Let the Games Begin. Niccolo Ammaniti
it with an air-compressor. Martinelli obviously spared no expense when it came to feeding its editors. Thanks to a special credit card, they were free to gorge themselves in the best and most expensive restaurants, inviting writers, paper-smearers, poets and journalists to feasts disguised as work. The outcome of this policy was that the editors at Martinelli were a mob of obese bons vivants with constellations of cholesterol molecules floating freely through their veins. In other words, Leo – despite his tortoiseshell glasses and his beard that made him look like a New York Sephardim and his soft, marsh-green-coloured suits – had to rely on his power, on his unscrupulousness and his obtuse insistence for his romantic conquests.
The same did not apply to the women who worked for Martinelli. They began working in the publishing house as frumpy secretaries, and in the aggressive years they improved consistently thanks to enormous investments in themselves. By the time they reached fifty, especially if they had a high-profile position, they became algid, ageless beauties. Maria Letizia Calligari was an emblematic example. Nobody knew how old she was. Some said she was a young-looking sixty-year-old, some an old-looking thirty-eight-year-old. She never carried any identification with her. The gossipmongers whispered that she didn't drive simply to avoid having to carry her driving licence in her purse. Before the Schengen treaty came into force, she would go to the Frankfurt Book Fair by herself so that she didn't have to show her passport in front of any colleagues. But she had slipped up once. At a dinner party at the Turin Book Fair she accidentally mentioned that she had met Cesare Pavese – dead since 1950.
‘Please, Fabrizio, don't rush poor Tremagli as soon as you walk in the door,’ Maria Letizia urged.
‘Go on, show us your stuff. Kick his arse.’ Malagò pushed Fabrizio towards the conference hall.
Whenever Ciba walked into a venue, he used a secret ritual to get himself pumped. He thought about Muhammad Ali, the great boxer, about how he shouted and moved towards the ring encouraging himself: ‘I'm gonna kill him! I won't even give him the chance to look at me before he'll be down for the count.’ He did two little jumps on the spot. He cracked his neck. He tousled his hair. And, as charged as a battery, he walked into the grand affrescoed room.
3
The leader of the Wilde Beasts of Abaddon was at the wheel of his Ford Mondeo amidst traffic moving towards Capranica. The stretch of road was lined with shopping centres that stayed open late, and there were always delays. Usually, waiting in a traffic jam didn't worry Saverio. It was the only moment of the day when he could think about his own business in peace and quiet. But now he was running very late. Serena expected him for dinner. And he had to stop by the chemist's, too, and pick up some paracetamol for the twins.
He was thinking about the meeting. It would have been hard for it to go any worse than it did, and as per usual he had got himself into trouble all on his own. What made him think he should say that if he didn't bring in a plan within a week the sect could disband? He didn't have even a scrap of an idea, and it's common knowledge that laying down the guidelines for a Satanic mission takes time. He had recently tried to come up with some kind of plan, but nothing had occurred to him. Even the super-bargain month he'd organised at the furniture shop had been a washout, and he was still stuck there from morning till night, with the old man all over him as soon as he tried to take one step.
He had, though, stumbled on a bit of an idea a while ago: vandalise the Oriolo Romano Cemetery. On paper, it was a lovely plan. If carried out properly, it could work out really nicely. But when he'd taken it under closer consideration, he'd decided to abandon it. To begin with, opposite the cemetery there were always lots of cars coming and going, so it had to be done late into the night. The surrounding wall was also more than three metres high and scattered with pieces of broken bottles. Groups of teenagers hung out in front of the entrance gates and occasionally were even joined by the Porchetta sandwich van. Inside the graveyard lived the caretaker, an ex-soldier who was off his rocker. Absolute silence would be needed, but when uncovering graves, pulling up coffins, removing bones and piling them in heaps, a bit of commotion couldn't be avoided . . . although Saverio had even thought of crucifying the ex-soldier head-downwards over the mausoleum of the Mastrodomenicos, his wife's family.
Too complicated.
His mobile began ringing. On the display he read ‘SERENA’.
Saverio Moneta had told her the usual story: a Dungeons & Dragons tournament. For two years now, to keep his Satanic activities under wraps, he had told her that he was a champion boardgame-player. But this wouldn't hold up much longer. Serena was suspicious. She kept asking him lots of questions, wanted to know who he played with, if he'd won . . . Once he had organised a fake match with the Beasts to reassure her. But when his wife had seen Zombie, Murder and Silvietta, rather than feeling reassured she had become even more suspicious.
He took a breath and answered his phone.
‘Honey, I know, I'm running late, but I'm on my way. Traffic's hell. There must be an accident up ahead.’
Serena answered with her usual gentleness.
‘Oi! Have you gone completely out of your mind?’
Saverio slumped in the front seat of the Mondeo. ‘Why? What did I do?’
‘There's a guy here from DHL with a huge package. He's asking for three hundred and fifty euro. He says it's for you. So, do I pay him?’
Oh God, it's the Durendal.
He'd bought the faithful reproduction of the sword of Roland, Charlemagne's paladin, on eBay. As legend would have it, it first belonged to Hector of Troy. But that dimwit Mariano, his building's caretaker, was supposed to intercept it. Serena wasn't meant to know a thing about the sword.
‘Yeah, yeah, pay him. As soon as I get home, I'll pay you back,’ said Saverio, feigning calm.
‘Are you mental? Three hundred and fifty euro?! What the hell did you buy?’ Then Serena turned to the DHL delivery man. ‘Would you mind telling me what's in this box?’
While a spurt of peptic acids nibbled at his stomach wall, the grand master of the Wilde Beasts of Abaddon wondered why the fuck he had chosen such a mortifying life. He was a Satanist. A man who was attracted to the unknown, the dark side of things. But at that very moment there was no trace of anything dark and unknown except for the reason why he'd ended up in the arms of that harpy.
‘Excuse me, what's in the box?’ Serena asked the DHL man.
He could hear the delivery man's voice off in the distance. ‘Ma'am, it's late. It's written on the delivery slip.’
Meanwhile Saverio banged the nape of his neck against the head rest and mumbled: ‘What a mess . . . what a mess . . .’
‘It says that it's from “The Art of War” from Caserta . . . A sword?’
Saverio raised his eyes to the sky and made an effort not to begin howling.
‘What do you want a sword for?’
Mantos began shaking his head. A huge billboard on the side of the road caught his eye.
THE HOUSE OF SILVER. WEDDING LISTS.
UNIQUE AND EXCLUSIVE GIFTS IN PURE SILVER.
‘It's a gift, Serena. It's a surprise. Don't you get it?’ His voice had risen a couple of octaves.
‘Who for? I reckon you've lost it.’
‘Who for? Who could it be for? Have a guess?’
‘What would I know . . .?’
‘For your father!’
There was a moment of silence. ‘My father? What would he do with this sword?’
‘What else could he do? He can hang it over the fireplace, can't he?’
‘Over the fireplace? In the mountains, you mean? In the chalet up on Rocca Raso?’
‘Exactly.’
Serena's voice softened