Let the Games Begin

  ‘Um, what day is it tomorrow?’

  ‘Saturday.’

  ‘Saturday . . . Let me think.’ It was impossible. The next day was the beginning of the ‘Kid's Bedrooms Week’, and if he asked the old man for another day off his father-in-law would pour kerosene over him and set him on fire in the shop car park.

  He took his courage in both hands. ‘No, tomorrow I can't make it. I'm sorry, but I really can't.’ I must be the first person who has dared to say no to an invitation from the greatest expert of Italian Satanism. He'll slam the phone down in my face.

  But Kurtz asked him: ‘And when could you make it?’

  ‘Well, actually, to be honest, I'm quite busy for the next couple of days . . .’

  ‘Of course.’ Kurtz seemed more surprised than annoyed.

  Mantos took a risk: ‘Couldn't we discuss it over the phone? You've caught me at a bad time.’

  Kurtz breathed in deeply through his nose.

  ‘I don't like discussing these things over the phone. It's not safe. I can only give you an idea. As you well know, the Children of the Apocalypse are the number one Satanic sect in Italy, and the third-biggest in Europe. Our website registers fifty thousand hits per day and we have a calendar rich with events. We organise orgies, raids, black masses and excursions to Satanic sites, like the pine forest of Castel Fusano and the Al Amsdin caves in Jordan. We also have a small theatre, where we show the greatest films of demoniacal cinema. We are also developing a half-yearly illustrated magazine called Satanic Family.’ His voice had changed, it was becoming more animated. He must have given this speech a number of times. ‘Our followers are spread out like leopard spots all across the peninsula. Our head office is still in Pavia, but at this point, given the situation, we have decided to expand and take a step forward. And here you come into play, Mantos.’

  Saverio undid the button on his collar. ‘Me? What do you mean, me?’

  ‘Yes, you. I know that you have been having some organisational problems with your Wilde Beasts of Abaddon. It's a predicament familiar to a lot of small sects. The Reaper told me that you've had a number of deserters over the last season and there are only three of you left.’

  ‘Well . . . To be honest, if you include me, there are actually four of us.’

  ‘Furthermore, you still haven't done anything noteworthy except for, as I see on the forum, some graffiti worshipping the Devil on the viaducts of Anguillara Sabazia.

  ‘Ah, you'd heard about that?’ Saverio asked proudly.

  ‘At this moment in time your sect is seriously ailing. And as you well know, with today's crisis there's not much hope you'll survive another year. Forgive me being frank, but you are an insignificant blip in the hard panorama of real Italian Satanism.’

  Saverio undid his seat belt. ‘We're trying hard. We're planning to recruit new adepts and carry out some plans of action that'll really put us on the map of today's Satanism. We're a small group, but we're really tight.’

  In the meantime, Kurtz carried on all by himself. ‘What I want to propose to you is that you disband the Wilde Beasts and join the cursed band of the Children of the Apocalypse. What I'm offering is for you to be in charge of Central Italy.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You will be the managing director of the branch for Central Italy and Sardinia of the Children of the Apocalypse.’

  ‘Me?’ Saverio's heart swelled with pride. ‘Why me?’

  ‘The Reaper has told me good things about you. He told me that you've got charisma, willpower, and you are a fervent believer in Satan. And as you well know, to be the leader of a Satanic sect you need to love the forces of Evil more than your own self.’

  ‘Really, did he say that?’ Saverio couldn't believe it. He was convinced that Paolo hated him. ‘All right. I'm in.’

  ‘Wonderful. We'll organise an orgy in your honour at Terracina, where we've got a number of novices from the Agro Pontino . . .’

  Mantos relaxed against the head rest. ‘Murder, Zombie and Silvietta will be so happy to hear about this offer.’

  ‘Hold it. The offer only applies to you. Your adepts will have to complete the application forms, which they can download from our website and send in to us. We will evaluate them case by case.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Kurtz's voice was flat again. ‘As you well know, favouritism is the death of every business.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘You'll have to come up to Pavia for a brief orientation, where we'll give you the basic notions of the liturgy we've adopted.’

  Saverio looked out the window. The cars were still banked up. On the other side of the road, on some landfill covered in billboards, the local train to Rome whizzed past. It looked like a glowing snake. In front of an SMA supermarket people were crowding around with their trolleys. The moon, above the rooftops, looked like a ripe grapefruit and the Northern Star, the one that guided the sailors . . . That one there was the Northern Star, wasn't it?

  I don't feel very well.

  The pappardelle in hare sauce were to blame; they'd given him indigestion. He could feel an unpleasant pressure pushing up at the mouth of his oesophagus. He widened his jaw as if he was about to yawn, but instead produced a sort of gurgle, which he plugged with one hand.

  Kurtz was still explaining: ‘To begin with, you could share the responsibility with the Reaper . . .’

  It's too hot in here . . . He couldn't keep track of the conversation. He pressed the button to open the window.

  ‘You're a little behind in that area, but I'll give them to you, don't worry about it and then . . .’

  A waft of air that tasted like chips and kebab from the kiosk in front of the shopping centre slid into the car. The rancid smell made him nauseous. He curved his back and held back a burp.

  ‘We'll set up a series of Satanic masses around the Castelli Romani area, naturally under your direct control, and then you'll need . . .’

  He tried to concentrate on Kurtz's monologue, but he felt as if he'd just swallowed a kilo of mouldy tripe. He undid the top button of his trousers and felt his stomach swell.

  ‘Enotrebor, who's in charge of Southern Italy, has done some remarkable stuff in Basilicata and Molise . . .’

  An Alka-Seltzer, a Coke . . .

  ‘Mantos? Mantos, are you there?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Can you hear me?’

  ‘Yes . . . of course . . .’

  ‘So, what do you say? Would next week work for you, if we meet and start drawing up a work plan?’

  Saverio Moneta would have liked to say yes, that it was an honour, that he was happy to be in charge of Central Italy and Sardinia, and yet . . . And yet he didn't feel like it. He couldn't help but remember when his father had given him as a present a Malaguti 50. Saverio had wanted a scooter all through his high-school years and his father had promised him that if he got sixty out of sixty on his final exams, then he would give him one. In his last year Saverio studied his backside off and in the end he'd done it. Sixty out of sixty. And his father had come from work and shown him his old smelly Malaguti. ‘Here you go. It's yours. I keep my promises.’

  Saverio had expected to get a new scooter. ‘But what do you mean? You're giving me yours?’

  ‘No money for another one. This one not good enough for you? What's the matter with it?’

  ‘Nothing . . . But how will you get to the factory?’

  His father had shrugged his shoulders. ‘Public transport. Nothing wrong with that.’

  ‘But you'll have to wake up one hour earlier.’

  ‘A promise is a promise.’

  His mother didn't let him get away with it: ‘How can you live with yourself, letting your father go without his scooter?’

  In the following months Saverio had tried to use the Malaguti, but every time he hopped on it the image of his father walking out of their apartment building at five o'clock in the morning, bundled up in his overcoat, would appear before him. He starte
d to get anxious, and in the end he had left it in the courtyard and someone stole it. So both he and his father had had to go without.

  It had nothing to do with all of this and yet he felt he had done something worthwhile with the Beasts. And he owed part of it to that group of losers that followed him. He couldn't let them down.

  Kurtz wanted to trick him. Just like his father had tricked him with the scooter. And the old man as well, when he said that he wanted to give him an important role within the company. Just like Serena had tricked him when she said she wanted to be his geisha, and that the twins, in the end, were just like one baby.

  That's why he had become a Satanist. Because everyone tricked him.

  What sort of a gift is a gift that every time you use it your father is forced to take the bus?

  Saverio Moneta hated them all. Every single one of them. The whole of humanity who moved forward through trickery and exploitation of their peers. Sheltered by his hate, he had fed, he had regained his strength, he had shielded himself. Hate had given him the strength to endure. And in the end, Saverio had made it his religion. And Satan his god.

  And Kurtz was just like all the others. Who the fuck does he think he is, saying that the Wilde Beasts of Abaddon are an insignificant blip?

  ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘No what?’

  ‘No. I'm not interested. Thank you, but I'll stay on as the leader of the Wilde Beasts of Abaddon.’

  Kurtz was surprised. ‘Are you sure you know what you're saying? Think about it. I won't make the same offer twice.’

  ‘I don't care. The Wilde Beasts of Abaddon may very well be an insignificant blip, as you said. But even a tumour is only a single cell at the beginning, then it grows, it multiplies and it kills you. The Beasts will become a blip that everyone will have to contend with. Just wait and see.’

  Kurtz burst into laughter. ‘You're pathetic. You're over.’

  Saverio put his seat belt on. ‘Maybe. But as you well know, it's not certain. It's not certain at all. And anyway, I'd rather become a priest than work for you.’

  He hung up.

  The remains of the sunset had melted away and the shadows had descended across the land. The leader of the Wilde Beasts of Abaddon turned the indicator on and skidded off down the motorway.

  8

  The old Indian writer kept to himself, sitting in a corner with a glass of water in his hands.

  He had arrived by plane from Los Angeles that morning, following two exhausting weeks of book presentations across the United States, and now he wanted to go back to the hotel and stretch out on his bed. He would try to sleep, but he wouldn't succeed in doing so, and in the end he would take a sleeping pill. Natural sleep had abandoned his body a while ago. He thought of his wife Margaret, in London. He would have liked to call her. Tell her that he missed her. That he would be home soon. He looked across to the other side of the room.

  The writer who had spoken about the fire was surrounded by a throng of readers who wanted his name signed on their copy of his book. And for each person the young man had a word, a gesture, a smile.

  He envied his youth, his relaxed desire to please.

  He no longer cared about any of this. What did he care about? About sleeping. About getting in six hours of rest, with dreams. Even the trip around the world that he had been forced to do since winning the Nobel made no sense. He was a rag doll, thrown from one end of the globe to the other, to be exhibited to the public, taken in hand by people he didn't know, people he would forget about as soon as he moved on. He had written a book. A book that had taken ten years of his life to write. Didn't that alone suffice? Wasn't it enough?

  During the presentation he had not managed to get past the introductions. Not like the Italian writer. He had read his novel on the plane. A small, fluid novel. He had read it out of scruple, because he didn't like to be presented by writers whose work he didn't know. And he had enjoyed it. He would like to tell the writer. It was not good manners to keep to himself.

  As soon as the old man got up from his chair, three journalists who were waiting on the sidelines were suddenly all over him. Sawhney explained that he was tired. The next day he would be happy to answer their questions. But he said it so softly, so sweetly, that he was unable to free himself of these annoying flies. Luckily a lady arrived, from his publishing house, who shooed them away.

  ‘What must we do now?’ he asked the lady.

  ‘There is a cocktail party. Then, in about an hour, we will go and eat in a traditional restaurant, in Trastevere, which is famous for its Roman specialities. Do you like spaghetti carbonara?’

  Sawhney placed his hand on her arm. ‘I would like to talk with the writer . . .’ Oh God, what was his name? His head wasn't working any more

  The lady came to his aid. ‘Ciba! Fabrizio Ciba. Certainly. Please stay here. I'll go and call him straight away.’ And she threw herself, her high heels tapping, into the throng.

  ‘You're not supposed to be asking me for my autograph . . . Ask Sawhney. He's the one who won the Nobel Prize, not me.’ Fabrizio Ciba was trying to dam the sea of books engulfing him. His wrist was sore from the autographs he had signed. ‘What's your name? Paternò Antonia? Pardon? Just a moment . . . Oh, you liked Erri, Penelope's father? He reminds you of your grandfather? Me, too.’

  A chubby woman, clearly overheated, elbowed her way through the crowd and planted another copy of The Lion's Den in front of him.

  ‘I came all the way from Frosinone just for you. I've never read your books. But they tell me they're real good. I bought it at the station. You are so nice . . . And so handsome. I always watch you on the television. My daughter is in love with you . . . And so am I . . . a bit.’

  A polite smile was sculpted on his face. ‘Well, maybe you should read them. You might not like them.’

  ‘What do you mean? Are you serious?’

  Another book. Another autograph.

  ‘What's your name?’

  ‘Aldo. Can you make it out to Massimiliano and Mariapia? They're my children, they're six and eight years old, they'll read it when they've gro . . .’

  He despised them. They were a bunch of idiots. A herd of sheep. Their appreciation meant nothing to him. They would have gathered with the same enthusiasm for the family memoir of the director of the Channel 2 news, for the romantic revelations of the most uncouth showgirl in television. They only wanted to have their own conversation with the star, their own autograph, their own moment with the idol. If they could, they would have ripped off a piece of his suit, a lock of hair, a tooth, and they would have carried it home like a relic.

  He couldn't bear another minute of having to be polite. Of having to smile like a moron. To try and be modest and gracious. He was usually able to conceal perfectly the physical revulsion he felt towards indiscriminate human contact. He was a master at faking it. When the moment came, he threw himself into the mud, convinced that he enjoyed it. He emerged from bathing in the crowds weary but purified.

  However, that evening a ghastly suspicion was poisoning his victory. The suspicion that he didn't behave properly, with the discretion of a real writer. Of a serious writer like Sarwar Sawhney. During the presentation the old man had not uttered a word. He had sat there like a Tibetan monk, his ebony eyes offering wisdom and aloofness, while Fabrizio played court jester with all that crap about the fire and culture. And as per usual, the question upon which his entire career balanced sneaked into his mind. How much of my success is thanks to my books and how much is thanks to TV?

  As always, he preferred not to answer himself, and instead drink a couple of whiskies. First, though, he had to shake off that swarm of flies. And when he saw poor Maria Letizia push her way towards him, he couldn't help but rejoice.

  ‘Sawhney wants to talk to you . . . As soon as you finish, would you mind going to him?’

  ‘Now! I'll come now!’ he answered her. And as if he'd been summoned by the Holy Ghost himself, he stood up and said to those fans who s
till hadn't received their certificate of participation: ‘Sawhney needs to talk to me. Please, let me go.’

  At the drinks table he sank two glasses of whisky one after the other, and felt better. Now that the alcohol was in his body, he could face the Nobel Prize winner.

  Leo Malagò came over to him with his tail wagging happily like a dog who's just been given a wild-boar pâté bruschetta.

  ‘You legend! You knocked them all out with that little tale about the fire. I wonder how you come up with such ideas. Now Fabrizio, though, please don't get drunk. We have to go to dinner afterwards.’ He folded his arm through Fabrizio's. ‘I had a look at the book sales. Guess how many copies you sold this evening?’

  ‘How many?’ He couldn't help answering. It was an automatic reflex.

  ‘Ninety-two! And you know how many Sawhney sold? Nine! You don't know how pissed off Angiò is.’ Massimo Angiò was the foreign-fiction editor. ‘I love seeing him so pissed off! And tomorrow you'll be splashed across the papers. By the way, how fucking hot is his translator?’ Malagò’s face relaxed. The look in his eyes suddenly softened. ‘Imagine what it would be like to fuck her . . .’

  Fabrizio, instead, had lost all interest in the woman. His mood was dropping like a thermometer in a cold snap. What did the Indian want from him?! To tell him off for the crap he had shot off? He plucked up his nerve.

  ‘Excuse me a moment.’

  He could see him in a corner. He was sitting opposite the window and was watching the tree branches scrape the yellow skyline of Rome. His black hair shone under the light of the chandeliers.

  Fabrizio drew near carefully. ‘I beg your pardon . . .’

  The old Indian turned around, saw him and smiled, showing off a set of teeth too perfect to be real.

  ‘Please, take a seat.’

  Fabrizio felt like a child who'd been sent for by the headmaster.

  ‘How's it going?’ Fabrizio asked in his high-school English, as he sat down opposite Sawhney.

  ‘Well, thank you.’ Then the Indian thought again. ‘To tell you the truth, I'm a little tired. I can't sleep. I suffer from insomnia.’