Let the Games Begin by Niccolò Ammaniti Page B

Don't shellfish have a higher level of paintolerance?’ He closed his eyes and noticed that the music had stopped. ‘I bet that none of these gentlemen . . .’ He was unable to go on. He had to take a seat. He opened his eyes again and the room with all those fuzzy faces began spinning above him. ‘What a terrible world yours is . . .’ he slurred and tried to grab on to the short-arse, but instead collapsed on the floor amidst people's legs.
    â€˜Kick him out!’ ‘We've had enough!’ ‘It's always the same story round here.’
    â€˜All right . . .’ He got up, with the help of someone.
    And before he realised he was back outside, beneath the downpour. The cold and the rain were like the crack of a whip, and he felt a little more lucid. He'd cover the last one and a half kilometres home on foot in the rain.
    He made it to Piazza Venezia with his eyes closed and his legs trembling, the cars honking at him. Via dei Fori Imperiali appeared before his eyes. It looked never ending. Off in the distance, like a mirage, the Colosseum glittered, shrouded in water. The rain struck hard on the sampietrini, which shone in the light of car headlights.
    All he needed to do was walk with his head down.
    I've gotta throw up, though .
    He kept thinking back to that arsehole Gianni as he stabbed him in the back, that bitch his agent who hadn't let him in, and those pieces of shit in the bar.
    Tomorrow . . . I'll get . . . a new agent . . . and I'll send a tough email . . . to Martinelli .
    The Colosseum was getting closer. Lit up, it looked like an Italian Christmas cake.
    Fabrizio was bushed, but he accelerated the pace using his last bit of energy.
    I'll leave Martinelli .
    He realised he was out of breath and that a frozen claw was ripping open his heart.
    Oh God . . .
    He lifted his gaze skywards and reached out his hand as if to hold himself steady with something. Then he tripped and the footpath bent in two and came up at him, hitting him on the cheekbone.
    He registered that he was now lying on the ground and was falling unconscious. He vomited something acid and alcoholic, which diluted in a puddle.
    Heart attack .
    His head had transformed into a fiery ball. His ears housed a jet motor. The Colosseum, the road, the lights, the rain span around him, melting into shiny coils.
    He tried to stand, but his legs couldn't hold his weight. He fell again. He began dragging himself towards the street on his arms, while cars drove past without even slowing. He lifted a hand and murmured:
    â€˜Help! Help! Please . . . Help me!’
    Fabrizio Ciba, the international bestselling writer of The Lion's Den , the presenter of the culture programme Crime and Punishment , the third-sexiest man in Italy according to the weekly magazine Yes , understood that nobody was going to stop and help him, and that he would die in his own vomit opposite the Fori Imperiali. He could see the photo of his body melted on the ground. In the background, the Roman ruins.
    It will be in all the newspapers. What will they write? Like Janis Joplin .
    His arm flopped back down. He lay there wondering why, why did this have to happen to him?
    I haven't done anything wrong .
    Everything was turning hazy. All he could see were purple dots.
    He leaned his head on the ground and closed his eyes.

 
    21
    Mr and Mrs Moneta were lying on the bed. Outside, the storm was beginning to die down.
    Saverio looked at his wife. She was sleeping facing the other way, a mask over her eyes.
    Just after they had finished making love, Serena told him that she loved him. He shouldn't believe her. Serena was as treacherous as a scorpion. To get her to say it to him, he'd been forced to rape her.
    But in the end she came .
    A weakness of Serena's that would cost him dearly.
    Tomorrow, when she thinks about what happened, she'll go crazy. She'll be even more selfish, overbearing and insensitive than ever. She might even tell her old man about it