Let the Games Begin (18 page)

Fabrizio drank a couple of whiskies, one after the other. The alcohol relaxed him. He lit up a cigarette and studied the invited guests as if they were fish in an aquarium. Everyone was watching each other, recognising each other, criticising each other, saying hello to each other with a slight nod of the head, smiling at each other pleased to know that they were all part of a community of God Almighties. Fabrizio couldn't work out, though, if the fact that there was an audience to applaud them unsettled them or made them happy.

Then he realised that off to the side, sitting at a coffee table all alone, was an old man.

No! I don't believe it! He's here, too
. . .

Umberto Cruciani, the great writer of
Western Wall
and
Bread and Nails
, the masterpieces of Italian literature written in the seventies.

‘Is that . . .?' He was about to ask Simona if she recognised him, too, but then he reconsidered.

What was Cruciani doing there? He had been living in seclusion on a farm in the Oltrepò Pavese for the last twenty years.

The master was staring off in the distance towards the hills, his gaze perplexed beneath his bushy eyebrows. He looked like he wasn't even present, as if a bubble of solitude separated him from the rest of the guests.

‘What do you reckon to this party? He's gone all-out. Chiatti is already the winner.'

Fabrizio turned around.

Bocchi was squeezing a huge glass of mojito into his hand. He was already sweaty, purple in the face, and his eyes were feverish.

‘Yeah, nice.' The writer kept it short.

‘In the end, everyone's here. Do you know how many people said they wouldn't come, not even if they paid them, that it was too kitsch? Not a single one is missing.'

Fabrizio pointed out the old writer to him. ‘Even Umberto Cruciani.'

‘Who the fuck is he?'

‘What do you mean, “Who the fuck is he?”? He is a master.

He's up there with Moravia, Calvino, Taburni. Do you realise that forty years after publication his books are still on the bestseller list? I wish
Lion's Den
sold half as much as
Bread and Nails
. I could take it easy, I could even give up writing . . .'

‘Has he given up writing?'

‘He hasn't published anything since seventy-six. But my agent
told me that he's been working on a novel for twenty years that he wants to publish posthumously.'

‘He won't have to wait too long.'

‘Cruciani belongs to a generation of artists that no longer exists. Hard-working people, bound to their native land, to the farm life, to the rhythm of fields. See how concentrated he is . . . It almost looks like he's trying to find the end of his book.'

The surgeon took a suck on the straw. ‘He's taking a shit.'

‘What?'

‘He's not thinking. He's shitting. You see that Vuitton bag at his feet? It's a fecal collection sack.'

Fabrizio was crushed. ‘Poor thing. He's a bit weird, too. He hasn't let anyone see a single comma from his new novel. Not even his editors.'

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?'

‘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.