Free As God Commands by Niccolò Ammaniti

not to
waste any time."
    "Hello, Zena," said the woman, looking up from the screen and
scrutinizing him, before her fingers continued tapping on the keyboard.
    For a moment Rino had an image of her giving a blow job to
that fat old letch Angelo Marchetta, and he smiled.

    "Hello, beautiful. How are things?"
    The secretary didn't even turn her head. "Can't complain."
    What a strange woman. She had always treated him like dirt. As
if she was the Duchess of York and it was only by some quirk of
fate that she had ended up in that dump. Hadn't she ever looked
in the mirror? Hadn't she ever stopped to think that all she had to
live for was a collection of Pinocchios, some children who didn't
give a shit about her, a husband who had died in a factory accident
and that windowless little hole?
    Rino approached her desk. "Is Marchetta in?"
    "Do you have an appointment?" asked the secretary, her eyes still
on the screen.
    "An appointment? Since when has anyone had to have an appointment to speak to Marchetta?"
    "New orders." Rita Pirro made a movement with her head, indicating Marchetta's door. "I'll make you one if you like."
    Rino placed his hands on the desk and said: "Is this the dentist's?
Will he clean my teeth for me as well?"
    The secretary widened her mouth into a kind of smile. "Very
funny. Would next Friday suit you?"
    Rino was astounded. "Friday? That's a week away."
    "Exactly."
    "They'll have organized the team for the BMW showroom by then."
    "That's already closed."
    "What do you mean, it's already closed? You only won the contract the day before yesterday."
    At last she raised her eyes and stared at Rino. "Do you think we
mess around here? The team was formed that very same day. Work
begins on Monday."
    "Why didn't you call me? You didn't call Danilo and Quattro
Formaggi either."
    "You know I don't deal with those things."
    "Where's the team list?"
    The secretary went back to her typing. "Where it always is. On
the noticeboard."
    Rino went over and scanned a sheet of paper with twenty names
on it. All Africans or East Europeans, with just a couple of Italian
master builders.

    He rested one hand against the wall and closed his eyes. "Couldn't
you have called me? Told me? We've known each other for twenty
years..."
    "What have you ever done for me?" And she rearranged some
of her Pinocchios.
    He felt anger spreading throughout his body like a toxin.
    Keep calm ...
    Yes, he must keep calm. Cool-headed. Serene. But how do you
stay cool when, as regular as clockwork, people keep ramming a
cucumber up your ass?
    To keep calm he was going to have to let out a bit of shit. He
needed to smash something. Set fire to that fucking hut. Take one
of those Pinocchio dolls and ...
    Meanwhile the bluish veins on his forearms had swollen up under
his skin till they looked like macaroni and his calves had started
tingling as if he had nettle rash. He clenched his fists, digging his
nails into his palms, and breathed in and out to release a little anger.
    But he knew that it wouldn't be enough.
    When he opened his eyes again he noticed that the list was signed
at the bottom by Massimiliano Marchetta.
    He smiled.
23
    Max Marchetta was sitting at his desk and talking on his cell phone,
arguing with the Vodafone call center.
    He was having trouble in expressing his dissatisfaction owing to the
AZ Whitestrips which he had applied to his teeth and which had to
be left on for at least twenty minutes. "I just don't undershtand...I
keyed in the code but I got a different ringtone. And ish awful..."
    He was a large young man of about thirty, with a dark complexion and small, turquoise eyes. Beneath his strawberry shaped
nose he had grown an impeccable D'Artagnan-style moustache, and
under his fleshy lips he had a goatee. His black hair was slicked
back with gel and reflected the neon lights on the ceiling. His hands
were freshly manicured.

    Max Marchetta was particular about his appearance.
    "A businessman must