Let the Games Begin by Niccolò Ammaniti Page A

‘You love it. Say it!’
    â€˜No. No. I don't love it. It makes me sick.’ And yet, she didn't look as if it made her sick. ‘Arsehole. You're a disgusting arsehole.’ She slapped the mattress and hit the clock radio, which awoke from its slumber and began singing ‘She's Always A Woman’ by Billy Joel.
    Another unmistakable sign that Satan was on his side. Saverio told his disciples that he loved Sepultura and Metallica, but he secretly adored old Billy Joel. Nobody else wrote songs as romantic as his.
    He squeezed his teeth and, with renewed vigour, began hammering her again. ‘I'm going to snap you in two. I swear, I'm going to snap you. Cop this, you tart.’ And he stuck a finger in her ass.
    Serena's whole body stiffened. She stretched out her legs and arms, and lifted her head, looking at him with a pained expression. And then she gave in, sighing, and whispered: ‘I'm coming . . . I'm coming, you fuck. Fuck you, arsehole.’
    Saverio finally let himself go. He relaxed his thighs and came with his mouth open. Exhausted by the effort, sweating all over, he flopped onto Serena's neck and stuck his mouth in her hair. ‘Now tell me you love me,’ he sighed.
    â€˜Yes. I love you. Now let me sleep.’

 
    20
    Fabrizio Ciba had given up looking for a taxi on Corso Vittorio Emanuele. The long boulevard was packed with cars. The bass from woofers made the cars pulse. In a corner he saw a bar with lights on. He catapulted himself inside.
    A suffocating heat. A head-spinning stink of sweat. People everywhere pushing each other in the narrow space. And they were dancing. On the bar. On the tables. An orchestra made up of wild Caribbeans was playing a crappy ear-piercing salsa.
    A short guy with blond fringe and wearing a wrestling vest pulled up in front of him. He was wearing a sort of cowboy belt tied around his waist, loaded with shot glasses instead of bullets. He was holding a bottle in his hand. ‘You look like crap. Have a tequila boom-boom. It'll do you good.’
    Fabrizio necked it. The alcohol warmed his frozen innards. ‘Again.’
    The guy poured him another.
    He necked this one two. ‘Ahhhh! Better. Another!’
    â€˜Are you sure?’
    Fabrizio nodded. He placed a soaking wet fifty-euro bank note on the bar. ‘Pour and don't ask questions.’
    The waiter shook his head, but obeyed.
    Fabrizio made a disgusted face as he threw the shot into his stomach. Then he looked at the young man. ‘Listen, my name's Fabrizio Ciba, and I have a . . .’ He stopped. The short-arse's eyes showed only a glacial emptiness. He didn't have the vaguest idea who Fabrizio Ciba was. He was looking at him as if he was a hobo. ‘Is there a phone I can use?’
    â€˜No. There should be a phone box in Piazza Venezia.’
    Fine, the writer said to himself, he'd have to fall back on the usual method he used with idiots like this guy. ‘Listen, I'll you give another hundred euro if you take me to Via Mecenate. It's not far from here, it's behind the Colosseum.’
    The fringe-haired guy shrugged. ‘I wish! But I've gotta work.’
    â€˜You can't do this to me! Fucking hell, I didn't ask you for the moon.’
    The waiter poured a shot and slammed it down on the counter. ‘Here, this one's on me, but then you piss off. That's a good boy.’
    Fabrizio threw the tequila down in one go and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. ‘If you're in trouble, no one helps you out, right?’ He took two steps backwards and ended up on someone's feet.
    A female voice complained. ‘Ouch! This wanker smashed my big toe!’
    He tried to look her in the eye, but the lights from the bar were pointed right in his face. He lifted his hand in apology, but a male voice barked at him: ‘Listen . . . We've had enough of you. Look what you did to her!’
    â€˜So what? I don't get it . . . She's about as good-looking as a clam . . .