Let the Games Begin (7 page)

‘They help the homeless.'

‘Well done.' The presenter encouraged the audience to clap their hands and the audience responded with an uproarious applause. ‘You're a philanthropist. Are you sure we won't see
you zooming around in a Ferrari? No, you can see that you're a good man.'

Saverio shook his head. If he won that sum of money, he would buy a medieval castle in the Marche region and turn it into the headquarters of the Beasts.

‘Now, let's take a look at the question. Ready?' Gerry tightened the knot in his tie, cleared his throat and, while the question and the four answers appeared on the screen, he recited:

WHO WAS ABADDON?

Saverio Moneta almost fell off his chair.

 

10

After the revitilising injection to his ego, Fabrizio Ciba's mood was at stratospheric levels. He had written an important novel and he would write another one that was even more important. There was no need to question the reason for his success. Hence, when he saw Alice Tyler talking with the Martinelli sales manager, he decided that it was fine to intervene. He finished his whisky, messed up his hair and said to the Indian writer: ‘Excuse me a moment, I need to say hello to someone.' And he went on the attack.

‘Here I am, hello there, I'm Fabrizio Ciba.' He pushed in between the two, then said to Modica: ‘And seeing as you are
bloodsuckers and you never pay me a cent for these presentations, I can do anything I want, so I'm taking the most charming and talented translator in the world away from you and off to drink a glass of Champagne.'

The sales manager was a chubby fellow, unhealthily pallid, and the only thing that he managed to do was puff up like a puffer fish.

‘You don't mind, do you, Modica?' Fabrizio grabbed the translator by the wrist and dragged her along with him towards the refreshments. ‘It's the only way to get rid of him, talk about money. I wanted to congratulate you. You did a wonderful job with Sawhney's book, I personally checked the translation word for word . . .'

‘Don't make fun of me,' she giggled, amused.

‘It's true, I swear! I swear on the head of Pennacchini! I checked every one of the eight hundred pages, and nothing. Everything is perfect.' He put his hand on his heart. ‘Just one comment . . . Yes, on page six hundred and fifteen you translated “creel” as fishing basket and not as lobster pot . . .' Fabrizio tried to look her in the eyes, but he couldn't take his eyes off her tits. And that skimpy blouse didn't help. ‘I'm sorry, but shouldn't you translators be ugly and badly dressed?'

He was clearly sailing. He was back to being Ciba the conquistador, the one for the most important occasions.

‘So, when should we get married? I write the books and you translate them, or the other way round, you write the books and I translate them. No flies on us.' He poured her a glass of Champagne. He poured himself another glass of whisky. ‘Yes, we really should do it . . .'

‘What?'

‘Get married, right?' He was forced to repeat himself. He had the vague feeling that the girl wasn't exactly responding to his
advances. She wasn't your classic Italian bint, and maybe he needed to use a more subtle strategy. ‘I've got an idea. Why don't we make a run for it? I've got my Vespa outside. Just imagine, everybody here dying of boredom, talking about literature, while you and I drive around Rome having fun. What do you think?'

He looked at her with the expression of a boy who has just asked his mother for a piece of cake.

‘Are you always like this?' Alice slid her hand through her hair and opened her lips, showing brilliant white teeth.

Fabrizio purred. ‘Like this how?'

‘Well, this . . .' She paused for a moment in search of the right word, then sighed: ‘Idiotic!'

Idiotic? What does she mean idiotic
? ‘It's the childlike part of the genius,' he proffered.

‘No, we can't leave. Don't you remember? We've got the dinner. And Sawhney . . .'

‘The dinner, I forgot. Right,' he lied. He'd overdone it, asking her to run off, and now he tried to dam the refusal.

She grabbed his wrist. ‘Come with me.'

As he passed the table, Ciba snapped up a bottle of whisky.

Where was she taking him?

Then he saw the door leading to the garden.

 

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 artery and bathing in his blood, but he sat down on the couch and tried to reassure him.

‘No, Anto, I'm sorry. Really, I'm not angry with you. It's just that I'm tired. You know, the twins, my father-in-law, it's been hard going . . .'

‘Yeah, I hear ya. But if you think of anyone who could help
me out, give me a bell. I've got to find four kids by tomorrow morning. Think about it, OK? Tell them the pay's great and during the party there's even a concert with Larita and fireworks.'

The leader of the WB pricked up his antennae.

‘What did you say? Larita? Larita the singer? Who did
Live

in Saint Peter
and
Unplugged in Lourdes
? Who sings that song “King Karol”?'

Elsa Martelli, known artistically as Larita, had been the lead singer of the Lord of Flies for a couple of years, a death metal group from Chieti Scalo. Their songs had been the anthems of the Evil One and they had been much appreciated by the Italian Satanic community. Then suddenly Larita had left the group and converted to the Christian faith, been baptised by the Pope, and had undertaken a solo career as a pop singer. Her releases were a flavourless mix of new age, teenage love affairs and feel good sensations, and as such had obtained a huge amount of success in the world. But she was loathed by all Satanists.

‘Yeah. I think it's her. Larita . . . The one that sings “Love Around You”.' Antonio was no expert of pop music.

Saverio realised that the air had a nice smell, of earth and grass from the freshly mowed street islands. The moon had disappeared and it was completely dark. The windows vibrated and the ficus was restless, tossed about by a sudden breeze. It began to rain. Huge, heavy drops stained the bricks on the small terrace, and a lightning bolt, like a crack in the wall, tore open the shadow and for an instant the sky lit up like it was day with an explosion that shook the earth, set off burglar alarms and started dogs barking.

Saverio Moneta, seated on the couch, saw a fleet of large and twisted black clouds heading towards Oriolo Romano. One of them, the biggest of all, right in front of him, folded
in half and stretched out, turning into a sort of face. Black eyes and mouth wide open. Straight after the shadows returned.

‘Madonna of Carmine!' he sputtered instinctively. He ran to close the windows, where the rain was drenching the parquet floor. ‘All right!' he panted into the receiver.