Free The Crossroads by Niccolò Ammaniti Page B

43416 corresponds to “Era del cinghiale bianco”, by Franco Battiato.’
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜I don’t know … Maybe the magazine got it wrong …’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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 paint-spattered 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 succeeding, and made a sound like the gurgle of a blocked drain.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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 on heat and gradually started breathing again. And as his purple face returned to its natural colour he noticed that about twenty centimetres from his nose there was the smiling face of a skinhead.
    Then he recognised it. 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 moustaches 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 his teeth.
    He continued to hold him pinned to the wall with his left arm.
    â€˜Please … Please … I haven’t done anything to you …’ whimpered Marchetta desperately, waving his arms like a disco dancer.
    â€˜Well, I’m going to do something to you.’ Rino raised his right arm and closed his fist. He took aim at the nose, anticipating the pleasure of hearing the septal cartilage crunch under his knuckles. But his fist remained suspended in the air.
    Right next to that terror-stricken face hung a photograph. It had been taken in open country, on a windy day. The reeds with their plumes were bent over to one side. The sky was streaked with wispy clouds.