Let the Games Begin (23 page)

‘I know what's happened,' said Silvietta and ran after Zombie.

Murder, still holding on to the bruschetta, looked towards his leader. ‘What's happening?'

‘What do I know? She's your girlfriend. Get her.'

Murder snorted and ran off after her.

The leader of the Beasts flopped down in a chair, covering his face with his hands.

He couldn't blame Zombie. There was no plan B. And plan A leaked water all over the place.

Why didn't I accept Kurtz Minetti's offer? I'll never have what it takes to be a real leader. And now what do I do
?

He had burned his bridges with everyone, and he couldn't turn back. And when Antonio regained consciousness, he would fuck him over, too.

The only thing left to do was a kamikaze mission. Run quickly towards Larita, and while he quickly recited the Tables of Evil, stick the Durendal in her heart.

‘Silvietta! Silvietta, honey, stop. I've got a stitch,' Murder gasped, holding his hand pressed against his stomach while he ran after his girlfriend through the forest. ‘Where are you going? There are ferocious beasts in here . . . It's dangerous.'

The Vestal took a couple more steps and then, like she'd run out of battery, she stopped and fell to the ground beneath a huge fig tree with its heavy branches hanging low.

Murder went over to her, stretched out his hand without touching her, as if afraid. ‘What's up, sweetie? What's happened?'
She spoke with her face covered by her arms. ‘Zombie heard us.'

‘What?'

Silvietta lifted her head. Her cheeks were lined with tears. ‘The wedding. He heard everything. He's really angry.'

‘What did he say to you?'

‘He said that we're both traitors. Both wankers. That we're abandoning them. And he's right.'

Murder squeezed his hands into a fist, and stood up. ‘Right, but let's not exaggerate . . . All right, we haven't behaved perfectly, but wankers and traitors is too much.'

She grabbed onto his leg and looked up at him, her face half lit up by a ray of sunshine filtering through the leaves. ‘Listen to me, I've given it some thought. We can't abandon them. I just can't do it, and it's not fair. We made the Satanic pact. In the Sutri forest we swore to fight together, united, against the Forces of Good. Remember?'

Murder, unwillingly, nodded.

‘So we have to commit suicide.'

He looked her in the eye. ‘You reckon?'

‘Come here.'

He bent down. Silvietta, with her index finger, fixed a lock of hair that had fallen onto his forehead. ‘Yes, I reckon we have to.'

Murder began to rock his head backwards and forwards, and snort. ‘What a fucking pain! And now what do we do?' He tried to get up, but she held him down. ‘I've already paid the deposit at the Vecchio Cantinone, not to mention the booking fee for the trip to Prague. If I'd known, I wouldn't have taken out the loan. And my parents are getting everything ready.'

Silvietta smiled. Her eyes were tearing, but in peace. ‘Murder, who cares . . .? We're going to die, anyway.'

‘Of course . . . But you know how I am. I hate leaving bills unsettled.'

‘Who cares about the wedding? We love each other, and we'll die together. Next to each other. We'll be joined in eternity. Like Romeo and Juliet.'

Murder hugged her close against his thick chest until he almost suffocated her, and then placed her head on his shoulder. ‘But I'm afraid . . . I don't want to . . .'

Silvietta brushed her lips against his throat. ‘Don't worry, honey. I'll be there with you. We'll hold hands. You'll see, it will be beautiful.'

The shrill call of an unknown bird sang out.

Silvietta raised her head. ‘Did you hear that? It sounded like a parrot.'

‘You reckon it was a parrot?'

She whispered in his ear. ‘I love you.'

Murder kissed her.

Organisation of the Hunting Groups

 

Wardrobe and Allocation of the Weapons

40

After Chiatti's speech all the guests moved off in hordes from the buffet to prepare for the hunt. There was a sense of excitement and alcohol in the air. The drinks in their stomachs and the drugs in their brains had made them jovial and put them in a good mood. Just as the real-estate agent had promised, they found the tents to get changed in. Off to one side was the armoury. Dozens of shotguns were lined up in racks. The hostesses noted down on pieces of paper the names of the participants on each different safari and made them sign a release form. If anyone got hurt, shot themselves, it wasn't Sasà Chiatti's concern.

Fabrizio Ciba roamed around the camp, thinking about what Bocchi had told him. That wanker wasn't all wrong. The porno film might very well give him a load of publicity, and perhaps the sales of his novels would take off again. Not to mention that he might well become a sex symbol. Nobody would say no to that.

At that very moment the managing director of Martinelli, together with Matteo Saporelli and the literary critic Tremagli, came out of a tent dressed in colonial outfits. Short trousers, khaki-coloured shirt and a pith helmet made of cork. They were holding large rifles in their hands, looking at them as if they had been made by aliens.

The lion hunt is out of the question
.

Simona Somaini popped out of the fox-hunt tent wearing a pair of pants that hugged her legs and her ass like a second skin, while the little red jacket left just enough open to show off her pushed-up tits. She was followed by a huge beast of a man with a goatee and a ponytail, dressed in army gear, a rifle under his arm.

Fabrizio had seen the beast of a man somewhere before. He must be a sports star.

The writer took two steps forward and found Larita standing in front of him. He felt like hugging her, but he held back.

The singer seemed happy to have found him again, too. ‘I was looking for you everywhere. Where did you go?'

Ciba did what came to him naturally. He lied. ‘I was looking for you. So, what shall we do? Don't tell me you want to take part in this clown show?'

‘Me? Are you mad? I'm an animal rights defender.'

‘Good on you!' Ciba was relieved. ‘So let's get out of here, then.'

She looked at him in surprise. ‘I can't leave, I have to sing . . . I came here for that purpose.'

Fabrizio tried to hide his disappointment. ‘You're right. I wasn't thinking, but . . .' He was unable to finish the sentence because a white Lipizzan stopped before him, lifting itself up on its hind legs. Sasà Chiatti, sitting astride the steed, was pulling the reins and trying to keep the animal still while it reared left and right.

‘What are you two doing here? Why haven't you changed? I've got an elephant about to leave only half full.'

Larita waved her hand in sign of a no. ‘I'm against hunting. I will never shoot a tiger.'

The real-estate agent leaned down on the shiny neck of the horse so that the other guests wouldn't hear him. ‘Who's shooting who?
It's fun and games. The tiger has cancer of the colon. It has one month to live, if it's lucky. You'll only be doing her a favour. It's a field trip. When will you ever have the chance to do this sort of thing again? Come on . . .' He then turned backwards and let out a sheep-farmer whistle.

A trumpeting sound echoed across the Italian-style garden. Parrots and crows rose in flight from the branches of the holly oak trees. An elephant emerged from the bushes, shooting rays of blinding light around him. They had painted it orange and light blue and draped it in cloth with hundreds of little round mirrors sewn into it. The long trunk broke off tree branches and carried them to its mouth. They had tied a woven wicker basket on its back. There was an elderly gentleman inside wearing glasses, a green Loden cape and a funny felt hat. He was holding a rifle in his hands. Next to him was a teenager with his eyes half covered by a dark fringe. The two of them held tightly on to the edge of the basket, which pitched with each step the animal took. Sitting on its neck was a small Filipino wearing a white thong and a turban, guiding the animal, whipping it along with a rod.

‘Here is your elephant.' Chiatti raised a hand and the Filipino brought the pachyderm to a halt. Then he spoke to the man in the basket. ‘Doctor Cinelli, would you be so kind as to throw down the ladder. There are two more passengers.'

The old man was pointing the rifle towards the trees, on the look-out for the tiger.

‘Granddad! Granddad! Did you hear him? The gentleman asked if you could throw the ladder down. Yeah, whatever, that'll be the day!' The boy bent over, picked up the canvas ladder and lowered it: ‘Please forgive me, he's a little bit deaf.'

Larita looked at Fabrizio, torn. ‘What shall we do?'

Ciba shrugged. ‘You decide.'

Larita, in a whisper, embarrassed, said: ‘I don't think we can get out of it. It would be rude for us to stay here. But we won't shoot, though.'

‘Don't look at me.'

 

41

Murder sat down next to his leader, who was sitting with his head bent on his knees, and put his arm around Mantos's shoulders. ‘Not everything is lost, Master.'

‘Don't worry, Mantos, we'll manage,' Silvietta said.

Saverio was touched. He looked up at them. ‘I've disappointed you. I'm so sorry. I haven't got charisma.'

Silvietta took his hand. ‘No, Mantos, you've got great charisma, and you have never disappointed us. You gave meaning to our lives. And we will never betray you, we will always be by your side.'

Murder knelt down and asked. ‘Who is our Charismatic Father?'

Mantos shook his head, embarrassed. ‘Guys . . . Stop it.'

Murder stood up. ‘Who wrote the Tablets of Evil?'

‘You did!' Silvietta pointed at her leader.

‘Who taught us the Liturgy of Darkness?'

Mantos took a deep breath and said: ‘I did.'

Zombie was running between the tents.

It was chaos. People grinding their teeth, trying to put riding boots on. An old lady, short of breath, had rolled herself up in a purple sari like a trout in clingfilm. The vice president of the Lazio region, wearing colonial boots three sizes too small, was walking like a robot, carrying a huge rifle.
The comedian Sartoretti, the unquestioned star performer of Friday night television on Italia 1, was struggling to zip up plus-fours and shouting at the hostess, ‘This is a forty-six. I wear a fifty-two.'

The Beast jumped over Paolo Bocchi, who was lying on the ground, pale and sweaty, looking at the sky as if he was speaking to his maker, and repeated like a mantra: ‘Please . . . please . . . please . . .'

Zombie kept running breathlessly until he got to the Italian-style garden.

Silvietta and Murder, sitting at a coffee table, were eating a piece of ricotta-and-spinach pie.

The Satanist stopped and doubled over from the effort. ‘What are you two still doing here?'

Silvietta stood up. ‘We're not getting married any more. We're going to take the mission all the way.'

Murder stood up, too. ‘Forgive us. We've understood our error.'

Zombie was out of breath. ‘I don't . . . want to . . . talk to you. Where is Mantos?'

‘He's gone to fill up his plate from the buffet.'

Silvietta took him by the arm. ‘Did you get it? We're not going to abandon you. We're going to commit suicide, too.'

‘Yeah, whatever . . . I don't believe it.'

Silvietta put a hand on her chest. ‘I swear. You were right, we were behaving like arseholes. But you forced me to reason.'

At that moment Mantos appeared with a big plate full of crayfish ravioli. ‘Zombie! You're back.'

The adept wanted to speak, but he was still out of breath. ‘Larita . . . arita . . .'

‘What?' the leader of the Beasts asked. ‘Larita what?'

‘She's left . . . for the tiger . . . hunt!'

Departure for the Safari

42

Between one thing and another, the hunts left two hours behind schedule.

The sun was setting behind the forests of Forte Antenne, talking with it all the colours, but thanks to the skills of the Korean director of photography, Kim Doo Soo, the woods and the fields of the park had been transformed into an enchanted forest. Green moss-covered rocks and tree trunks dotted with mushrooms and silver lichen were bathed in an unnatural light that flooded from several ten-thousand-watt projectors camouflaged by the vegetation. A dense low fog, created by the smoke machines, covered the undergrowth and the plains where herds of gnus, ibex and elks grazed. Thousands of sparkling LEDs scattered across the fields went on and off like swarms of fireflies. Twelve huge fans hidden in the highlands created a light breeze that rippled over the grassy plains where a family of Marsican Brown bears and an old blind rhinoceros were resting between the swings and the ivy-covered slides.

The dogs and horse riders from the fox hunt had already disappeared behind the hills to the east.

The African beaters, followed by the hunters on foot, were sifting through the plains in search of the lion.

The elephants were leaving the Villa. In single file the pachyderms wove their trunks with their tails and, slow but unstoppable, they headed straight towards the swamps in the northwest, where they said that Kira, the albino tiger, was hidden.

Sasà Chiatti, on the terrace of the Royal Villa, observed the parties with his binoculars as they advanced into his immense property.

Everything there was his. From the century-old pine trees to the invasive ivy, down to the last ant.

They had insulted him, mocked him, they had called him a crazy megalomaniac, a poseur, a thief, but he hadn't listened to any of them. And in the end, he had won. They had all come to court to pay him homage.

Ecaterina Danielsson joined him on the terrace. She had changed and was wearing a brown leather corset that squeezed her tiny waist. Her shoulders were wrapped in a silver fox-fur stole. Her legs were bound in boots. She was carrying two crystal glasses.