Free The Crossroads by Niccolò Ammaniti Page A

‘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.’
    â€˜Exactly.’
    â€˜They’ll have organised the team for the BMW showroom by then.’
    â€˜That’s already closed.’
    â€˜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 about here? The team was formed that very same day. Work begins on Monday.’
    â€˜Why didn’t you call me? You didn’t call Danilo and Quattro Formaggi either.’
    â€˜You know I don’t deal with those things.’
    â€˜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’tyou have called me? Told me? We’ve known each other for twenty years …’
    â€˜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 serene when, as regular as clockwork, people keep ramming a cucumber up your arse?
    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 mobile phone, arguing with the Vodafone call centre.
    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 beard. 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.
    â€˜A businessman must 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 advert. 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.
    â€˜â€œToxic”. 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