tie and unbuttoned his shirt, so you could see the tip of his woollen vest. His fly was down.

The surgeon grabbed Fabrizio by the neck. ‘What are you doing here, all by your little lonesome?'

The writer didn't even have the strength to react. ‘Nothing.'

‘They told me you read a great poem. Pity I was in the loo. I didn't hear it.'

Ciba flopped down onto the table.

‘You're looking crushed. What happened?' Bocchio asked.

‘I looked like the world's biggest idiot.'

Bocchi sat down on the chair next to his and lit up a cigarette, taking big deep inhales.

The two of them sat there in silence for a bit. Then the surgeon lifted his head towards the sky and puffed out a large cloud of smoke. ‘You're so boring, Fabrizio. You still go on about this crap?'

‘What crap?'

‘That crap about looking like an idiot. How long have we known each other?'

‘Too long.'

Bocchi wasn't offended. ‘You haven't changed one iota since high school. Always obsessed with looking like an idiot. As if someone were always there to judge you. Do I have to spell it out to you? You are a writer, and you should work out certain things by yourself.'

Fabrizio turned to face his high-school pal. ‘What? What are you talking about?'

Bocchi yawned. Then took his hand. ‘Right, you haven't got it. The time of looking like an idiot is over, it's dead and buried, kaput. It went out along with the old millennium. Looking like an idiot is no longer an issue, it's disappeared along with the fireflies. Nobody looks like an idiot any more, except for you inside your own head. Can't you see them?' He gestured towards the mass of people applauding Chiatti. ‘We roll in shit as happy as pigs in mud. Look at me, for example.' He stood up, swaying. He opened his arms wide as if to show himself to everyone, but his head started spinning and he had to sit down again. ‘I did my postgrad in Lyon with Professor Roland Chateau-Beaubois, I am chair at the University of Urbino. I'm head physician. Look at me. According to the old parameters, I would be the epitome of a creature to be avoided at all costs, a poseur rolling in cash, a drug addict, a despicable figure who gets rich taking advantage of the weaknesses of a handful of aging tarts. And yet that's not the case. I am loved and respected. I even get invited to the celebration of the republic at the Presidential Palace, and to every fucking TV medical programme. On a personal note, wasn't that TV programme you did a bit crap?'

Ciba tried to defend himself. ‘Well, actually . . .'

‘Get over it, it was crap.'

Fabrizio nodded slightly.

‘And that whole debacle with that chick, the daughter . . . I can't remember. Anyway, it made you look like a fuckwit.'

Ciba made a pained expression. ‘All right, that's enough.'

‘And what happened to you? Nothing at all. How many more copies did you sell, with all this theoretically looking stupid? A heap. And everyone says that you're a genius. So, see that? You have to admit that I'm right. What you call looking like an idiot are splashes of mediatic splendour that give shine to your personality and make you more human, more likeable. If ethical and aesthetic principles no longer exist, looking like an idiot disappears as a consequence.' Bocchi stretched out to Ciba and hugged him affectionately. ‘And do you know who's the only person in the world who never looked like an idiot in his whole life? Not even once?'

The writer shook his head.

‘Jesus Christ. In thirty-three years, not even once. And that tops it all off. Now, though, you do me a favour. Take this little lolly.' Bocchi pulled a purple, oval-shaped pill out of his pocket.

Fabrizio looked at it suspiciously. ‘What is it?'

Bocchi opened his eyes wide, his ocular globes popping from their sockets like the eyes of a cane toad, and like a purveyor of old and rare spices, he explained: ‘Phenol Hydrochloride Benjorex. This is not any old hallucinogenic. You won't find it on the streets.' He patted himself on the chest. ‘It's special. Only Uncle Paolo has this sort of product. You've heard of magic mushrooms, peyote, Ecstasy, MDMA? They are practically the equivalent of Dulcolax in comparison with this little pill. It's a medicine that has been filed by Human Rights Watch
as a chemical weapon. It has been used by experimental neuropsychiatrists in Russian jails to make the Chechen terrorists regress to their childhood, and by the Russian Space Research Institute in their research into the psychotropic effects of the absence of gravity. Now let's take one, and you'll see how this circus suddenly turns into the world of Oz, and you and I will have so much fun.'

He chucked the pill into Ciba's jacket pocket, making him jump up, horrified, and take three steps back.

‘Bocchi, you really are sick. You are not only a drug addict, you're a psycopath. You want to kill me, be honest. You hate me. Chechens . . . absence of gravity . . . the end of looking like an idiot . . . Let me ask you a favour. I beg you. Leave me alone. You and I have never had anything in common. Not even at high school. We've never been friends, brothers, fuck-all. We have nothing to share, so please do me the favour of leaving me alone, and if you see me on the street, change streets.'

Bocchi smiled at him. ‘OK.' He pulled out another pill, popped it his mouth and finished off his mojito.

 

39

Sasà Chiatti had proceeded with the explanation of the tiger hunt. ‘As the Victorian tradition teaches us, the tiger hunt is done with elephants. I have found four wonderful specimens from a circus in Kraków, and I had four wicker baskets handmade in Torre Annunziata mounted on top, which can carry up to four hunters. Each beast will be led by an Indian mahout, who knows his animal like his own skin. The tiger's name is Kira, it's five years old. I bought it after a long negotiation
with the zoo in Bratislava. She is a splendid albino female, like my darling girlfriend, who took even longer negotiations to convince her to stay with me. This hunt will last approximately three hours, and at the end there will be a dinner on a fleet of house boats. A self-service feast of Indian cuisine has been laid out there.'

Ten metres or so away, behind the kitchen sheds, the Wilde Beasts of Abaddon had gathered for their unscheduled meeting.

‘We're up shit creek!' Mantos commented first.

‘What's the matter?' muttered Murder, his mouth full of sea-sturgeon bruschetta.

‘Larita's not taking part in the hunt.'

‘I told you! She's an animal rights activist,' said Silvietta, smugly.

Mantos was starting to get pissed off, but he tried to keep his cool. ‘Congratulations! You knew it! And now what? And now we have to put plan B into action.'

Zombie, who was sulking at the side, jumped to his feet. His eyes were puffy and he was practically shaking.

‘That's enough! I can't take it any more,' he exploded. ‘Now you start with your plan B? As if there'd ever been a plan A? This, dear Mantos, is the clear demonstration of the fact that you will never be a Kurtz Minetti or a Charles Manson. You . . . you improvise. This is not a Satanic sect, this is a sect of losers. These two here . . .' He pointed to Murder and Silvietta. ‘Forget about it. The truth is that none of you are professionals. This whole shit story should have ended that night in the pizzeria. It was a big mistake joining you guys. Even you've disappointed me, Mantos. You got us here and showed us the map of Villa Ada. Are you for real? The Durendal . . . We'll kidnap her in the woods . . . We'll commit suicide . . . We'll become Italy's
number one Satanic sect. But you're shooting with a blowpipe! You know what I say? Go fuck yourselves!' And he walked off towards the street.

Saverio looked, shocked, at his two adepts: ‘Is he out of his mind? What's happened?'