Let the Games Begin
Fabrizio opened his eyes and swore.
It was that shithead Matteo Saporelli.
64
The day he had been called to organise the catering for the party, the unpredictable Bulgarian chef Zóltan Patrovic had set his eyes on an oil painting by Giorgio Morandi in Chiatti's studio that represented a pair of flagons on a table.
That work by the Bolognaise painter would add prestige to the Emilia-Romagna room in his restaurant Le Regioni.
His place, situated in Via Casilina on the corner of Via Torre Gaia, had been at the top of the European restaurant guides for years. It was designed by the Japanese architect Hiro Itoki, in 1990, like a miniature Italy. Looking at it from up above, the long building had the same shape and proportions as the Italian peninsula, including the major islands. It was split into twenty rooms, which corresponded in shape and culinary specialities to the regions of Italy. The tables took the names of the capital cities.
Morandi's painting would have been perfect hanging above the cellar-fridge where he kept the Lambrusco.
The Bulgarian had decided that, after the party, he would get Salvatore Chiatti to give it to him as a gift. And if, as he imagined, the real-estate mogul resisted, he would convince him to donate it to him by pushing a little confusion into Chiatti's mind.
Now that the party had fallen to pieces, the guests were lost in the park and he had seen the lifeless body of the entrepreneur lying in a pool of blood, there was no reason for him not to pay himself for the work he'd done by taking the piece of art.
In the darkness, a candle in hand, he set off as silently as a black cat up the big staircase that led to the first floor of the Villa, which had been abandoned by the waiting staff and the other employees.
The steps were littered with pieces of furniture, clothes, dishes, broken statues.
The fatsos had sent the residence to rack and ruin. The chef didn't care who they were and what they wanted. He respected them. They had appreciated his cooking. He had seen them fling themselves at the buffet with a primeval enthusiasm and violence. He had recognised the ancestral ecstasy of hunger in their eyes.
For quite some time he had been returning home from his restaurant tired and frustrated. He couldn't bear the way people used their fork to investigate what was on the plate, how they interrupted their chitchat with mouthfuls, how they organised work lunches containing useless antipasti. To retain his sanity, he was forced to watch documentaries about hunger in the Third World.
Yes, the unpredictable Bulgarian chef loved hunger and hated appetite. Appetite was the expression of a replete and satisfied world, on the verge of surrender. A people that tastes instead of eating, that nibbles instead of feeding themselves, that's already dead but doesn't know it. Hunger is a synonym for life. Without hunger the human being is only the pretence of himself, therefore becomes bored and begins to philosophise. And Zóltan Patrovic hated philosophy. Especially when applied to cuisine. He regretted the passing of war, hunger, poverty. Soon he would up sticks and move to Ethiopia.
The unpredictable Bulgarian chef was on the top floor. The air was heavy with smoke, and wherever he pointed the dancing flame of the candle he could see destruction. He could hear murmurs and flashes of flames coming from the bedroom.
He didn't care what was going on in there, he had to go to the studio, but curiosity got the better of him. He put out the candle and moved closer to the door. A huge wall tapestry and the brocade curtains were on fire, and the flames lit up the room. On the four-poster bed lay Ecaterina Danielsson, completely naked. Her hair, like a red cloud, framed her angular face. Around the woman a dozen men were on their knees murmuring a strange chant and they stretched out their hands and brushed her tiny white breasts and plum-coloured nipples, the flat stomach with a goblet-shaped belly button, her pubis covered by a strip of carrot-coloured fur, and her long legs.
The model, her back arched like a cat, moved her head lazily, her eyes half-closed in an expression of ecstasy, her large, moist mouth wide open. She was gasping, placing her hands on the heads of the men bowed down around the bed like slaves worshipping a pagan goddess.
Zóltan moved along. He lit the candle again, followed the corridor and went into Chiatti's study. He lifted up the flame. His painting was still there. Nobody had touched it.
Something that resembled a smile appeared on the chef's face for an instant. ‘I don't want it, but I have to have it.’ He took a step towards the painting, but then he heard sounds coming from the dark corner of the room. He flattened himself behind a bookcase.
More than sounds, they were disgusting cries.
Zóltan moved the candle slightly and saw, between two bookcases, in a corner, a man on his knees. He was all skin and bones. His little bald head, bent towards the floor, was hidden behind thin shoulder blades and Zóltan could see his backbone, with the vertebrae protruding like a mountain range. His skin, as fine as tissue paper, was covered by a network of wrinkles and hung floppily from his arms, which were as frail as twigs. He was ripping something and stuffing it in his mouth, producing guttural sounds and gurgles.
Curious, the chef took a step forward. The parquet creaked underfoot.
The man on the ground turned around suddenly and ground the few rotten teeth he still had in his mouth. The small eyes shone like a lemur's. His shrivelled face was smeared with a dark, oily liquid. He pulled away, growling, his back against the wall. Between his legs he had the leftovers of a big tray of aubergine parmesan.
The chef smiled. ‘It's delicious, isn't it? I made it. It uses strained tomato sauce. And the aubergines have been fried in a light oil.’ He moved closer to the painting.
The old man craned his neck, without losing sight of the chef.
‘Take your time eating. I'll just take this and leave,’ the chef said in a low, reassuring tone of voice. But the old man grabbed the tray from the floor and, hissing like a cat, he threw himself at Zóltan. The chef stretched out his right hand and squeezed the spherical cap of the skull.
Aleksej Jusupov, famous marathon runner, stood still instantly. His eyes went blank and his arms fell to his sides. From the tray that he was holding on to in his hand, the rest of the parmesan dribbled to the ground.
How strange. Suddenly he was no longer afraid of that black man, and in fact he realised that he loved him. He reminded him of the old monk from his village. And the hand on his forehead radiated a wholesome warmth all down his arthritic skeleton. It seemed to be absorbing a healing energy that surrounded his bones and softened joints stiffened over time with the dampness of life underground. He felt strong and fit, like when he was a young boy.
He hadn't thought back to that time in his life for years.
He used to run kilometres and kilometres along the frozen banks of Lake Baikal without ever getting tired. And his father, tempered in his overcoat, would check his times. To celebrate, if he had beaten his own record, they would go fishing on the long pier from where you could see the Barguzin Mountains covered in snow. In winter it was even more beautiful, and they would open a hole in the ice and drop their bait in. And if they were lucky, they would pull up one of those big brown carps. Vigorous animals, who fought proudly before giving in.
That fatty meat was so tasty, boiled together with potatoes, black cabbage and horseradish. He didn't know what he would have given to experience again the sensation of those fillets melting in his mouth and the horseradish tickling his nose.
Aleksej found himself back in the fishing hut lit by just a kerosene lantern and the glare from the wood-fired oven. Papa gave him a glass of vodka to drink, told him it was fuel for his runner's body, and then they got into bed together, beneath layers of rough blankets smelling of camphor. One next to the other. And then Papa would hug him tight and whisper in his ear, with his breath stinking of alcohol, that he was a good boy, that he ran like the wind and that he didn't need to be afraid . . . That it was a secret just between the two of them. That it wouldn't hurt, in fact . . .
No. I don't want to. Please . . . Papa, don't do that to me.
Something snapped in Aleksej Jusupov's mind.
The wholesome warmth disappeared from his limbs and terror doused him like a cold shower. He squeezed his tear-filled eyes, and standing before him he saw his father dressed as a monk.
‘Пошёл вон! Я тебя ненавижу’1, said Aleksej and, channelling all the strength he had in him, he thumped the perpetrator of those days with the solid, reinforced-steel tray.
The unpredictable Bulgarian chef, incredulous, fell to the floor and the Russian athlete finished him off by walloping him with the tray again.
1 ‘Go away! I hate you’
Fireworks display by Xi-Jiao Ming and the Magic Flying Chinese Orchestra
65
The ex-leader of the Wilde Beasts of Abaddon woke up in the pitch black, being tossed about like a sack of potatoes.
It took him a while to realise that he was over the shoulder of the monster that had slung him up against a tree. He kicked his legs, trying to free himself, but an arm squeezed him so hard that he understood it was best he behave, if he didn't want to suffocate. The fatso was marching along at a fast pace without tiring, and he seemed to see perfectly in the darkness, turning right and left as if he had been born in that labyrinth. Every now and then a sliver of moonshine managed to slip through the cracks above the vaulted ceiling, and from the shadows little skeletons lying in niches along the long underground tunnel appeared.
I'm in the catacomb.
The ex-leader of the Beasts was familiar with the Catacomb of Priscilla. At middle school he had gone there on a trip. Back then, he was in love with Raffaella De Angelis. She was as skinny as a sardine, with long brown hair and a pair of silver braces stuck to her teeth. He liked her because her father had a dark blue Lancia Delta with light blue Alcantara seats.
In an attempt to be funny, while they were walking through the catacomb, Saverio had snuck up behind Raffaella and pinched her calf muscle, whispering: ‘The Etruscan kills again.’ And she'd let out a scream and flapped her arms in terror. Saverio had been hit in the hose and fainted.
He remembered, like it was yesterday, waking up in the Cubicle of the Velata. All of his classmates had gathered around him, Mrs Fortini was shaking her head, the old nun from the convent was making the sign of the cross, and Raffaella was telling him he was an idiot. Despite the pain, he had realised that for the first time in his life he was the centre of attention. And he had understood that you needed to do something extraordinary (but not necessarily intelligent) to get noticed.
Raffaella's father had driven him home in his Lancia Delta, which had that lovely new-car smell.
He wondered where that cute girl had ended up?
If he hadn't played that stupid joke on her, if he'd been nice to her, if he'd been more confident, if . . . Maybe . . .
‘IF’ and ‘MAYBE’ were the two words that they could carve on his tombstone.
Saverio Moneta threw back his head and let himself relax on the shoulder of his kidnapper.
66
Fabrizio Ciba studied the vault of a cave lit up by the red flashes from a fire. The ceiling had a crude geometrical shape. A crypt carved into the rock. A torch hung from the wall, its thick black smoke floating upwards and channelled through holes that worked like flues. Carved into the walls were dozens of little niches, in which piles of bones accumulated.
Matteo Saporelli kept annoying the shit out of him.
‘So . . . How are you? Are you able to stand?’
Fabrizio continued his inspection, ignoring Matteo.
Gathered against the walls, all of them curled up on the ground, he could see the silhouettes of a heap of people. Looking more closely, he realised that they were all guests from the party, waiters and a couple of security guards. He recognised a few actors, Sartoretti the comedian, an undersecretary from the Ministry for Cultural Heritage, a showgirl. And, strangely enough, no one was talking, as if they had been forbidden to do so.
Matteo Saporelli instead continued to torment him in a quiet voice.
‘So? What do you say?’
Worn out from the constant questioning, Fabrizio turned around and saw the young writer. He was in a bad way. With a black eye and that cut on his forehead, he looked like the poor man's version of Rupert Everett knocked about by someone bigger and nastier.
Fabrizio Ciba rubbed his aching neck. ‘What happened to you?’
‘Some fuckers kidnapped me.’
‘You, too?’
Saporelli patted his swollen eye. ‘They beat me when I tried to escape.’
‘Same here. I hurt all over.’
Saporelli lowered his head, as if he had to admit to a terrible sin. ‘Listen . . . I didn't mean to . . . I'm so sorry . . .’
‘For what?’
‘For this whole mess. You've all been involved because of me.’
Fabrizio turned so he could look at him better. ‘What do you mean? I don't understand.’
‘Exactly one year ago I wrote a snappy little essay on corruption in Albania for a small publisher from Foggia. And now the Albanian mafia wants to make me pay.’ Saporelli brushed his injury with the tips of his fingers. ‘Anyway, I'm prepared to die. I will beg them to save you, though. It's not fair for them to take it out on you. You've got nothing to do with this.’
‘I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but I believe you're making a mistake.’ Fabrizio patted himself on the chest. ‘It's all my fault. It's a subversive group of Finnish woodcutters who have kidnapped us. I exposed them for the havoc they were reaping in the thousand-year-old forests in Northern Europe.’
Saporelli burst into laughter. ‘Oh, come on . . . I heard them talking before, they're speaking Albanian.’
Fabrizio looked at him with a perplexed expression on his face. ‘Of course, because you speak Albanian now?’
‘No, I don't speak it. But it sounds just like Albanian. They use those consonants typical of the Balkan languages.’ He kept on tapping his bruise in an obsessive manner. ‘Listen, tell me the truth: how do I look? My face is disfigured, isn't it?’
Fabrizio looked at him for a second. He didn't look too bad, but he nodded slowly.
‘But will I go back to normal?’
Ciba gave him the bad news. ‘I don't think so. It's a bad blow . . . Let's hope your eyesight isn't affected’
Saporelli collapsed. ‘My head is throbbing. You don't have a Saridon? Ibuprofen?’
He was about to say no, then he remembered the magic pill that Bocchi had given him. ‘You're the same old lucky guy you ever were. I've got this pill. You'll feel so much better afterwards.’
The young writer examined it with his healthy eye. ‘What sort of stuff is it?’
‘Don't you worry. Swallow it.’
The Strega winner, after a moment of hesitation, swallowed.
At that moment, from the depths of the dark tunnel they heard the slow sounds of percussion instruments. It sounded like a heart beating.
‘Oh God, they're coming. We're all going to die!’ shouted Alighiero Pollini, the undersecretary for Cultural Heritage, and he hugged Magic Daniel, the famous illusionist from Channel 26. The showgirl began to whimper, but nobody made any effort to comfort her. The beating was getting louder and echoed around the crypt.
Fabrizio, overcome with fear to the point where even his fillings ached, said: ‘Saporelli, I . . . I . . . I admire you.’
‘And I consider you to be my literary father. A model I try to imitate,’ the young man answered in a moment of sincerity.
The two of them hugged and stared at the entrance to the tunnel. It was so black that the darkness seemed tangibile. As if millions of litres of ink were on the verge of overflowing inside the crypt.
The tribal rhythm, hidden by the shadows, seemed to be made up of percussion instruments and drums, but also hands clapping.
Slowly, as if freed from the darkness that imprisoned them, some figures ap
peared.
Everyone stopping whining and complaining, and kept silent to watch the procession.
They were enormous. As white as chalk, with small heads set into rounded shoulders. Rolls of fat hid their waistline; their arms looked like legs of ham. Some of them were holding bongos under their armpits and the others beat their chest, creating the ancestral rhythm. There were women, too, shorter and with tits like flat, wide mozzarellas. And children – barge-arses, too – who held their mothers’ hands in fear.
Slowly the shy, clumsy gang came forward. They were wearing bits and pieces of tracksuits, stretched sweatshirts, the remains of a gardener's uniform. On their feet they had trainers that were out of shape and sewn back together with pieces of string and metal wire. Around their chubby biceps, dog collars. Some of them were wearing broken headphones with charms hanging from them: bottle tops and dog tags, with names and telephone numbers. Others had bicycle tyres around their chests.
Their skin had no pigmentation and their small eyes, red and beady, seemed annoyed by the light. Their colourless hair had been braided with the strips of red-and-white plastic tape used to cordon off workmen on building sites.
Suddenly, all together, they stopped beating and stood silently in front of the guests. Then they divided into two wings to let someone through.
A group of old people so spindly they looked like they'd walked out of a concentration camp, moved between the fat people. They were extremely white, but not albinos. Some of them had dark hair.
The fatsos got down on their knees. Then a man and a woman were placed in the middle of the room, on white plastic chairs.
The old man was wearing an ornamental headdress that looked vaguely like the ones the American Indians used, made up of Bic pens, little bottles of Campari Soda and coloured plastic spoons. Huge Vogue sunglasses covered nearly his whole face. On his chest he was wearing an armour made of colourful plastic frisbees.
The woman was wearing a blue sandbucket on her head, and big cords of hair plaited together with inner tubes and pigeon feathers framed her face. She was wrapped in a disgustingly dirty North Face down jacket, with two skinny legs with varicose veins sticking out the bottom.