Free Let the Games Begin by Niccolò Ammaniti Page A

Websites, forums and blogs would be dedicated to him. His face would be printed on thousands of young boys’ t-shirts. And Satanist groups for generations and generations would be inspired by the figure of Mantos, and they would be charmed by his charismatic and psychotic personality, just like Charles Manson.
    Saverio grabbed Serena's iPod from the credenza next to the front door. He was sure that his wife had something by the singer. And in fact she did. He pressed play. The artist began singing in her melodious voice, rich with octaves, about a love story between two teenagers.
    Disgusting!
    That disgusting woman had brought together the two things he hated most in the world: love and teenagers.
    From the drinks cabinet he pulled out a bottle of Jägermeister and had a suck.
    It was so bitter.

 
    14
    The marble bench was not exactly comfortable. Fabrizio Ciba and Alice Tyler were entwined around each other while puffs of the Western wind shook the bamboo forest. The writer had one hand against the cement wall and the other on the translator's tit. The translator had one of hers shoved in behind his back and the other inside the writer's pants. His belt was stopping, like a tourniquet, the flow of blood to her hand, and so the only thing she could do with her numb fingers was squeeze his dick. Fabrizio was panting in her ear while trying to free her tit from the imprisonment of her bra but, having no luck, he decided that he would explore her intimate areas.
    They didn't notice the managing director, who, just ten metres away, was having a piss until they heard him sigh. ‘Ahhh! I really needed that. What a feeling of freedom!’
    The two of them froze like sole fish, and if they could have, like the Solea solea , they would have changed colour, camouflaging themselves with their surroundings. Fabrizio whispered: ‘Shush, someone's here . . . Shush, please. Don't breathe.’ They turned to stone, like two calchi from Pompeii. Both of them with their hands on the other's genitals.
    Another voice. Far off. ‘Ciba was good this evening.’
    How many of them are there ?
    The voice nearest-by answered: ‘You have to admit that our Ciba is the best at this sort of thing!’
    â€˜It's Gianni! The managing director!’ Ciba explained, in a whisper.
    â€˜Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,’ she said. ‘What if they see us?’
    â€˜Shush. Don't say anything.’ Fabrizio raised his head. Gianni's silhouette stretched upwards from behind the hydrangea bush. Ciba lowered down again. ‘He's having a piss. He can't see us. He'll go away now.’
    But the managing director, who suffered from prostate trouble, kept shaking his thing in the hope of further downfalls.
    â€˜Not bad, that idea of the story of the fire! Total crap, but effective nevertheless. We should call on him more often for this sort of thing, he's magnetic.’
    Fabrizio smiled, satisfied, and looked at Alice, who huffed, amused. What more could he want? He was snogging a sort of intellectual, mixed-race model, and at the same time he was being complimented with high praise from the king of his publishing house.
    He touched Alice's clitoris. She shivered and sighed in his ear. ‘Gently . . . gently . . . Otherwise I'll start screaaaaahhhh-ming . . .’
    His dick had become a block of steel.
    â€˜Now, getting down to business . . . How far is Ciba into his new novel?’
    â€˜It's hard to understand . . . From what little I've read . . .’ Pennacchini was speechless. It often happened that he would stop talking, as if someone had unplugged him.
    â€˜What, Pennacchini? What have you read?’
    â€˜I feel . . . Well, it's unfocused . . . More . . . How can I explain it . . .? Like a series of clumsy attempts rather than an actual story . . .’
    Fabrizio, who was working at undoing his belt, came stock-still. ‘
    It's crap, I get it. Like his last one, what was it . . .? Nestor's