Free As God Commands by Niccolò Ammaniti Page A

always be elegant, because elegance is synonymous with efficiency and reliability."
    He couldn't remember whether this was a saying of some important person or a slogan from an advertisement. It didn't matter. They
were words of wisdom.
    Usually he wore a tailor-made pinstriped suit with matching
waistcoat. That day, however, for a change, he was dressed in a
double-breasted blue blazer and a blue-and-white striped shirt with
a high, three-buttoned collar sealed by a dark tie with a knot as big
as your fist.
    The operator's voice, in a strong Sardinian accent, asked him
which ringtone he wanted to download.
    "`Toxic.' By Britney Shpearsh. The one that goes..." and he made
an attempt at humming the refrain.
    The operator interrupted him. "No, I mean which code?"
    Max Marchetta picked up the magazine and checked. "Four three
four one shix."
    There was a moment's silence and then: "Number 43416 corresponds to "Era del cinghiale bianco", by Franco Battiato."
    "What do you mean? Why does it shay in this magazhine that
`Toxic' is four three four one shix, then? Why does it shay that?"
    "I don't know ... Maybe the magazine got it wrong..."
    "Oh, they got it wrong, did they? And who's going to give me
back my three euros? Vodafone?" As he talked he sprayed out little
drops of foam.
    The operator was caught off guard. "I hardly think it's Vodafone's
fault if the magazine printed the code wrongly."
    "It's eashy to go around blaming other people! It's the Italiansh
national shport, isn't it? What do you people care if your clients
loshe their money? And your tone ish very offensive." Max picked
up his pen and held it against his diary. "What'sh your..."
    He was on the point of demanding the operator's name to scare
the shit out of him, but suddenly he found himself up in the air.
The next moment he flew over the desk and crashed into a wall
covered with framed photographs. A second later a copy of his
degree certificate in Economics and Business Studies fell on his
head.

    Max thought the gas tank must have exploded and that the shock
wave had hurled him out of his chair, but then he saw two paintspattered boots, and at that very moment two burly arms covered
with ugly tattoos lifted him up by his lapels and pinned him against
the wall like a poster.
    He spat out all the air that he had in his body and, with his
diaphragm contracted, tried to breathe in but without success, and
made a sound like the gurgle of a blocked drain.
    "You're short of air. A horrible feeling, isn't it? It's like the feeling
you get when you reach the end of the month and don't know where
the fuck you're going to find the money to pay your bills."
    Max couldn't hear the voice. A jet engine was roaring in his ears
and all he could see was some streaks of light criss-crossing in front
of his eyes. Like when he had been small and there had been a firework display at Ferragosto. His mouth was open and a whitening
strip hung from his upper teeth.
    If I don't breathe I'm going to die. That was the only thought
his brain was capable of formulating.
    "Calm down. The more you struggle the less you'll breathe. Don't
be frightened, you're not going to die," the voice now advised him.
    At last the contraction of his diaphragm eased, Max's rib cage
opened and a stream of air flowed down his windpipe and into his
lungs.
    He brayed like a donkey in heat and gradually started breathing
again. And as his purple face returned to its natural color he noticed
that about twenty centimeters from his nose there was the smiling
face of a skinhead.
    Then he recognized him. His anal sphincter contracted to the
diameter of a stick of macaroni.
    It was Zena.
    Rino Zena.

24
    Rino Zena examined the terrified face of that pansy Max Marchetta.
His mustache had gone limp and looked like two rats' tails, his glistening, greasy quiff hung down over his forehead like a shed roof.
    Rino couldn't make out what that piece of cellophane was that
was hanging from