And I shall spruik your sweetness amidst the deaf
and I shall paint your beauty amidst the blind.
There was a moment of silence, and then people starting clapping uproariously. He heard a few shouting, ‘Bravo, Ciba!’, ‘You really are a poet!’, ‘You're better than Ungaretti!’
Larita clapped her hands and smiled at him.
Fabrizio lowered his head, gestured to them to stop, as a shy modest person would do, while the real-estate magnate got up on stage and lifted his arms, spurring on the public. The audience was beginning to lose the skin on their hands. The only thing missing was a Mexican wave.
‘Thanks, Fabri. I couldn't have asked for a better introduction.’ Chiatti embraced him like they were old friends and pushed him off the stage.
The writer stepped down with his heart beating loudly and the certainty of having done everything wrong.
I overdid it with the poem. Larita will think it was a piece of shit. I love you like the clownfish loves the anemone. Blind people . . . deaf people . . . Oh Lord!
And then, if he was completely honest, that poem wasn't even original. He had re-elaborated in his way, terribly, a poem by the Lebanese poet Kahlil Gibran, which he had learned off by heart when he was sixteen years old, during ski week, to win over a waitress from Bormio.
I've ruined everything.
He had seen her applauding, but, as everyone knows, why begrudge anyone a little clap?
And tomorrow that arsehole Tremagli will write an article in Il Messaggero saying that I plagiarised Gibran. They'll compare my poem and the real one.
He had to drink something to try to calm down before Larita returned. He went to the hard liquor cart and had them pour him a double Jim Beam.
Sasà Chiatti, on stage, was boasting about the capital he had spent to fix up the Villa. The crowd applauded him regularly every two minutes.
‘Fabrizio . . . Fabrizio . . .’
He turned around, convinced it was Larita, and instead he found Cristina Lotto.
* * *
Cristina Lotto was thirty-six years old and the wife of Ettore Gelati, owner of a mineral water consortium and a number of pharmaceutical companies spread across the globe. They had two teenage children, Samuel and Ifigenia, who attended a boarding school in Switzerland.
Cristina hosted a do-it-yourself programme on a satellite channel. She taught viewers how to put together original centrepieces with driftwood, and how to crochet colourful toilet-seat covers.
She was a bony blonde with long, toned legs, a tight bum and a pair of small balloon-shaped tits covered in freckles. She had the face of girl from a good family, educated at a school run by nuns. High, freckled cheekbones and blue eyes framed by straight golden hair. A thin-lipped mouth and a pointy chin.
Cristina was, undoubtedly, a beautiful woman, with an athletic body. She always wore skirts, angora cardigans and pearl necklaces, and had a whiny voice that didn't convey any sort of sensuality. She was as sexy as a lettuce leaf without any dressing. That had not stopped Ciba from shagging her a few times a month for the last two years. His motives? They were obscure to him, too. It definitely had something to do with the fact that she was the wife of a man who thought he was the boss of the world. The childish idea that, while the businessman was working as hard as a copper pot to become the richest man in Italy, Fabrizio was fucking his wife excited and amused him at the same time. He loved it when Cristina, after intercourse, laid her head on his chest and told him about how much of a puffed-up balloon Mr Gelati was, with his passion for hang-gliding and his claims to nobility. Or when Cristina went on about, with a certain amount of irony, the frustrations of living in the shadow of an insensitive and self-important man. Fabrizio got her to expound all the shabby details, which then transformed this owner of the universe into a poor and miserable man.
There was another element not to be underestimated either. Fabrizio lived in his house in Via Mecenate, which was falling into disrepair, and fed himself exclusively in restaurants. The Gelati family, meanwhile, owned a five-hundred-square-metre penthouse over Piazza Navona, with a white marble bathroom that resembled the Ara Pacis and a fridge as big as a treasure chest full of fresh oysters, Serrano ham and specialities from around the world. Cristina was always on her own, and when Fabrizio felt like relaxing he'd go over to her house. He dipped into the heated pool, watched football matches in the cinema room, and got her to make him nifty little meals.
‘Cristina?’ Ciba asked in surprise. She never spoke to him in public. She made sure she avoided him, terrified at the thought of someone seeing them together. The boss of the world's wrath, if he ever found out about their relationship, could be as violent and destructive as that of a Babylonian god.
Cristina, for the occasion, was wearing a black tube dress with a low-cut back that came down to her buttocks, and a hat with a veil. She was distraught.
‘Fabrizio! I have to speak to you . . .’
The writer felt a wave of nausea hit him. ‘What's happened?’ ‘Something terrible . . .’
35
A pianist played the melody from the film Out of Africa. Sasà Chiatti, centre-stage, asked the public for a moment of silence. ‘Please, give a warm welcome to Corman Sullivan . . .’
Two black models came onto the stage, arm in arm with the old hunter.
Silvietta put down the tray with the salmon tarts and began clapping along with the rest of the guests.
Maybe it's the Dalai Lama.
The Beasts’ Vestal was excited. She would never have imagined in her whole life that she would take part in such an exclusive party. She was convinced that not even in Hollywood did they throw parties like this one. Wherever you laid your eyes, a VIP came into view. Not that she loved VIPs that much, but when you saw them up close they did make a bit of an impression on you. And then she'd just heard Fabrizio Ciba reading such a sweet love poem that she had been moved to tears . . . He had to be a really special person. So shy and introverted. Maybe she could ask him for his autograph. One of his poems would have been perfect on their wedding invitations. She could try to ask him. He looked like someone whose head hadn't swelled too much, despite his success.
Silvietta said to herself that this party could help her to find some original ideas for her wedding reception. Those ice sculptures, for example, couldn't be that hard to make. And the peacocks and turkeys moving around amongst the guests was a nice idea. And the carts with the food on them. But the thing that drove her crazy the most was the old Apecar that gave out ice creams and ices.
We'll never have enough to pay for all these things.
Murder asked for a bank loan to pay for the wedding.
Twenty thousand euro, which barely covered the cost of hiring the Vecchio Cantinone at Vetralla, and pay for the catering service and the flowers for the church.
It will be simple but it'll be pretty.
She could see Zombie walking like a ghost amongst the guests, with a plate of sandwich triangles in hand. He wasn't even trying to be a waiter.
It's a pity he'll be dead when we get married.
The fact that he wouldn't be at their wedding made her too sad. He was her best friend, her muffin, and she had hoped he would be her best man. She looked at him carefully. He looked like shit. As if he'd been run over by a tram. Maybe he didn't want to commit suicide either. If that was the case, she had to talk to him.
She dumped the tray of tarts and ran over to Zombie, who had sat down at a table and was drinking Prosecco.
‘Muffin, what's the matter?’
He glanced at her absentmindedly.
Silvietta knelt down in front of him and took his hand. ‘Hey, what's up? You're acting weird.’
He shook himself free: ‘I heard you.’
Her stomach lurched and she stuttered: ‘What? What are you talking about?’
‘I heard you. You two are getting married. You didn't even tell me.’
‘I wanted to tell you, but I . . .’ Silvietta cou
ldn't say any more..
‘Well? How long have you been working on the preparations? What were you waiting for? Have you put us on the guest list? Cross us off, anyway, because we won't be coming.’
‘Listen, why don't we all just pack it in?’
Zombie picked up another wine goblet. ‘Pack it in? Are you out of your mind? Maybe you two think this is a game, that we came to this party to play at being Satanists. But you're wrong. Here, we are going all the way. I will never abandon Mantos. He gave meaning to our lives, he showed us how hypocritical this fucked-up society is. He showed us the Way to Evil. He taught us to channel our hate. Mantos has left his wife, kids and furniture shop, and decided to sacrifice himself to turn us into Italy's number one sect. And you betray him like that?’ He stood up and finished the Prosecco in one mouthful. ‘Do whatever the fuck you want, but just remember that my last thought upon dying will be aimed at you two. The two biggest villains I've ever met in my whole life.’
And he walked away.
Silvietta collapsed and burst into tears.
36
‘What's the matter, what happened?’ Fabrizio Ciba was following Cristina Lotto through the crowd, and in the meantime was searching for Larita. But it was hard to find her with all the bedlam.
‘Don't talk to me. Just follow me. My husband might see us,’ the woman said, talking with her head lowered. ‘Let's go inside.’
They nipped behind the buffet carts and walked into the Villa.
Cristina kept looking around. The guests had invaded the living room, too. ‘Where would a bathroom be?’
For a second the writer thought that this was a ruse, so they could have a quickie in the loo. But she was too shaken. Also Cristina, even though she was an old nymphomaniac, had always been very careful to plan their trysts. It was for that very reason that Fabrizio had kept meeting her. She would never kick up a stink, she cared deeply about her family, and risked much more than he did if they were ever discovered.
‘Listen, can't we discuss this tomorrow? I'm a little busy just now.’
‘No.’ Cristina opened a door. ‘Here it is.’
The bathroom was a big room of seventy square metres. It was covered in staves of oak and wooden beams, worse than a chalet in Cortina. Even in here were crowds of guests who laughed and chatted, with their purple faces and ties. Women fixed their make-up in front of the mirrors. A queue to get into the toilets, where there was definitely something being sniffed, snaked between the columns. There was a feeling of excitement that was totally out of the ordinary for a typical Roman party.
Two fellows in tuxedos were chatting at the tops of their voices.
‘I bought a trullo in Piedmont.’
‘I didn't realise they had trullos in Piedmont.’
‘Yes. They're original. They take them to pieces brick by brick in Puglia and put them back together again near Alessandria. There's a proper residential village of trullos.’
‘Do they cost much?’
‘Let me see . . . No. Not much at all.’
Cristina put her mouth to Fabrizio's ear. ‘Here's no good. Follow me.’
They found a small room, with simple furnishings. It might have been the bedroom of a housemaid. Cristina locked the door and sat down on the bed.
Fabrizio lit a cigarette. ‘Will you please tell me what happened?’
She took off her hat. ‘Samuel caught us.’
‘Who the fuck is Samuel?’
‘My son. He caught us.’
Fabrizio didn't understand. ‘What do you mean?’
‘He caught us . . .’ Cristina took a deep breath like she was having trouble breathing. ‘While we were making love in the kitchen.’
‘Fuck!’ Fabrizio sat down on the bed, too.
And if the kid told Gelati about it? He bet his life that that piece of shit would cover everything up before he let word get out that he'd been cheated on. In one way, it would be better that way. The relationship had to end. He wouldn't even need to invent a fake story to break it off. And anyway, now his mind was working like a guided missile that has a single target it must hit: Larita, and their moving to Majorca.
Fabrizio put his hands in his hair, trying to look dismayed. ‘Bloody hell . . . I'm really sorry . . . Poor thing, he must be in shock.’
Cristina smiled with tight lips. ‘In shock? Him? He wants a pile of cash otherwise our fucking ends up on the Internet.’
Maybe Fabrizio hadn't heard her correctly. ‘What did you say?’
‘He taped us with his mobile phone.’
‘But hang on . . . What the fuck's his name . . .? Wasn't your son off at boarding school in Switzerland?’
‘Normally he is. Except that weekend he was in Rome. He had told me that he would stay at his friend's house by the sea. He must have come home early and . . .’
‘Have you seen the video?’
‘He emailed it to me.’
‘How much can you see?’
‘You and me. You can see everything. It looks like a porno.
The end is terrible, you're fucking me from behind while I'm creaming the pennette ai quattro formaggi.’
‘He taped that, too?’
‘Yes.’
Fabrizio realised that his armpits were cold and wet, and there was suddenly no air in the room. He opened the window and began breathing in, in an attempt to calm down. ‘How fucking embarrassing.’ They better not panic. ‘Come on, he's a good lad, he'd never do anything like that.’
‘Oh, he'll do it.’ Cristina had no doubts.
‘I reckon he's just angry because you neglect him. It's the typical sort of thing teenagers do to get their mother's attention.’
Cristina shook her head.
‘How much does he want?’
‘A hundred thousand euro.’
Ciba opened his eyes wide. ‘Sorry, I didn't hear you properly.
Did you say a hundred thousand euro? Is he completely insane?’
‘He wants fifty from me and fifty from you. We have to transfer it into his Swiss bank account. He gave me the IBAN.’
‘From me? Why from me?’
‘“That'll teach him to fuck my mother,” he said. And he added that he's given you a friendly discount. If he sold it to a newspaper, he'd make a lot more. You are the first literary star to be caught in a porno. Samuel insists that you could easily compete with Paris Hilton and Pamela Anderson.’
‘So he's really a son of a bitch?’
Cristina shrugged. ‘Exactly.’
‘Can't we negotiate? Get him to lower his price? Fifty between the two of us. What do you think?’
‘No chance. He's very stubborn, just like his father. You know, when he grows up Samuel wants to be a movie director . . . He's even put opening credits with our names in the video and the soundtrack from Gladiator.’
Fabrizio began walking around the room. ‘This is incredible. Your son is a real arsehole. How do we know that he won't keep a copy and continue to blackmail us?’
‘No! He'd never do that. He's a good boy. He's honest, I trust his word.’
‘Honest? He's a shark dressed as a little boy . . . If this leaks to the net, we'd look like total idiots. I would be ruined for ever. What if we had him beaten up by someone?’
‘I thought of that. My mechanic's brother-in-law would knock him around for a few quid. I'm convinced he'd become even more evil though. Don't tell me it's a question of money. That's not like you. It's in such bad taste.’
Ciba hated looking like a penny-pincher. ‘No, no. It's just that throwing away money like that . . . Tell me one thing, how do I come across?’
Cristina looked at him without understanding. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean . . . um . . .’ He couldn't find the words to express himself. ‘Do I look good? Can you see my belly? Did I put on a good show?’
‘Not bad . . .’
‘Thank goodness for small mercies.’ Fabrizio grabbed the door handle. ‘Send me the account number for the mone
y transfer, and let's hope for the best. What else can I say?’
‘What about us?’
‘What about us? I'd say that's enough.’
He walked out and shut the door behind him.
37
Mantos, holding a tray with glasses of Champagne, moved like the perfect waiter amongst the guests, in search of Larita. It was like being at the Telegatti Awards. Half of all the celebrities on TV, half of the A-list were there. But most importantly, there was such a high pussy density that it was almost too much to bear.
Ever since he was little, Mantos had never liked sugar. Ice creams, semifreddos, coffee-soaked ice creams weren't for him. He liked savoury food, even for breakfast. Among pizzette, bread rolls and toasted sandwiches, his favourite was the tramezzino sandwich. He liked all flavours, but first place was between chicken tramezzino or prawn-and-rocket salad. At the Bar Internazionale of Fiano Romano they did have many different flavours, but they were often dry. And what's more, they made the serious mistake of heating them up in the electric oven and not on the griddle. Everybody told him that the tramezzini in Rome were a completely different story. They melted in your mouth, and they were always fresh. They kept them hidden under wet cloths, which kept them at the right level of humidity. Saverio imagined that the capital city had houses shaped like triangles, and that the streets were lined with tramezzini exhibitors.
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.