Let the Games Begin. Niccolo Ammaniti

      11

      It was obvious that Satan had used Gerry Scotti to communicate with him. How could it be that, of all the infinite number of questions that exist in the universe, the authors of the programme had chosen one about Abaddon? It was a sign. Of what, Saverio hadn't the faintest idea. But it was undoubtedly a sign from the Evil One.

      The guy from Sabaudia had stuffed it up. He'd answered that Abaddon was an Anglican preacher from the eighteenth century, and had gone back home to his bank loan.

      Serves you right. That'll teach you for not knowing who Abaddon the Destroyer is.

      Saverio took a pack of Alka-Seltzer out of the drawer, dissolved a tablet in a glass and thought about the day. The last twelve hours had something prodigious about them. Everything had begun with his sudden decision to make the leap with the WB. Then turning down Kurtz Minetti. Now there was even the big question. He had to look for other signs of the presence of the Evil One in his life.

      What day was it today? April 28th. What did the 28th of April correspond to in the Satanic calendar?

      He went into the lounge room to get his laptop bag. The room was furnished with the ethnic Zanzibar collection. Square-shaped furniture made of black, oily wood inset with diamond-shaped pieces of zebra skin. They gave off a strange spicy odour that left you with a headache after a while. The Pioneer plasma TV was beneath an enormous mosaic Serena had created using shells from mussels and clams and coloured stones picked up on the Argentario. It was supposed to depict a mermaid sitting on the rocks, playing her long hair like it was the strings of a harp.

      Saverio connected to the Internet and Googled for the words: ‘Satanist Calendar’. He discovered that the 28th of April didn't mean anything. But the 30th of April was the Night of Walpurga, when there was the grand meeting of the witches on top of Mount Brocken.

      He stood up, feeling confused. The way things had gone today, he was sure that April 28th was a Satanic day.

      Even if, truth be told, only because the 28th wasn't far from the 30th, the Night of Walpurga.

      He went over to the big box next to the front door. He cut the packing tape and opened it. Then, like an ancient paladin, he kneeled before the treasure, slipped his hands into the polystyrene shavings and extracted the Durendal. He lifted it using both his hands. The solid steel blade, the hilt in forged iron and handle covered in leather. He had hesitated at length over whether to buy a Japanese katana, but he'd made the right choice when he bought a weapon that belonged to his own cultural tradition. It was so beautiful it took his breath away.

      He went out onto the small terrace, placed it before the moon's disc and, just like Orlando at Roncisvalle, he began to whirl it around. He would have loved to challenge Kurtz Minetti to a duel. In his office in Pavia.

      Me with the Durendal and him with the double-headed axe.

      He imagined himself dodging a blow, turning around and with a sharp swipe decapitating the head priest. Then he would simply say: ‘Come to me! You will be Beasts.’ And all the Children of the Apocalypse would kneel before his presence. That would be a great moment. Except for the fact that Kurtz Minetti, even though he was only as tall as a dick on a tin can, was a disciple of Sante Lucci, a Shaolin Master from Trieste.

      Saverio pirouetted and destroyed the clothes horse. The very idea that that gem would end up above his father-in-law's fireplace in Rocca Raso made him feel sick.

      The phone began ringing then quickly turned silent. Serena must have answered. Shortly after, he heard her shout: ‘Saverio, it's for you. Your cousin. Tell him the next time he calls at this hour I'll shove his teeth down his throat.’

      The leader of the WB went back into the lounge room and put the sword in its box, picked up the cordless and answered in a rushed tone: ‘Antonio? What is it?’

      ‘Hey there, cousin. How's it going?’

      ‘Not bad. What's the matter?’

      ‘Nothing. Actually, there is something. I need your help.’

      That's all he needed. Didn't anyone think that even Saverio Moneta had troubles of his own, too? ‘No, look . . . I'm up to my neck . . . I'm sorry.’

      ‘Wait. You don't have to do anything. I know you're busy. But every now and then I've seen you hanging out with a group of kids . . .’

      He's seen me with the WB. I have to be more careful.

      ‘I'm up shit creek. Four Poles left me hanging at the last minute, so I'm looking for fill-ins. They need to carry cases of wine, set up tables in the garden, clear away. Stuff like that. Hard workers, but well-behaved ones. Even if they don't have much experience, all they need is the will to work and no misbehaving.’

      Antonio Zauli was the head waiter of Food for Fun, a catering company in the capital city, which, thanks to the supervision of Zóltan Patrovic, the unpredictable Bulgarian chef and owner of the extremely famous restaurant Le Regioni, had become Rome's number one for organising banquets and buffets.

      Saverio wasn't listening. And if I decapitated Padre Tonino with a stroke of the Durendal? He's got Parkinson's so I'd just be doing him a favour, really. Tomorrow, after the paediatrician, I'll take the sword to the knife-sharpener . . . No, that would be copying Kurtz Minetti a bit.

      ‘Saverio? Can you hear me?’

      ‘Yeah . . . Sorry . . . I can't help you out,’ he faked.

      ‘My arse, you can't. You weren't even listening to me. You don't get it. I am desperate. I put my backside on the line with this party. I've been working at it for six months, Save’. He lowered his voice. ‘Swear you won't say anything to anyone.’

      ‘What?’

      ‘Just swear.’

      Saverio looked around and realised just how ugly the ethnic lampshade was. ‘I swear.’

      Antonio whispered in a conspiratorial tone of voice: ‘Anyone and everyone's gonna be at this party. Tell me a VIP. Anyone at all. Come on. The first name that springs to mind.’

      Saverio thought about it for a second. ‘The Pope.’

      ‘Oh, come on. A VIP, I said. Singers, actors, football players . . .’

      Saverio huffed. ‘What do I know? What do you want from me? Who can I say? Paco Jimenez de la Frontera?’

      ‘The centre-forward for Rome. Bingo!’

      Now, if in the whole world there was a word Saverio Moneta hated, it was ‘bingo’. He, as did all serious Satanists, detested popular culture, slang, Hallowe'en and the Americanisation of the Italian language. If it were up to him, everybody would still be speaking in Latin.

      ‘Give me another one.’

      Saverio couldn't take it. ‘I don't know! And I don't care! I've got too much on my plate at the moment, I have.’

      Antonio now put on an offended tone of voice. ‘What's the matter? You're a weirdo, you know that? I'm giving you and your friends the chance to make some money, to participate in the most exclusive party of the last few years, to rub shoulders with famous people, and you . . . You tell me to fuck off?’

      Saverio felt like ripping out his cousin's carotid