Bocchi put his hand over his mouth to cover a burp. ‘After he dies it will be revealed that he'd written fuck-all, I bet anything you want.’
‘He's written . . . he's written . . . Leave him be. Everything he writes, he downloads onto a USB key and then deletes it everywhere else. He's paranoid, he's scared he'll lose it. You see that big gold medal he's wearing round his neck? It's a forty-gig USB stick from Bulgari, he never lets it out of his sight.’
In the meantime, Simona had got herself a plate with one solitary little mozzarella ball.
‘You'll never believe how much yummy stuff there is to eat. There's a cart where they're frying artichokes, mozzarelline and pumpkin flowers. Mamma mia, I love fried food. I'd eat it all. It's a pity I can't . . .’
Bocchi picked an ice cube out of his cocktail and rubbed it over his neck as if it was mid-August. ‘Why?’
‘You're asking me why! I've put on three hundred grams. Can't you see that I'm obese?’ The actress showed her perfectly flat and fat-free stomach to the surgeon. ‘Can you book me in for lipo?’
‘Where's the problem, Simo? The only fat cells you've got left in your body are up there.’ He pointed at her skull. And then said seriously: ‘I can book you in for some brain liposuction.’
The actress laughed halfheartedly. ‘You're always such an idiot.’
The surgeon stood and stretched. ‘Whatever. I'm off to take a look around. See you later.’
Fabrizio wrapped his arm around Simona's tiny waist. ‘Shall we take a look around, too? What do you say?’
She put her head on his shoulder. ‘All right.’
They moved along, following the tide of guests. Fabrizio could smell a delicious perfume coming from the actress's hair and the alcohol made his thoughts feel lighter and his mood lift. People kept stopping them to say hi and pay them compliments. Nobody could deny that they made a splendid couple.
Maybe they're right, I could make Simona my girlfriend.
To be honest, the actress from Subiaco had plenty of strings to her bow. To begin with, she was a total idiot, and Fabrizio loved idiotic women: they drank from his personality like a Friesian at a fountain. The trick was not to listen to them when they started talking about the meaning of life. One of the main flaws of idiotic women is an innate tendency for abstraction, for discussing feelings, personality, life, horoscopes. And in general, they all totally lack practical purpose and irony. Hence they don't criticise everything you do. The day to day, they are manageable. What's more, Mariano Santilli, a film producer who had gone out with Somaini for a year, had told him that in the domestic environment Somaini blended in completely with the furniture. She didn't create any trouble whatsoever. She went into stand-by as soon as she crossed the threshold. All it took was to hand her a remote control and a treadmill, and she would run for hours. She didn't eat, she worked like an animal, and when she wasn't working she was at the gym. And she was the sexiest woman in Italy. Her calendar was hung everywhere. Millions of men wanked themselves to death thinking about her, and they would be envious as hyenas at the idea that he was the lucky one who got to fuck her.
And that's a great feeling.
After all, Arthur Miller had been married to Marilyn Monroe.
‘Listen, Simona. What about if we became an item? I reckon we would be the couple.’
‘You think?’ The actress seemed flattered and at the same time disorientated. ‘Really? You're so sweet. But I don't know we'd get along . . . We're opposing star signs . . . And then you're a genius, you write books, and I'm a country girl, I don't have anything to say. What would you do with a girl like me?’
‘Let me tell you a secret, Simona. Even those writers who seem detached are really nothing more than modern-day storytellers. They're people who tell stories so that they don't have to work.’ Fabrizio pulled her close to him. ‘Have you ever been to Majorca?’
Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Matteo Saporelli make his entrance.
‘They . . .’
The rest of Somaini's words were lost, as if a turbine was blowing wind into his ears. He pulled backwards and touched his forehead.
‘I think I've got a temperature,’ he stuttered to Simona.
‘Excuse me . . . Excuse me just a moment.’
Fabrizio stumbled towards the drinks cart.
I completely fucked up when I decided to come to this fucking party.
In order to comprehend Ciba's reaction, it is important to understand who and especially how old Matteo Saporelli was. Mat, as his friends called him, was twenty-two years old. Half Fabrizio's age. He was the real, true young talent of Italian literature. He had come out of nowhere with his novel The Misfortunes of a Man with Good Taste, the story of a chef who one day awakens to discover that he has lost his sense of flavour, but keeps on cooking by tricking everyone. The book had climbed to the top of the bestseller lists with the same impact that the Space Shuttle enters the ionosphere, and there it had stayed. In one year alone, the young man had managed to win the grand slam: Strega, Campiello and Viareggio prizes.
Fabrizio couldn't open a newspaper, or change channels, without Saporelli's obnoxious little nipper face popping up. Wherever there was a question to be answered, an opinion to be given, he was there. The problem of castrating cats in Trastevere? The third lane on the Salerno to Reggio Calabria toll road? The use of cortisone in the treatment of anal fissures? He had the answer ready. But the thing that really made Ciba suffer was that the women drooled over him. They said he looked like a young Rupert Everett. To top it off, Saporelli was published by Fabrizio's own publishing house, Martinelli. And in the last few years he had kicked Ciba's arse, as far as sales were concerned.
He had been told that Saporelli's copy editor (who also happened to be Fabrizio's copy editor) had given him a blow job in the toilets of the Ninfeo of Villa Giulia to celebrate his winning the Strega Prize.
What a slut. She's never given me one. Not even when I won the Prix Médicis in France. Which is a thousand times better.
He stared him down. With his pressed jeans, his moccasins, the white shirt, a sweater knotted over his shoulders and his hands in his pockets, he wanted to look like a typical good boy, modest and undemanding. Someone who hadn't gotten a big head.
What a hypocrite! That devious creature made him sick to his stomach.
But you won't get the better of me. I look forward to seeing you with your next novel.
Fabrizio was so concentrated on being disgusted that it took him a while to realise that Saporelli was talking to Federico Gianni. The managing director of Martinelli gave the young writer a slap on the back and they started pissing themselves laughing.
They're as thick as thieves.
He was reminded of the words that Gianni, that fake, had said at the Indian's presentation. He saw that the two men had been joined by that old gasbag Tremagli and his wife, a troll with tits. Naturally, the literary critic had climbed over himself to praise Saporelli's novel. ‘Italian literature takes flight again on the wings of Saporelli’, he had had the courage to write.
Fabrizio necked another glass of scotch.
The moment had come to face Gianni. He began to warm up, thinking of the great Muhammad Ali. He took two steps, but then stopped suddenly. What the hell was he doing?
Rule number one: never let them see your envy.
It was much more effective to hit the road, taking the hottest woman at the party with him. He sidled alongside to Simona Somaini, who was at the centre of attention for a group of actors from the series Crimes in Wheelchairs.
‘Sorry, everyone. I need to steal her for a second,’ he said, smiling with gritted teeth. Then he took the actress by the wrist and, purple-faced, he whispered to her: ‘I have to talk to you. It's important.’
She seemed a little annoyed. ‘What is it, Fabrizio?’
‘Listen to me. Let's get out of here. There's a plane leaving for the Baleari soon . . .’
‘The Baleari?’
&nb
sp; ‘Oh, right. Well . . . They're Spanish islands in the sea. On Majorca, one of the Balearic Islands, I have a house hidden in the mountains. A love nest. Let's go straight away. If we move quickly, we'll be able to make the flight.’
The actress was looking at him, perplexed. ‘But we're at a party now. Why do we have to leave? It's fantastic. Everyone's here.’
He took her by the arm and bent down as if he was going to tell her a big secret.
‘That's exactly why, Simona! We can't be where everyone is. We are special. We are the couple. We can't be confused with the others. People will notice us a thousand times more if we leave.’
Simona wasn't really convinced. ‘You reckon?’
‘Listen to me. It's not that hard to underst . . .’
But the words died on the tip of his tongue. Simona Somaini was undergoing a somatic transformation. Her hair was puffing up, becoming shinier and lighter, like in a TV ad for hair conditioner. Her tits were climbing up her chest as if annoyed by the useless dress covering her body. She was staring straight in front of her like she was watching the Messiah walking on the water of the fountain. Then she laid her eyes once again on Fabrizio and sniffed. She was moved to tears.
‘I don't believe it! That's . . . That's Matteo Saporelli . . . Oh my God . . . Tell me you know him, please . . . Of course you know him, you're both writers. I love him, and I have to speak to him right now. Morin is making a film from his novel.’
Fabrizio took two steps backwards, horrified, as if he was facing someone possessed by the Devil. If he'd had some holy water in hand, he would have thrown it at her. ‘You are a monster! I don't ever want to see you again.’ With large steps, he crossed the courtyard and the Italian-style garden, and practically ran to the station.
The train wasn't there.
He went up to a hostess. ‘Where is it? When will it arrive?’ The hostess looked at her watch. ‘In about a quarter of an hour.’
‘That long? Isn't there any other way to get out of here?’
‘On foot. But I wouldn't recommend it, it's full of wild animals.’
A waiter ran up to him. Before he spoke, he caught his breath. ‘Mr Ciba! Mr Ciba! I'm sorry, Dr Chiatti would like to speak with you. Could you follow me, please?’
31
Zombie took a look around and moved over towards some wooden cases that held the silverware for the camps. He began reading the labels on the covers. Fork . . . Fork . . . Knife . . . Knife . . . Spoon.
‘These are all cutlery.’
He went to another pile of containers. He opened a lid and wrapped in a blue velvet cloth he found the silver poultry shears. They were so big, they looked like ostrich shears. He picked them up and went back to the shed happy.
Murder and Silvietta were behind the camp toilet, getting into their waiter uniforms.
‘Guys, I found . . .’ he said, and then fell silent.
The two of them, while they got dressed, were having an argument. Actually, it seemed they were really fighting. They were so caught up that they didn't even notice him. Zombie moved closer slowly, without giving himself away, and he hid behind the Land-Rover to hear better.
‘You suck! You didn't tell him, again,’ Silvietta was saying.
‘I know . . . But I told him a little bit. It's just that I got stuck. This is not an easy situation, you know,’ Murder huffed.
‘Sure, that's why you were supposed to tell him this morning in Oriolo. Then you said you'd tell him in the car . . . And now what are we supposed to do?’
Murder stiffened, visibly annoyed. ‘Excuse me, but why don't you tell him? I don't get why I have to be the one to tell him.’
‘Are you mental? You were the one who told me that it was best if you spoke to him. That you've known Saverio for ages and you know how to handle him.’
He sweetened his voice. ‘It's just not easy, honey bun. It's delicate stuff, you know that even better than I do.’
The Beast heard Silvietta snort. ‘How hard can it be? You go and you say to him: “Listen, we're sorry, but Silvietta and I have decided to get married, so we can't commit suicide.” Full stop. Does it sound hard to you?’
The poultry shears fell out of Zombie's hand.
In the former residence of the Royal Family, Mantos, with a case of wine in his arms, walked through the service entrance and found himself in the living room. His mouth dropped. No comparison with that crap from the Furniture Store of the Thyrolean Masters of the Axe. The mix between antique and modern was of very fine taste. This was what he was talking about when, during the brainstorming sessions with old Mastrodomenico, he tried to soften his roughness and bring him closer to the world of interior decoration. He walked through a vestibule and found himself in a studio full of super-tall bookcases.
All of the volumes had been covered in packing paper and the titles written in beautiful handwriting. The effect was that of a light-brown room. In the middle of the room was a single block of solid wood, so big that it had to be from a baobab or a redwood. Atop, a black telephone.
He looked at it.
Don't do it.
He put down the case and picked up the receiver.
I'm about to fuck-up big-time.
It didn't matter. Before throwing himself into this suicide mission, he had to hear his wife's voice one more time.
Holding his breath, he dialled Serena's mobile number.
‘Honey . . . It's me . . .’
The answer was: ‘Where the fuck are you?’
‘Darling, wait . . . Let me explain . . .’
‘What have you got to explain? That you're a poor old fuckwit?’ Serena attacked him.
Saverio sat down on the armchair. He leaned his elbows on the table.
She had forgotten everything. As if the events of the night before had never happened. She had gone back to being Cruel Serena.
Who knows what I was expecting? That she would change?
No one changes. And Serena was exactly the way she was when she was born. The mirage that over time she would soften had trapped him in a marriage with a witch. This perverse mechanism had kept them tied together. And she had taken advantage of it, making him feel like a gutless halfwit.
With a lump in his throat, he held the receiver away from his ear; but even so, he could still hear her barking.
‘Have you lost your fucking mind? I've been calling your mobile for hours. Papa is going mad. He wants to sack you. Today is the first day of Kids’ Bedroom Week. There are two thousand kids here, screaming their heads off. And where are you? With those four imbeciles. As God is my witness, I'll make you pay dearly for this . . .’
Saverio was looking out the window. A robin redbreast was cleaning its feathers as it sat on a cherry tree. The image went out of focus, hidden by his tears.
To gain that woman's respect, he'd have to rape her every night. Kick her like a dog. But that was not his idea of love.
At least now I know I've made the right choice.
A strange feeling of calm took hold of Saverio. He felt peaceful. He had no more doubts.
He put the receiver near his mouth. ‘Serena, listen to me carefully. I have always loved you. I have tried to make you happy, but you are a bad person, and you make everything around you turn bad.’
Serena's voice was husky, as if possessed. ‘How dare you! Where the hell are you? I'm gonna come and get you and punch your face in. Saverio, I swear on my father's head, I'll do it.’
The leader of the Wilde Beasts of Abaddon filled his ribcage with air, and in a clear voice said: ‘My name is not Saverio, it's Mantos.’ And then he hung up.
‘What the hell are you doing here? Who told you to get the poultry shears?’
Zombie didn't have time to turn around and understand, before he was grabbed by the ear and dragged into the middle of the courtyard. He began to scream in an attempt to free himself of that vice-like grip. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Antonio crushing his auricle.
The veins on the head
waiter's neck were puffed and his eyes bloodshot as he spluttered and screamed at Murder and Silvietta: ‘Hey! Hey! You two! Why are you dressed like waiters?’
Zombie managed to free himself and rubbed his burning ear.
‘You must be out of your minds. Did you by chance think you were at the town festival for the common whitefish at Capodimonte? I'll set you straight.’ Antonio shoved Murder. ‘Tell me why you're dressed as waiters.’
‘We thought we could make ourselves useful. There's not much to do here . . .’ Murder suggested.
Antonio got to within an inch of his nose. His breath smelt of menthol.
‘“Useful”? Do you think this is a game? And what game would that be? Statues? Tig? You have just come along and decided you wanted to be waiters? You muck around and I lose my job. Have you not understood where we are? In there, are waiters from Harry's Bar, from Hotel de Russie, people who studied hospitality. I turned down people from the Caffé Greco.’ Antonio was blue in the face. He had to stop for a second to regain his breath. ‘Now, you'll do the right thing. Take off those clothes and get out of here. I won't pay you a lira and that dickhead Saverio will get out of here along with you! Never trust your relatives. Speaking of Saverio, where is that . . .?’
Antonio slapped his neck like he'd been bitten by a horsefly. He ripped something off of his neck just above the collar and opened his hand.
In his palm he found a paper cone with a pin at the tip.
‘But what . . .?’ was all he managed to say, then his eyeballs rolled back in his head, showing the white sclera, and his mouth was paralysed in a sneer. He took one step backwards and, stiff as a statue, fell to the ground.
The Beasts looked at him in astonishment, then Mantos and his blowpipe appeared from a bush.
‘He was being a pain in the arse, eh? You can't imagine how much of pain he was at school . . .’
Murder gave his boss a high five. ‘You knocked him out. That Sedaron stuff is the bomb.’
‘I told you. Well done, Zombie, you found the poultry shears.’