Let the Games Begin (15 page)

At that point he turned on the radio and the chorus from Carmina Burana filled the car. ‘
O Fortuna velut luna statu variabilis, semper crescis aut decrescis
.'

‘Listen to me! We are the most evil of them. And I want Larita's head. Once inside the Villa, no one will foresee our attack. They'll all be having fun, drinking, they lower their defences and we will knock them down. Zombie, in the back there's a rolled up bathroom mat. Get it, but be very careful.'

The adept stretched into the boot and placed the roll into Saverio's hands. The leader of the Wilde Beasts of Abaddon laid the mat in his lap and slowly and solemnly he unfolded it.

A ray of sunshine shone through the window, making the iron sparkle.

‘
Vita detestabilis nunc obdurat et tunc curat
'. The chorus continued its impetuous crescendo.

Mantos, struggling slightly, raised the weapon above the head rests.

‘This is the Durendal, the precise reproduction of Orlando's sword used at Roncisvalle.'

‘Nooooo!' the adepts said in unison. ‘It's gorgeous!'

Saverio opened the car door. ‘Let's get out of the car.'

Silvietta squeezed his shoulder to stop him. ‘Wait, High Priest, they can see us.'

‘It doesn't matter. We'll hide behind the car.'

The Beasts got out and crouched behind the Ford.

‘Kneel down.' Saverio placed the blade of the Durendal on the heads of his adepts. ‘Murder! Zombie! Silvietta! I, Mantos,
your Charismatic Father, high priest of Evil and humble servant of Satan, name you Champions of Evil. May no one dare to break our oath, now and for eternity! We will go all the way with this mission. Unto the final sacrifice of our very own lives. Now let's kiss!'

The Beasts all hugged and kissed, feeling moved.

‘What the hell are you doing? Have you lost your minds?'

They turned around.

Saverio's cousin, Antonio Zauli, at the wheel of his van, was looking at them, astonished.

‘No . . . It's just that . . .' stuttered the leader of the Beasts.

‘Come on . . . You're running late . . . You've gotta register. Jump in.'

He let them in through the West Gate, the service entrance. There were three entrances into the Villa. Two were closed and only to be used in case of emergency, while the third one, on the Via Salaria, was the main entry, to be used by the guests. Ten-metre-high impressive iron gates ran along tracks, controlled by hydraulic pumps.

The service entrance was patrolled by a private security service who checked the goods going in and coming out. Behind it lay the registration point, a two-storey structure made of glass and anodised steel. The staff, from the cooks to the beaters had to be registered before they could gain access inside.

The Wilde Beasts of Abaddon stood in line. There were about thirty people in front of them, mostly coloured.

‘I feel like I'm at the airport,' Zombie, who had once gone to Köln to see an AC/DC concert, commented.

When it was their turn, a security guard made them complete a long questionnaire and sign a contract written in really small letters. Then he stamped an indentifying barcode on their wrists.
From there, crossing a low, dimly lit corridor, they came to a room with rows of metal lockers where they could leave their clothes and pick up their uniforms. Silvietta got dressed in the women's changing room. They had given her a black skirt, a white blouse and ankle boots with thick rubber soles. When she reappeared, the others began laughing and making fun of her. No one had ever seen her in a skirt. But they had to admit that she didn't look bad at all.

A notice board stated in many different languages that it was strictly forbidden to take any personal objects including mobile phones, cameras and video cameras inside the Villa.

‘How will we get the sword through? And our tunics? We can't do the ritual without out tunics,' Murder whispered in Mantos's ear.

Mantos had hidden the tunics in his backpack, but held the bathroom mat rolled up around the Durendal under his arm.

He clearly hadn't considered this. So now what? The most important thing was to make them think that everything was under control.

‘No worries. Take it easy.'

He took a deep breath and walked through the metal detector, praying the alarm wouldn't sound.

But that wasn't the case.

‘Come over here,' one of the guards, weighed down by a bulletproof vest, gestured at him. ‘What have you got there?'

Mantos unrolled the mat nonchalantly.

The guard shook his head. ‘Weapons aren't allowed in.'

Mantos shrugged as if this was the hundredth time this sort of nuisance had happened to him. ‘It's not a weapon. It's just a replica of a Durendal that belonged to Orlando and before him to Hector.'

The man took off his dark glasses, showing two little eyes
about as expressive as a bedside lamp. ‘What do you mean?'

The leader of the Beasts looked towards his adepts, who, along with the security guard, were waiting for an answer. He smiled. ‘I mean that it is exclusively of aesthetic value.' It sounded like an excellent answer to him. One of those definitive answers, for which there is no reply.

‘What's it for?' the guy enquired.

‘What's it for? Let me explain.' He took a big breath and jumped in. ‘It's for cutting the roast meat. I'm assigned to the cutting of the red meats. And the clothes that I have in my backpack are needed for a magic show. I am Magician Mantos, and these are my three assistants.'

The security guard scratched the shaved nape of his neck. ‘So, let me get this straight, you are a magician assigned to the cutting of the red meats?'

‘Exactly.'

Some of the guy's few cast-iron certainties snapped. ‘Just a moment.' He moved away to confab with someone who was probably his boss.

Then he returned and said: ‘OK, you can go.'

The Beasts stiffly passed through the check-in area and came to a courtyard full of cases of wine, food and containers. On one side was a row of parked mini electric buggies like the ones used on golf courses. The square was surrounded by a metal fence and warning signs were hung along it: ‘WARNING. ELECTRIFIED FENCE.'

As soon as they were alone, the Beasts were unable to hold back their joy.

‘You legend, Mantos! You're the best!' Murder gave his master a couple of affectionate slaps on the back.

Silvietta huddled up to the high priest. ‘Too cool, the story about the meat-cutting magician.'

‘I wonder what those two said to each other. You threw them off,' Zombie sniggered.

‘Enough! That's enough.' The leader tried to hold in check the praises of his adepts.

‘Again?! So you're poofs, then?' Antonio yelled at them from behind the wheel of his buggy. ‘Come on, hop in. Hurry up. I'll take you to the kitchen area. There's loads of stuff to do and the guests will be here soon.'

Mantos looked around. ‘What's all this security for?'

Antonio pushed down on the accelerator: ‘You'll find out in no time.'

They passed through the gates and drove along a small dirt path immersed in the forest. At first they didn't notice anything, and then Zombie thought he saw something jumping from branch to branch. Then they heard the shrill cries.

‘Gibbons. Don't worry. They're harmless.'

‘Nooooo . . . Unbelievable! Look!'

Zombie pointed at something past the forest. Where the trees thinned out began a huge field of green, green grass where gnus, gazelles and giraffes were grazing. Further on, in a slimy lake, they could see the muddy rumps of a pod of hippos. Flocks of vultures flew overhead.

Mantos was incredulous. ‘It's like the zoo safari at Fiumicino.'

‘That's nothing yet. Just wait and see,' Antonio smiled smugly.

On their right, hidden behind a row of holm oaks, they noticed a sort of miniature electrical plant. Huge transformers painted green to blend with the surrounding vegetation, created a dull humming sound. Colourful pipes stuck out of the structure and were rooted in the earth.

‘This is the source that powers the whole park,' Antonio explained. ‘Chiatti produces his own electrical power with gas. It's cheaper than buying it from Acea, given the amount of
kilowatts he needs to supply the fences, light the park, and send electricity to the computer room.'

Ten or so zebras, with a couple of foals in tow, crossed the road in front of them. Silvietta was beside herself. ‘Look at the little ones. They're so cute.'

They waited for them to go by and then continued their journey.

Saverio, in a disinterested tone of voice, asked his cousin: ‘Has Larita arrived yet?'

Antonio raised his arms. ‘I've heard that Chiatti reserved an apartment for her in the Royal Villa, but I don't know anything else.'

Shortly after, from between the tree tops an old three-storey building, crowned with a terrace and two turrets, appeared.

‘This is the Royal Villa.'

The back courtyard of the house, hidden by tall boxwood hedges, was frenetic with the coming and going of men and machines, the tyres of vans, pick-up trucks and Land-Rovers kicking up dust. Teams of workers in green uniforms offloaded food, bottles, table cloths, glasses, cutlery and tables under the command of men dressed in black who hollered like they were in a military prison. Under a canopy, squatting in the dust, the coloured beaters, wearing thongs, were eating from tin cups something that looked to be tortellini in broth.

In a corner were some prefab buildings that gave off smoke and the smell of food.

‘Those are the kitchens. Zóltan Patrovic will be here soon to check on how things are going. Please behave.' Antonio's expression turned serious. ‘Don't be seen twiddling your thumbs.'

‘Who is Zóltan Patrovic?' Silvietta gulped, feeling worried.

‘You can tell you are all from Oriolo. He's a famous Bulgarian chef. He's very demanding, so do your jobs well.'

The four of them got out of the buggy.

Antonio pointed at a man dressed in black. ‘Now go over to that guy there and ask him what you need to do. I'll see you later . . . And please, no fuck-ups.'

 

26

Fabrizio Ciba was waiting at the stoplight at the intersection between Via Salaria and Viale Regina Margherita astride his Vespa, which was puffing out black smoke. He had managed to find it and start it up again.

Two teenagers screeched alongside him, aboard a scooter, with their bum cheeks and their panties exposed from the top of their low-waisted jeans. They studied him for a moment, then they squealed excitedly and the girl sitting on the back asked him: ‘Excuse me? Are you Ciba? The writer on TV?'

Fabrizio unleashed his ironical expression, showing off his whitened teeth.

‘Yes, but don't tell anyone. I'm on a secret mission.'

The blonde girl asked him: ‘Are you going to the party at Villa Ada?'

The writer shrugged his shoulders as if to say ‘I have to go.'

The other young girl chewed gum and asked: ‘You couldn't get us in, could you? Please . . . please . . . I beg you . . . Everyone's going to be there . . .'

‘I wish, but I think it's impossible. I would have much more fun if you were there, too.'

The light turned green. The writer slipped into first gear and the Vespa sprang off. For a second Ciba saw himself reflected in the shop window of a boutique. For the occasion he had put on a pair of light brown linen trousers, a light oxford-blue
shirt, a faded dark blue Cambridge tie that had belonged to his grandfather, and a grey-and-white striped three-button madras cotton J. Crew jacket. All strictly crushed.

The closer he moved towards Villa Ada, the more the traffic increased. Bands of police tried to detour the cars onto Via Chiana and Via Panama. A police helicopter buzzed above them. On the pavements the crowds crammed together behind barriers, held in check by riot police. Many of them were young protesters who were demonstrating against the privatisation of Villa Ada. Huge banners hung from balconies. There was a really long one that said: ‘CHIATTI MAFIOSO! GIVE US BACK OUR PARK!' Another one said: ‘LOCAL GOVERNMENT BUNCH OF THIEVES!' And another: ‘GIVE VILLA ADA BACK TO THE ROMANS!'

Fabrizio decided to park the Vespa and reflect on an aspect he hadn't taken into consideration: his public image as an intellectual would suffer from his participation at Chiatti's party. He was a left-wing writer. He had made the opening speech at the national congress for the Partito Democratico, demanding an urgent commitment to Italy's dying cultural movement. He never turned down a presentation at the Leoncavallo or at the Brancaleone.

I still have time to go home, no one has seen me yet
. . .

‘Hey, poofter!'

Fabrizio turned around. Paolo Bocchi, at the wheel of his Porsche Cayenne, had pulled up beside him.

No way!

‘Mr Writer, dump that old wreck and get in my car! Make a proper entrance.'

‘Go on ahead, I've got to make a work call, I'll see you inside,' Fabrizio lied.

The surgeon pointed at a group of young men wearing
keffiyehs. ‘What the fuck do those shitheads want?' And he drove off, honking his horn.

What to do? If he wanted to leave, he had to be quick about it. Photographers and television crews were circling hungrily in search of invited guests.

While he watched the kids from the halfway houses scream at the police ‘You are arseholes, and arseholes you'll always be', Fabrizio was reminded of something that occasionally he inexplicably forgot:
I am a writer. I talk about life. In the same way that I denounced the felling of the thousand-year-old Finnish forests, I can badmouth a group of nouveau riche and mafiosi. A nice tough article in the Culture section of
Repubblica
and I'll sort the lot out. I am different
. He took a look at his crushed clothes.
You will never buy me! I'll show you all for what you are!
He climbed back on his Vespa, put it into first and faced the crowd.