Let the Games Begin

by Niccolò Ammaniti

  ‘Yes,’ said Fabrizio. ‘All right, I'll come. I'll bring my computer so in the evenings, after the vaccines, I'll write.’

  Larita squeezed his hand hard and, in a voice charged with emotion, said: ‘Come on, let's get out of this place. The real world is expecting us.’

  57

  Luckily, that little contraption was slow.

  Mantos, out of breath, grabbed on to the back hatch and, with a clumsy leap, climbed on board. The driver didn't notice a thing.

  There were huge saucepans on a tray on the back, which smelled strongly of curry.

  Now he had to knock out the driver. He pulled on his hood, shrank back like a cat and, roaring like Sandokan, he jumped on the man, who, upon hearing that bestial scream and believing it was the tiger, instinctively slammed on the brakes.

  The leader of the Wilde Beasts of Abaddon, sword in hand, continued to fly, gliding over the hood of the car and landing bear-rug style in the middle of the street. The Durendal flew from his hand. The bumper bar stopped twenty centimetres from his feet.

  Mbuma Bowanda, originally from Burkina Faso, where he'd been a shepherd for years, had seen a strange creature zoom over his head, overtake him and disappear in front of the car.

  In his small village near Ouagadougou, the capital of Burkina Faso, there was an ancient belief that, on nights of the full moon, winged demons formed from the mud of the rivers, as black as tar, and stole sheep and cows. They called them Bonindà. He didn't believe in such folkloristic fables, and yet this creature was exactly like the monsters his grandmother told him about when she used to put him to bed as a child.

  He got up off the seat, trembling. The demon was still lying in front of the car. It looked dead.

  Now I'll just drive over him . . .

  But he didn't do it. To begin with, he wasn't sure that demons could be killed like that, and anyway the wheels were too small to drive over the top of it.

  He'd put the car into reverse when the black demon raised himself from the earth, his head low, placed his hands on the bonnet and let out a terrifying scream.

  Mbuma had been told that people pissed themselves in fear, but he'd always believed they were exaggerating. He was forced to reconsider. He'd just pissed his pants.

  He jumped out of the car and, in long strides, ran straight towards the Villa.

  Despite his hands and knees being grazed by the gravel, the leader of the Wilde Beasts of Abaddon almost had an orgasm, seeing that poor guy run away in terror.

  The Sandokan scream really was scary. He had discovered he had a natural talent for screaming. If he'd known earlier, he would have screamed at Serena to scare her to death when he'd walked into their bedroom naked and armed with a sword.

  He limped over to get the Durendal, which had been thrown in the field next to the car. He was about to take off when he realised that someone was shouting at him to stop. He couldn't see them, but they couldn't be far away.

  Frightened, eh?

  Mantos laughed out loud, and decided to go pick up Zombie. It would be much easier for them to kidnap Larita together, and it would save Zombie walking all the way to Forte Antenne.

  Return to Villa Reale

  58

  When Fabrizio Ciba and Larita had seen the headlights appear, they started screaming and waving their arms about. But the car stopped a couple of hundred metres away and after a few minutes it turned around and drove off.

  The writer shook his head. ‘How about that!’

  Larita was ahead of him. ‘Come on, it doesn't matter, we're almost there. I think I can see some lights.’

  Fabrizio realised that at the bottom of the valley the shadows diluted into a reddish haze. ‘It's true! The camp isn't far off. Let's go.’

  They started walking again with more vigour, the gravel crunching beneath their feet. The glare at the bottom of the canyon was strong enough to tinge the road red. A scarlet cloud was rising from the lake, hanging above the trees.

  ‘What on earth are they doing?’ Larita wondered aloud.

  ‘They must have lit some fires to grill the meat.’ Fabrizio sped up the pace. ‘I'm starting to get hungry.’

  ‘I'm a vegetarian. But maybe tonight a little steak . . .’

  After another fifty metres a suffocating smell of burnt wood began to scratch their throats. In the middle of the cloud of smoke they could now see long tongues of fire reflected in the black waters of the lake.

  Larita held her hand over her mouth. ‘Isn't that a little too much smoke for a barbecue?’

  Finally the canyon opened out onto a wide plain, with the artificial lake. Right at the centre of the basin a house boat was wrapped in flames. The stern had already disappeared into the water and the bow was lifting upwards, like a funeral pyre.

  Larita grabbed Fabrizio's hand. ‘What's happening?’

  ‘I don't know. It must be some sort of show. Chiatti would kill his mum to surprise his guests.’

  They walked a little further on. Larita pointed at a buggy overturned against a pine tree. Steel saucepans had spilled their contents on the ground and basmati rice was spread everywhere. They looked at each other wordlessly, then Fabrizio took her hand.

  ‘Stay close to me.’

  They walked around the edge of the lake to get to the other pontoons that were moored opposite a pier protected by a long gazebo. In the water, where the glare of the pyre could be seen, they could hear strange movements and splashes and the slapping of fins. As if some huge fish were fighting over food.

  Moving closer, they found overturned mushroom heaters and buffet tables. Broken bottles. Charcoal paper lanterns. And in the middle of that disaster a herd of warthogs and vultures scratched about in what was left of the Indian-style dinner. It looked as if a horde of barbarians had just passed through.

  A sensible voice in Fabrizio's mind suggested that it would be best for them to get away from there as quickly as possible.

  Perhaps a pride of lions has attacked the bivouac.

  And yet it didn't appear like something done by animals, but by human beings. The tents had all been ripped and rolled into balls.

  Larita was looking around forlornly. ‘Where is everyone?’

  Even the waiters, the cooks, the staff, had disappeared.

  The girl headed towards the jetty. Fabrizio unwillingly followed her.

  In the moored boats the situation was no different. The buffet had been plundered. The remains of the Indian-style dinner spread amidst the flowers, the statues of the Hindustani gods smashed, an abandoned stage with a smashed sitar on it. Perched on one table a big black crow pecked at pieces of tandoori chicken.

  Fabrizio stood next to Larita. ‘I would get out of here as fast as possible. I don't like the look of this at all.’

  Larita lifted a silver shoe off the ground. ‘I don't understand.’

  ‘It doesn't matter . . . Let's get out of here.’

  A female voice from behind interrupted them. ‘My husband . . .’

  A woman was standing in the doorway with a catatonic expression on her face. Her arms hung by her side and she was struggling to stand. The sari she was wearing was ripped and hung between her legs like she'd covered herself with a rag. One of her bra straps was broken and her chest was marked with long red scratches. She was missing a shoe. Her blonde hair, which she must have normally held back in a chignon, was now a tangle blended with blood. A dried rivulet of blood dribbled next to her ear.

  At first Fabrizio didn't recognise her; but, looking closer, he remembered. She was Mara Baglione Montuori, the wife of the Milanese art dealer who specialised in contemporary art. He knew her because she was the director of a fashion magazine and once, a long time ago, she had interviewed him. Now she was the ghost of that elegant snob that he had met at Rosati in Piazza del Popolo. She had the same distant and traumatised expression as a woman who had just been raped. As if something, someone, had electrocuted her brain.

  Fabrizio went to her and immediately noticed she stan
k. She smelled of sour sweat.

  ‘Mara, what happened to you? Where are the others?’ Fabrizio realised that his guts had shrivelled up.

  The woman avoided his gaze, but looked around slowly. ‘Where is he?’

  Mara Baglione Montuori took off the other shoe and held it in her hand like she wanted to hug it to her. ‘My husband . . .’

  The singer began to walk around the boat, in search of the husband.

  In the meantime Fabrizio took Mara by the wrists, trying to intercept her gaze. ‘Listen to me . . . Do you remember me? My name's Fabrizio Ciba, we've met before.’

  The woman stared at his face and smiled, as if a funny thought had crossed her mind. ‘Tuesday we have to go to Portofino, it's Agnese's wedding.’

  Fabrizio had never had much patience with traumatised or sick people, let alone now, in that situation. ‘I understand that you are in shock, and I'm very sorry . . . But now you have to explain to me what the hell happened here!’

  But she was somewhere else. Probably in Portofino. ‘My husband hates Agnese's fiancé. I don't understand why. He's a good lad. He'll go places . . . At his age Piero hadn't done as . .’

  He shook her. ‘Where is your husband now? Was he with you?’

  She was annoyed, as if Fabrizio was harassing her, and she turned around. There was a silver tray on the ground and she saw herself reflected in it.

  ‘Oh God, I look terrible. My make-up . . . My hair . . . I can't go out like this.’ She picked up a fork off the table. ‘When my sister and I were little, we used these to comb our dolls’ hair.’ And she began to comb it through her blood-coated hair.

  Ciba threw his head back in frustration. ‘No. She's lost it.’

  ‘Oh God, gross . . . Come here! Quickly.’ Larita was next to the window and was watching something with her hand over her mouth.

  Ciba had always loved the satellite TV channel Animal Planet, with its documentaries on nature. Often, while he was writing, he happened to leave the TV turned on to that channel. When there were scenes of a predator, and it jumped on its prey, discharging all of the energy in its muscles with the strength and brutality of hunger, Fabrizio got up and, as if he were under a spell, went and sat on the sofa to watch more closely. He liked the wide-open eye of the gnu, the hit of the lion's paw, the cloud of dust where feline and herbivore met, and the head of the victim that rose up one last time.

  He recognised the ferociousness of nature in these clashes. The same thing that governed the affairs of men.

  But now that he was seeing live, a few metres away from him, a similar scene, he didn't find it as exciting. He moved his gaze towards the bubbling water so that he could only see it out of the corner of his eye. But the trick didn't work. He couldn't stop looking. Once he'd begun, it was difficult to stop.

  The remains of Piero Baglione Montuori were floating in the water and being fought over by three enormous crocodiles. Strings of teeth tore at mouthfuls of adipose tissue from the trunk of the famous Milanese art dealer, famous for having discovered Andrew Dog, the Jamaican sculptor. The reptiles, when they were unable to rip off the flesh, began to spin in a jubilation of bloody splashes. The poor man's head banged against the wall of the raft with the dampened sound of a coconut.

  59

  The leader of the Wilde Beasts of Abaddon skidded to a halt outside the power station.

  He hadn't come across Zombie on the road. Instead, he had bumped into guests running loose. When they had seen him go by, they had waved their arms, yelling at him to stop. What's more, one of them had stood in the middle of the road. Mantos hadn't even slowed down, despite the fuck-yous they had thrown at him. Everything had gone exactly as he had foreseen. As soon as darkness fell, the insipid creatures of the light had panicked and the Villa had turned into a horror theme park. He, being a creature of the shadows, had been rendered more determined and ferocious by the darkness. Durendal in hand, he got out of the little car, turned on the torch and looked around.

  Where the hell had Zombie gone?

  He probably decided to cut across the fields and the woods, unphased by the wild animals.

  He was a Beast of Abaddon, and he was not afraid of anything or anyone.

  Before leaving Mantos gave a quick look inside the power station, just to be sure.

  As he moved closer to the building, he began to notice a strange odour.

  It smells like roast meat.

  The gate was wide open. The chain with the padlock and the broken poultry shears were on the ground.

  Mantos smiled and pointed the light towards the cabin. The wall around the doorframes and the wood of the doors themselves were all blackened, as if a fire had exploded inside. That crazy Zombie must have set fire to everything.

  The leader of the Beasts lowered his torch: ‘Excellent work, my brave one.’ The ray of light cut across the pavement and lit up some black stuff in the middle of the room. Mantos took two steps forward to understand better what it was.

  A piece of burnt tyre? No . . . a shoe.

  He took another step forward. It looked just like a shoe. A shoe burnt to a crisp. He could still see the melted studs on the sole.

  Mantos swallowed again and again. He held his breath and took another step forward, without the courage to point the torch elsewhere. Then he pointed it upwards.

  He saw, attached to the shoe, a leg and the charred remains of a human body. The clothes must have burst into flames and the black, dried-up skin was glued to the bones like tar. Only the rib cage stuck out of the shapeless mass that was the trunk. The arms were raised and the fingers twisted as if they'd been bent by the heat. The fire had literally eaten his head. What remained was a blackened sphere without any features except for a cloister of long white teeth.

  Not even his mother would have recognised him in this condition. Mantos, however, knew it was him. The shape of the forehead, the height, the shoes, the teeth.

  Oh . . . Jesus. Zombie had burned like a matchstick.

  The Durendal fell to the ground. His stomach flip-flopped.

  He covered his mouth with one hand and had to make an effort not to vomit. His legs gave way so he curled up near the door, unable to believe what he was seeing.

  He must have caught fire trying to cut off the electricity.

  Saverio stretched out his hand. ‘Zombie, look at you . . . Look . . . my friend.’ And he would have liked to scream, spit out all his wrath, but he just threw open his mouth and squeezed his head between his hands.

  Why? Why this way? It wasn't supposed to be this way. They were supposed to commit suicide together, united, after sacrificing the singer to Satan. That was the pact.

  Why did you break the pact?

  Pain washed over Mantos like a wave, it drowned him with the force of an oceanic roller. And he was blinded by the ruthless light of the truth.

  It's my fault he's dead. What have I done?

  If it hadn't been for you . . . It almost looked as if that charcoal mannequin would get up off the ground and point its gnarled fingers at him. If it hadn't been for you . . . I'd be in Oriolo Romano now. With my mother. With Murder and Silvietta. With my whole life before me. Who do you think you are to make me die like this?

  Mantos, curled up near the door, looked at himself. He looked at the black tunic he had sewn with the old cast-off curtains from the Flamingo cinema. He looked at the Durendal bought on eBay. And he realised how pathetic he was.

  ‘What am I doing?’ he whispered, hoping that the charcoal mannequin would give him an answer.

  A bubble of pain exploded in his trachea. He began batting his eyes as the tears blocked his vision. The dream in which Saverio Moneta, clerk at the Furniture Store of the Thyrolean Masters of the Axe, became mean and merciless like Charles Manson had collapsed on top of him. Satan, the Great Mantos, the Wilde Beasts of Abaddon, sacrificing Larita . . . it was all a load of crap invented by a pathetic little man who had succeeded in killing a young man who suffered from serious depression.

&nbs
p; On all-fours, sobbing like a child, he moved towards the remains of his adept. ‘Forgive me, Edo . . .’ He grabbed the wrist, which crumbled in his hand. ‘What should I do? Tell me what I should do.’

  But nobody could tell him. He was alone. Alone and hopeless like there was nobody else in the world. Zombie was no longer. Serena and the old bastard wanted to see him dead. Murder and Silvietta were lost to him.

  He sat up, sniffing and wiping the snot off his face.

  He had to gather the remains and bury them. Or throw them into the waters of Bracciano.

  He dried his eyes. ‘I won't leave you here . . . Don't worry. I'll take you home. To Oriolo. That's enough of this crap.’

  He stood and looked round with the torch. He needed to find a big box. One of those big blue Ikea bags would be perfect.

  He noticed a piece of paper folded into four and stuck to one of the panels. He moved closer and saw that it had ‘For Silvietta’ written on it. He was about to read it when he heard a male voice shout behind him: ‘Hey, guys! Can you smell that? The barbecue! It's the barbecue! Woo-hoo. We made it. This party was a total rip-off. Chiatti is a skinflint, he didn't even pay his electricity bill.’

  Midnight Matriciana

  60

  Fabrizio led Larita off to one side and quietly said to her: ‘Now you and I, as pretty as the light of day, will leave this place. And quickly. I've got a bad feeling.’

  ‘What about that poor woman?’ The singer pointed at Mara Baglione Montuori, who was still untangling her hair with the fork. ‘What can we do?’

  ‘We can't take her with us, she'd slow us down. As soon as we run into someone, we'll tell them to come and get her.’

  Larita wasn't convinced. ‘I don't know . . . I don't think it's right to just leave her here.’

  ‘It's right. Listen to me.’ Fabrizio took her hand and dragged her onto the pier. ‘I think I remember that one of the entrances to the Villa was near the lake.’ He pulled a long piece of bamboo topped with a kerosene lamp out of the ground. ‘Let's go.’