Italo hobbled round the gym.
Tm ssssssssss tm sssssssssss tm sssssssssssssssss.
Footfall and drag, footfall and drag.
I wonder where the others are hiding.
When they had entered the gym, he had hidden in the first place he had found.
‘Come on out! Come on! I won’t hurt you. Don’t worry.’
Never. Never trust Italo.
He was the biggest liar in the world.
He was a bastard. Once, when Pietro was in the first year, he had slipped out of school with Gloria and gone to the bar across the road to buy some croissants. It had taken them a minute, no more. When they came back with their little bag, Italo had caught them. He had confiscated the croissants and dragged the two of them into class, pulling them by the ear. And for two hours afterwards his ear had remained as hot as a radiator. And he was sure Italo had eaten the croissants in the porter’s lodge.
‘I swear I won’t hurt you. Come out. If you come out of your own accord I won’t tell the head. We’ll wipe the slate clean.’
What if he found Pierini and the others?’
They would be bound to say Pietro was with them and would swear blind that he’d forced them to come in and that it had been him who had smashed the television and written the graffiti …
A host of distressing thoughts whirled around in his head and weighed him down, not least the thought of his father, who would flay him alive when he got home (but will you ever get home?) because he hadn’t shut Zagor up in his kennel and hadn’t taken the rubbish to the bin.
He was tired. He must relax.
(Sleep … )
No!
(Just for a little while … a little while, that’s all.)
How wonderful it would be to go to sleep. He rested his head against the mattress. It was soft and a bit smelly, but that didn’t matter. His legs sagged. He could sleep standing up, as horses do, he was sure, squeezed in between those two mattresses. His eyelids drooped. He let himself go. He was on the point of collapsing when he felt the mattresses shaking.
His heart leaped to his mouth.
‘Come out! Come out! Come out of there!’
He bit on the filthy material and stifled a scream.
30
He couldn’t understand it.
The gym was empty.
Where had they gone?
They must be there, hiding somewhere.
Italo shook the mattresses and used his shotgun as a carpet-beater. ‘Come out of there!’
There was no escape for them. The door onto the volleyball court was locked and the door of the equipment room was also lo …
Wait a minute, let’s see if it really is.
cked.
The wood by the lock was splintered. They had forced it.
He smiled.
He opened the door. Darkness. He stood in the doorway and put in his hand, groping for the light switch. It was just round the corner. He pressed it. Nothing. The lights weren’t working.
He stood there for an instant, undecided, then walked through the doorway, plunging into the darkness. He heard fragments of the neon light crunch under his feet.
‘I’m armed. Don’t try any tri …’
He was struck on the back of the head by a medicine ball, one of those ten-kilo ones full of sawdust. Before he’d had time to recover from the surprise, another ball hit him on the right shoulder, and then another ball, a basketball this time, thrown with deadly force, hit him smack on his swollen nose.
He squealed like a pig in an abattoir. Sharp spirals of pain radiated all over his face, wrapped round his throat, strangling him, and bit his stomach. He fell to his knees, and brought up the sea-and-mountain pappardelle, the crème caramel and all the rest.
They ran past him, clambered over him, as black as shadows and as quick as arrows, and he tried, God did he try, while he was vomiting, to reach out and grab one of the little buggers, but all his fingers grasped was the useless consistency of some jeans.
He fell face down in the vomit and splinters of glass.
31
He heard them run, bang into the door and race out of the gym.
Pietro quickly slipped out of the mattresses and dashed after them towards the corridor.
He was almost safe when suddenly the big window by the door exploded.
Pieces of glass flew into the air and fell around him, disintegrating.
Pietro stopped short, and when he realised he’d been shot at, he pissed himself.
He parted his lips, his spine slackened, his limbs relaxed and a sudden warmth spread through his groin and thighs and ran down to his shoes.
I’ve been shot at.
The fragments that were still imprisoned behind the grating continued to fall.
He turned round very slowly.
On the other side of the gym he saw a figure lying on the ground, dragging itself out of the storeroom on its elbows. Its face was painted red. And it was pointing a gun at him.
‘Stop. Stop or I’ll shoot you. I swear on the head of my children I’ll shoot you.’
Italo.
He recognised the caretaker’s deep voice, though it sounded different. As if he had a heavy cold.
What had happened to him?
He realised that the red on Italo’s face wasn’t paint but blood.
‘Stay there, boy. Don’t move. Do you hear? Don’t move.’
Pietro stood still and just moved his head.
The door was there. Five metres away. No, less than five metres.
You can do it. One jump and you’re out. Run for it! He couldn’t let himself be caught, that was out of the question, he must flee at all costs, even at the risk of being shot in the back.
Pietro wished he could do it but didn’t think he could move. In fact, he was sure he couldn’t. He could feel the soles of his shoes glued to the ground and his legs made of jelly. He looked down. A pool of urine had formed between his feet.
Run for it!
Italo was laboriously trying to get to his feet.
Run for it! It’s now or never!
And he found himself in the corridor running for all he was worth and he slipped over and scrambled to his feet again and tripped on the stairs and got up again and ran towards the girls’ toilets and freedom.
And meanwhile the caretaker was shouting. ‘Hurry! Hurry! Hurry! It makes no difference … I recognised you … Don’t kid yourself!’
32
Who could he ring to ask about Erica?
Of course, her agent!
Graziano Biglia picked up his address book and called Erica’s agent, the son-of-a-bitch who had made her go through that pointless farce. Predictably he wasn’t in, but he managed to speak to a secretary. ‘Erica? Yes, we saw her this morning. She did the audition and left,’ she said in a flat voice.
‘Oh, she left …’ breathed Graziano, and felt a sense of relief spread through him. The cannonball he had swallowed had suddenly disappeared.
‘With Mantovani.’
‘Mantovani?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Mantovani? Andrea Mantovani?’
‘That’s right.’
‘The presenter?’
‘Who else?’
The cannonball in his stomach had been replaced by a gang of hooligans who were trying to break into his oesophagus. ‘Where did they go?’
‘To Riccione.’
‘To Riccione?’
‘To Channel Five’s Grand Gala.’
‘To Channel Five’s Grand Gala?’
‘That’s right.’
‘That’s right?’
He could have gone on like that all night, repeating what the secretary said and adding a question mark.
‘I’m sorry, I’m going to have to hang up … There’s someone on the other line,’ she said, trying to get rid of him.
‘But why has she gone to Channel Five’s Grand Gala?’
‘I haven’t the faintest idea … Now I’m sorry,
but …’
‘Okay, I’ll hang up now. But first, could you give me the number of Mantovani’s mobile?’
‘I’m sorry. I’m not allowed to. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really must answer …’
‘Wait a minute, pl …’
She had hung up.
Graziano stood there holding the receiver.
For the first twenty seconds, strangely enough, he heard nothing. Only the vast, unfathomable void of sidereal space. Then his ears were assailed by a loud buzzing noise.
33
The others had gone.
He leaped on his bike and sped away.
He went out onto the road.
And away towards home, riding through the deserted village and taking the short cut behind the church, a mud track that ran across the fields.
It was pouring with rain. And you couldn’t see a thing. The wheels skidded and slipped in the mud. Slow down, you’ll fall off. The wind chilled his wet trousers and underpants. He felt as if his willy had hidden away between his legs like a tortoise’s head.
Hurry! It’s late.
He looked at his watch.
Nine twenty. Oh, my God, it’s late. Hurry! Hurry! Hurry! (It makes no difference … I recognised you. Don’t kid yourself.)
Hurry! Hurry!
He couldn’t have recognised him. It was impossible. He had been too far away. How could he? He wasn’t even wearing his glasses.
He had lost all feeling in his fingertips and his ears, and his calves were as hard as stones, but he had no intention of slowing down. Mud splashed on his face and clothes, but Pietro didn’t ease up.
Run! Ru … recognised you.
He’d been bluffing, trying to scare him. To make him stop so that he could take him to the headmaster. But he hadn’t fallen for it. He wasn’t stupid.
The wind ballooned his jacket. His eyes watered.
Nearly home.
34
Graziano felt as if he had stepped into a horror film, one of those films where a poltergeist lifts objects up in the air and whirls them round. Except that nothing was whirling round in his living room, except for his head.
‘Mantovani … Mantovani … Mantovani …’ he kept gurgling as he sat there on the sofa.
Why?
He mustn’t think about it. Mustn’t think about what all this meant. He was like a climber hanging over a precipice.
He lifted the receiver and dialled the number again.
With all the telepathic force at his command he willed Erica to answer that bloody mobile. He had never wanted anything so badly in his life. And …
Toooo. Toooo. Toooo.
Huh? Line free! It works!
Toooo. Toooo. Toooo.
Answer! Damn you! Answer!
‘This is Erica Trettel’s voicemail. Leave a secret.’
Graziano was dumbfounded.
Her voicemail?
Then, trying to sound calm and not succeeding, he spoke. ‘Erica? It’s Graziano. I’m in Ischiano. Can you call me? Please. On my mobile. Immediately.’ He hung up.
He took a deep breath.
Had he said the right things? Should he have told her he knew about Mantovani? Should he call again and leave a more forthright message?
No. He should not. Definitely not.
He grabbed the receiver and called back.
‘Telecom Italia Mobile, the number you have dialled is unobtainable at present.’
Why wasn’t the voicemail working now? Was she playing games with him?
In his rage he started kicking the Flemish-style chest of drawers, then collapsed exhausted into the armchair, his head in his hands.
At that moment Mrs Biglia entered the living room pushing a trolley laden with a soup tureen full of tortellini in broth, a serving dish containing ten different kinds of cheese, chicory dressed with lemon juice, boiled potatoes, sautéed kidneys with garlic and parsley and a Saint Honoré bulging with cream.
At the sight of it Graziano nearly threw up.
‘Uuuuunch. Bwooooooth,’ howled Mrs Biglia and turned on the television. Graziano ignored her.
‘Uuuuuuunch,’ she persisted.
‘I’m not hungry! And didn’t you take a vow of silence? If you’ve taken a vow of silence you have to keep quiet, for Christ’s sake. That’s breaking the rules. If you moan like a mongoloid you’ll go to hell,’ exploded Graziano, and slumped back on the armchair. His hair over his face.
The bitch has gone off with Mantovani.
Then another voice, the voice of reason, made itself heard. Wait. Don’t be hasty. Maybe she just asked him for a lift. Or perhaps it was a work assignment. Don’t worry, she’ll call you and you’ll see that it’s all a misunderstanding. Relax.
He began to hyperventilate, trying to calm himself.
‘Good evening everybody, from the Vigevani theatre in Riccione. Welcome to the eighth edition of Channel Five’s Grand Gala! This is the evening of the stars, the evening when the final awards are given …’
Graziano looked up.
On the TV they were showing the Grand Gala.
‘It’s going to be a long evening, during which we will award the TV Oscars,’ said the female presenter. A buxom blonde with a smile of twenty-four thousand teeth, every one of them gleaming. Beside her stood a portly tuxedoed man who was also smiling contentedly.
The camera panned along the front rows of the theatre. Men in tuxedos. Women revealing acres of thigh. And scores of major and minor celebrities. Even a couple of Hollywood actors and the odd foreign singer.
‘First of all,’ continued the blonde presenter, ‘a word about our generous sponsor, who has made all this possible.’ Applause. ‘Synthesis! The watch for people who know the value of time.’
The camera panned up over the blonde and the little fat man and glided in a perfect parabola over the heads of the VIPs to zoom in on a wrist wearing a magnificent gleaming Synthesis sports watch. The wrist was attached to a hand, and the hand was clamped round a black self-supporting stocking, and the stocking, in turn, veiled a woman’s thigh. Then the camera drew back to reveal who all this belonged to.
‘Erica! Mantovani!’ Graziano spluttered.
Erica wore a blue satin dress with a plunging neckline. She had taken her hair up casually, allowing a few locks to dangle, emphasising her long neck. Beside her sat Andrea Mantovani, wearing a tuxedo. A fair-haired man, with a large nose, small round spectacles and the smile of a contented pig. He continued to keep the clamp on Erica’s thigh. As if to say, this is my property. His was the classic attitude of a guy who has just copulated and is now using his paw to mark out his territory.
‘And now a commercial!’ announced the female presenter.
A commercial for Pampers.
‘I’ll ram that hand up your arse, you bastard,’ roared Graziano, baring his teeth.
‘Eeeeeeiaa?’ asked Mrs Biglia.
Graziano didn’t bother to answer. He picked up the telephone and retired to his bedroom.
He dialled the number of her mobile at the speed of light. He intended to leave her a clear and simple message: ‘I’m going to kill you, you bitch.’
‘Hallo, Mariapia! Did you see me? Well, how do you like my dress?’ Erica’s voice.
Graziano was speechless.
‘Hallo? Hallo? Mariapia, is that you?’
Graziano recovered his composure. ‘No, it’s not Mariapia. It’s Graziano. I’ve just …’ Then he decided it was better to feign ignorance. ‘Where are you?’ he said, trying to sound nonchalant.
‘Graziano … ?’ Erica was surprised, but then seemed delighted. ‘Graziano! It’s so nice to speak to you!’
‘Where are you?’ he repeated coldly.
‘I’ve got some wonderful news. Can I ring you back later?’
‘No, you can’t, I’m not at home and my mobile’s running down.’
‘Tomorrow morning?’
‘No, tell me now.’
‘Okay. But I can’t talk for long.’ Her tone had sud
denly changed, from radiant to irritated, very irritated, then immediately became radiant again. ‘I got the job! I still can’t believe it. They chose me at the audition. I’d already done the audition and I was getting ready to go home when along came Andrea …’
‘Andrea who?’
‘Andrea Mantovani! He sees me and says: ‘We must try this girl, I like the look of her.’ Those were his very words. So they gave me a second audition. I read a script and danced a bit and they gave me the job. Oh, Graziano, I’m so thrilled! I GOT THE JOB! CAN YOU BELIEVE IT? I’M GOING TO BE THE SHOWGIRL ON YOU REAP WHAT YOU SOW!’
‘Oh.’ Graziano was as stiff as a frozen hake.
‘Aren’t you pleased?’
‘Yes, of course. And when are you coming here?’
‘I don’t know … We’re starting rehearsals tomorrow … Soon … I hope.’
‘I’ve got everything organised. We’re expecting you. My mother’s cooking and I’ve told my friends the news …’
‘What news? …’
‘That we’re getting married.’
‘Listen, can we discuss this tomorrow? The commercial break’s just ending. I must hang up.’
‘Don’t you want to marry me any more?’ He had just stabbed himself in the side.
‘Can we discuss it tomorrow?’
Now, at last, Graziano’s anger had reached its limit, saturation point. It could have filled an Olympic swimming pool. He was wilder than a stallion in a rodeo, than a Formula One driver who is just about to win the world championship when his engine breaks down on the final bend, than a student whose girlfriend accidentally deletes his Ph.D. thesis from his computer, than a patient who’s just had the wrong kidney taken out by mistake.
He was beside himself with fury.
‘You bitch! You whore! Who are you trying to kid? I saw you on TV! With that poof Mantovani in the middle of a crowd of jerks. You said you were coming to join me here. But instead you preferred to let that poof screw you. You bitch! That’s the only reason he gave you the job, you fool! You must be really thick if you don’t realise that. You can’t even stand in front of a TV camera, the only thing you’re any good at is sucking cocks.’
There was a moment’s silence.
Graziano allowed himself a smile. He had crushed her.
Steal You Away Page 13
