The lion hunt is out of the question.
Simona Somaini popped out of the fox-hunt tent wearing a pair of pants that hugged her legs and her ass like a second skin, while the little red jacket left just enough open to show off her pushed-up tits. She was followed by a huge beast of a man with a goatee and a ponytail, dressed in army gear, a rifle under his arm.
Fabrizio had seen the beast of a man somewhere before. He must be a sports star.
The writer took two steps forward and found Larita standing in front of him. He felt like hugging her, but he held back.
The singer seemed happy to have found him again, too. ‘I was looking for you everywhere. Where did you go?’
Ciba did what came to him naturally. He lied. ‘I was looking for you. So, what shall we do? Don't tell me you want to take part in this clown show?’
‘Me? Are you mad? I'm an animal rights defender.’
‘Good on you!’ Ciba was relieved. ‘So let's get out of here, then.’
She looked at him in surprise. ‘I can't leave, I have to sing . . . I came here for that purpose.’
Fabrizio tried to hide his disappointment. ‘You're right. I wasn't thinking, but . . .’ He was unable to finish the sentence because a white Lipizzan stopped before him, lifting itself up on its hind legs. Sasà Chiatti, sitting astride the steed, was pulling the reins and trying to keep the animal still while it reared left and right.
‘What are you two doing here? Why haven't you changed? I've got an elephant about to leave only half full.’
Larita waved her hand in sign of a no. ‘I'm against hunting. I will never shoot a tiger.’
The real-estate agent leaned down on the shiny neck of the horse so that the other guests wouldn't hear him. ‘Who's shooting who? It's fun and games. The tiger has cancer of the colon. It has one month to live, if it's lucky. You'll only be doing her a favour. It's a field trip. When will you ever have the chance to do this sort of thing again? Come on . . .’ He then turned backwards and let out a sheep-farmer whistle.
A trumpeting sound echoed across the Italian-style garden. Parrots and crows rose in flight from the branches of the holly oak trees. An elephant emerged from the bushes, shooting rays of blinding light around him. They had painted it orange and light blue and draped it in cloth with hundreds of little round mirrors sewn into it. The long trunk broke off tree branches and carried them to its mouth. They had tied a woven wicker basket on its back. There was an elderly gentleman inside wearing glasses, a green Loden cape and a funny felt hat. He was holding a rifle in his hands. Next to him was a teenager with his eyes half covered by a dark fringe. The two of them held tightly on to the edge of the basket, which pitched with each step the animal took. Sitting on its neck was a small Filipino wearing a white thong and a turban, guiding the animal, whipping it along with a rod.
‘Here is your elephant.’ Chiatti raised a hand and the Filipino brought the pachyderm to a halt. Then he spoke to the man in the basket. ‘Doctor Cinelli, would you be so kind as to throw down the ladder. There are two more passengers.’
The old man was pointing the rifle towards the trees, on the look-out for the tiger.
‘Granddad! Granddad! Did you hear him? The gentleman asked if you could throw the ladder down. Yeah, whatever, that'll be the day!’ The boy bent over, picked up the canvas ladder and lowered it: ‘Please forgive me, he's a little bit deaf.’
Larita looked at Fabrizio, torn. ‘What shall we do?’
Ciba shrugged. ‘You decide.’
Larita, in a whisper, embarrassed, said: ‘I don't think we can get out of it. It would be rude for us to stay here. But we won't shoot, though.’
‘Don't look at me.’
41
Murder sat down next to his leader, who was sitting with his head bent on his knees, and put his arm around Mantos's shoulders. ‘Not everything is lost, Master.’
‘Don't worry, Mantos, we'll manage,’ Silvietta said.
Saverio was touched. He looked up at them. ‘I've disappointed you. I'm so sorry. I haven't got charisma.’
Silvietta took his hand. ‘No, Mantos, you've got great charisma, and you have never disappointed us. You gave meaning to our lives. And we will never betray you, we will always be by your side.’
Murder knelt down and asked. ‘Who is our Charismatic Father?’
Mantos shook his head, embarrassed. ‘Guys . . . Stop it.’
Murder stood up. ‘Who wrote the Tablets of Evil?’
‘You did!’ Silvietta pointed at her leader.
‘Who taught us the Liturgy of Darkness?’
Mantos took a deep breath and said: ‘I did.’
Zombie was running between the tents.
It was chaos. People grinding their teeth, trying to put riding boots on. An old lady, short of breath, had rolled herself up in a purple sari like a trout in clingfilm. The vice president of the Lazio region, wearing colonial boots three sizes too small, was walking like a robot, carrying a huge rifle. The comedian Sartoretti, the unquestioned star performer of Friday night television on Italia 1, was struggling to zip up plus-fours and shouting at the hostess, ‘This is a forty-six. I wear a fifty-two.’
The Beast jumped over Paolo Bocchi, who was lying on the ground, pale and sweaty, looking at the sky as if he was speaking to his maker, and repeated like a mantra: ‘Please . . . please . . . please . . .’
Zombie kept running breathlessly until he got to the Italian-style garden.
Silvietta and Murder, sitting at a coffee table, were eating a piece of ricotta-and-spinach pie.
The Satanist stopped and doubled over from the effort. ‘What are you two still doing here?’
Silvietta stood up. ‘We're not getting married any more. We're going to take the mission all the way.’
Murder stood up, too. ‘Forgive us. We've understood our error.’
Zombie was out of breath. ‘I don't . . . want to . . . talk to you. Where is Mantos?’
‘He's gone to fill up his plate from the buffet.’
Silvietta took him by the arm. ‘Did you get it? We're not going to abandon you. We're going to commit suicide, too.’
‘Yeah, whatever . . . I don't believe it.’
Silvietta put a hand on her chest. ‘I swear. You were right, we were behaving like arseholes. But you forced me to reason.’
At that moment Mantos appeared with a big plate full of crayfish ravioli. ‘Zombie! You're back.’
The adept wanted to speak, but he was still out of breath. ‘Larita . . . arita . . .’
‘What?’ the leader of the Beasts asked. ‘Larita what?’
‘She's left . . . for the tiger . . . hunt!’
Departure for the Safari
42
Between one thing and another, the hunts left two hours behind schedule.
The sun was setting behind the forests of Forte Antenne, talking with it all the colours, but thanks to the skills of the Korean director of photography, Kim Doo Soo, the woods and the fields of the park had been transformed into an enchanted forest. Green moss-covered rocks and tree trunks dotted with mushrooms and silver lichen were bathed in an unnatural light that flooded from several ten-thousand-watt projectors camouflaged by the vegetation. A dense low fog, created by the smoke machines, covered the undergrowth and the plains where herds of gnus, ibex and elks grazed. Thousands of sparkling LEDs scattered across the fields went on and off like swarms of fireflies. Twelve huge fans hidden in the highlands created a light breeze that rippled over the grassy plains where a family of Marsican Brown bears and an old blind rhinoceros were resting between the swings and the ivy-covered slides.
The dogs and horse riders from the fox hunt had already disappeared behind the hills to the east.
The African beaters, followed by the hunters on foot, were sifting through the plains in search of the lion.
The elephants were leaving the Villa. In single file the pachyderms wove their trunks with their tails and, slow but unstoppable, they headed straigh
t towards the swamps in the northwest, where they said that Kira, the albino tiger, was hidden.
Sasà Chiatti, on the terrace of the Royal Villa, observed the parties with his binoculars as they advanced into his immense property.
Everything there was his. From the century-old pine trees to the invasive ivy, down to the last ant.
They had insulted him, mocked him, they had called him a crazy megalomaniac, a poseur, a thief, but he hadn't listened to any of them. And in the end, he had won. They had all come to court to pay him homage.
Ecaterina Danielsson joined him on the terrace. She had changed and was wearing a brown leather corset that squeezed her tiny waist. Her shoulders were wrapped in a silver fox-fur stole. Her legs were bound in boots. She was carrying two crystal glasses.
The model offered one glass to Chiatti. ‘Wine?’
Sasà closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. The fine perfume, pleasant, ethereal was perfect. He wet his lips. Dry, warm and lightly tannin-flavoured. He smiled in satisfaction. It was exactly like him, the Aprilia Merlot. He necked it.
Ecaterina wrapped her arms around his waist from behind. ‘How do you feel?’
He finished the glass and threw it over his shoulder. ‘Like the eighth King of Rome.’
43
Mantos, Murder, Zombie and Silvietta, all dressed as waiters, were marching on sandy, soggy ground dotted with puddles and marshy areas. It was crawling with mosquitoes, midges, worms, flies, dragonflies and a heap of disgusting little animals hidden amidst the reeds, sedges and lotuses.
Mantos turned around in confusion. ‘I don't remember this swamp . . . What about you guys?’
‘No, me neither,’ said Murder, looking down at his muddy shoes.
‘I came here a couple of times when I was a kid. My dad used to bring me on Sundays after he'd taken me to hear the Pope. I remember the rides, but not the swamp.’
‘Are we going the right way?’ Silvietta asked. In reality, she didn't really care. She had to make peace with Zombie. He was at the end of the line and was walking with his head hung low.
‘I think so. I saw them heading north.’ Mantos overtook Murder to head-up the line. He had tied the Durendal to his backpack. ‘What sort of trees are those? They're so weird.’
Trees with contorted trunks sank hundreds of long dark fingers into the sand. A colony of guenon monkeys observed them from the tree tops.
Murder chased off a silver-coloured fly. ‘Ummm . . . They're probably olive trees.’
‘What are you talking about? They're mangroves. Haven't you ever seen them in documentaries?’ Silvietta sighed.
Mantos was starting to run out of breath. ‘Hang on . . . Do mangroves grow in continental climates?’
Murder burst out laughing. ‘If you don't know what you're talking about, don't talk. This is not a continental climate, it's temperate.’
Mantos pointed at him, using his hand like a paddle. ‘Listen to him. The professor is here. You just confused mangroves for olive trees.’
‘Would you two stop fighting? Let's hurry up, the mosquitoes are eating me alive,’ said Silvietta, hanging back so she could get to Zombie. She began walking next to him. ‘Muffin, I know you're really, really angry, but you can't keep sulking right up to when we commit suicide. These are our last hours together, and we're doing the most important thing of our lives. We have to band together and love each other. I am asking you for forgiveness, but you have to give me a smile. Am I or am I not your best friend?’
He grumbled something that might have been a yes or a no.
‘Come on, please. You know how much I love you.’
He ripped a reed out of the mud. ‘You hurt me.’
‘I've asked you to forgive me.’
‘Why didn't you tell me you decided to get married?’
‘Because I'm an idiot. I wanted to tell you, but I was ashamed. If there wasn't this mission, I would have asked you to be my best man.’
‘And I wouldn't have accepted.’
She laughed. ‘I know . . . Please, don't say anything to Mantos about us wanting to get married, he'd be so disappointed.’
‘All right.’
‘Now, will you give me a smile? Just one, little little one?’
For a second Zombie turned his head towards Silvietta, and a smile as quick as the flap of wings flashed across his face before being immediately covered over by his hair.
Hunt
44
As a young man, Fabrizio Ciba had been a fairly good yachtsman. He had crossed the Adriatic Sea on a catamaran, and he had taken a two-masted ship to Ponza. During these crossings he had faced Burian winds and storms and never, not even once, had he suffered from sea-sickness. Now, sitting inside that fucking basket on an elephant's back, he was feeling madly nauseous. He was holding on to the edge of the sedan chair and he could feel the spider-crabcakes and the rigatoni floating around in the Jim Beam.
What a pain. Now that he could finally spend some time with Larita, he was feeling like shit.
The singer looked him over. ‘You look a bit pale. Are you feeling all right?’
The writer swallowed an acid burp. ‘No, it's nothing, just a bit of a headac . . .’ He was unable to finish the sentence because the barrel of Dr Cinelli's rifle hit him on the nape of the neck.
Ciba turned towards the old man. ‘That's enough! That's the third time you've hit me in the head with it. Be careful.’
The old man, in his perfect deafness, didn't pay him any attention and kept waving the weapon to the left and right, pointing it into the bushes.
We fucked up big-time when we decided to listen to Chiatti.
Not only were there four of them shoved inside that one square metre of swinging basket with an old fuckwit, but their elephant was at the head of the convoy, which meant they had to watch out for low-lying branches, too. But there was an even more subtle torment that distressed the writer. He had the feeling that he had lost a bit of shine and wasn't as charming as he usually was. Perhaps Larita had made that promise to see him again out of politeness, just as she had accepted to take part in the hunt out of politeness to Chiatti. Unbelievably, he felt like the clumsy teenager he was at high school. Back then he wasn't the confident and brazen Ciba of today, the old smooth sailor, the hitman, but was instead an awkward adolescent with a tuft of messy hair and glasses, hiding inside huge stretched jumpers and grubby trousers. Every time he tried to pick up a girl, it turned into a tragedy. He would put together really complicated plans in order to meet her in the most natural way possible. He hated showing how he felt, appearing weak, so he always wanted them to make the first move. He would lie in wait in front of the entrance to his prey's house, and pretend he was just passing by coincidentally. He would ignore her on purpose or be unpleasant to her, hoping to get her attention. He would think up brilliant Woody Allen-style dialogues in which he would look like an adorable loser.
Now, with Larita, he felt clumsy and as awkward as he had in his younger years.
‘Duck!’ the singer shouted.
Ciba lowered his head, only barely avoiding a trunk that cut the path in two. Cinelli copped it straight in the face, losing his glasses and spinning a full circle before sticking the tip of the rifle under Fabrizio's armpit.
‘Ouch! Bloody . . . I've had enough of this bloody thing!’ The writer ripped the gun out of his hands. ‘It's even loaded. If he accidentally fires a shot, he'll kill me!’
The boy took his grandfather's defence. ‘Who do you think you are? What a nerve! Do you normally pick on elderly gentlemen?’
Larita offered the grandson a handkerchief. The boy started patting the scratches on the old man's face. He stoically didn't make a sound.
Someone from behind shouted: ‘Hey! Get a move on! It's like being in a funeral march.’
Ciba turned towards the elephant that was following them. The basket on its back was carrying Paco Jimenez de la Frontera and Milo Serinov, and their dates.
Fabrizio gestured to th
em to keep calm. ‘Is it our fault? The Indian's the one who's driving.’
‘He's no Indian, he's Filipino. And anyway, tell him to get a move on,’ said Mariapia Morozzi, the ex-television presenter and girlfriend of the Russian goalkeeper.
Larita turned around. ‘Can't you see it's an elephant? If you wanted to go faster, you should have gone on the fox hunt.’
‘¡Yo te quiero, señorita! ¡Por la virgen de Guadalupe! Move that big ass!’ shouted the Argentinian soccer player. He had the fixed gaze and the stretched smile of someone who was addicted to cocaine.
Ciba stepped in to defend the girl's honour: ‘Hey, bello! Calm down. Don't be rude!’
‘Desculpe, it's a game . . .’ Paco Jimenez giggled nervously and kissed his girlfriend, Taja Testari.
A voice from the third elephant shouted out: ‘Excuse me? Does anyone have any Travelgum?’ It was Fabiano Pisu, the famous television actor. As green as a string bean, his eyes were wide open. He was with his boyfriend, the Maghrebi designer Khaled Hassan, the head of drama at RAI Television Ugo Maria Rispoli, and the film agent Elena Paleologo Rossi Strozzi. ‘Anyone? Anyone got any Travelgum?’
‘No. I've got a Mars,’ said Milo.
In the basket of the fourth pachyderm there was supposed to be Cachemire and his Animal Death, the heavy metal group from Ancona, the revelation of the festival of Castrocaro. But the basket looked empty. A lone army boot stuck out. The four of them were below deck, soaked in alcohol and a mix of mind-altering drugs.
I hate all of you, Fabrizio Ciba thought to himself.
He felt vulnerable and confused, like a non-European Union citizen at the residents’ permit office of the police department. He was in a cage, on the back of that elephant. His secret was to keep close to life, in order to observe the horror of humanity with sarcasm, but never get inside it. Right now he was smack-bang in the middle of that circus, and he didn't feel any different from those clowns. He was even looking like an idiot to Larita. It was best if he just kept quiet and behaved as a writer reflecting on life.