out really nicely. But when he'd taken it under closer consideration, he'd decided to abandon it. To begin with, opposite the cemetery there were always lots of cars coming and going, so it had to be done late into the night. The surrounding wall was also more than three metres high and scattered with pieces of broken bottles. Groups of teenagers hung out in front of the entrance gates and occasionally were even joined by the Porchetta sandwich van. Inside the graveyard lived the caretaker, an ex-soldier who was off his rocker. Absolute silence would be needed, but when uncovering graves, pulling up coffins, removing bones and piling them in heaps, a bit of commotion couldn't be avoided . . . although Saverio had even thought of crucifying the ex-soldier head-downwards over the mausoleum of the Mastrodomenicos, his wife's family.
Too complicated.
His mobile began ringing. On the display he read ‘SERENA’.
Saverio Moneta had told her the usual story: a Dungeons & Dragons tournament. For two years now, to keep his Satanic activities under wraps, he had told her that he was a champion boardgame-player. But this wouldn't hold up much longer. Serena was suspicious. She kept asking him lots of questions, wanted to know who he played with, if he'd won . . . Once he had organised a fake match with the Beasts to reassure her. But when his wife had seen Zombie, Murder and Silvietta, rather than feeling reassured she had become even more suspicious.
He took a breath and answered his phone.
‘Honey, I know, I'm running late, but I'm on my way. Traffic's hell. There must be an accident up ahead.’
Serena answered with her usual gentleness.
‘Oi! Have you gone completely out of your mind?’
Saverio slumped in the front seat of the Mondeo. ‘Why? What did I do?’
‘There's a guy here from DHL with a huge package. He's asking for three hundred and fifty euro. He says it's for you. So, do I pay him?’
Oh God, it's the Durendal.
He'd bought the faithful reproduction of the sword of Roland, Charlemagne's paladin, on eBay. As legend would have it, it first belonged to Hector of Troy. But that dimwit Mariano, his building's caretaker, was supposed to intercept it. Serena wasn't meant to know a thing about the sword.
‘Yeah, yeah, pay him. As soon as I get home, I'll pay you back,’ said Saverio, feigning calm.
‘Are you mental? Three hundred and fifty euro?! What the hell did you buy?’ Then Serena turned to the DHL delivery man. ‘Would you mind telling me what's in this box?’
While a spurt of peptic acids nibbled at his stomach wall, the grand master of the Wilde Beasts of Abaddon wondered why the fuck he had chosen such a mortifying life. He was a Satanist. A man who was attracted to the unknown, the dark side of things. But at that very moment there was no trace of anything dark and unknown except for the reason why he'd ended up in the arms of that harpy.
‘Excuse me, what's in the box?’ Serena asked the DHL man.
He could hear the delivery man's voice off in the distance. ‘Ma'am, it's late. It's written on the delivery slip.’
Meanwhile Saverio banged the nape of his neck against the head rest and mumbled: ‘What a mess . . . what a mess . . .’
‘It says that it's from “The Art of War” from Caserta . . . A sword?’
Saverio raised his eyes to the sky and made an effort not to begin howling.
‘What do you want a sword for?’
Mantos began shaking his head. A huge billboard on the side of the road caught his eye.
THE HOUSE OF SILVER. WEDDING LISTS.
UNIQUE AND EXCLUSIVE GIFTS IN PURE SILVER.
‘It's a gift, Serena. It's a surprise. Don't you get it?’ His voice had risen a couple of octaves.
‘Who for? I reckon you've lost it.’
‘Who for? Who could it be for? Have a guess?’
‘What would I know . . .?’
‘For your father!’
There was a moment of silence. ‘My father? What would he do with this sword?’
‘What else could he do? He can hang it over the fireplace, can't he?’
‘Over the fireplace? In the mountains, you mean? In the chalet up on Rocca Raso?’
‘Exactly.’
Serena's voice softened instantly. ‘Oh . . . I didn't expect you to be so sweet and thoughtful. Pussycat, sometimes you really know how to surprise me.’
‘I have to hang up now because I shouldn't talk on the mobile while I'm driving.’
‘All right, pussycat. But come home quickly.’
Saverio hung up and threw the phone into the glove compartment.
4
In the conference hall of Villa Malaparte there were people everywhere. Many stood along the side corridors. Some university students were sitting cross-legged in front of the speakers’ table. Others were perched on window sills. It was surprising that nobody was hanging from the Murano glass chandeliers.
As soon as the first photographer spotted the writer, the flashes started popping. Three hundred heads turned and there was a moment of silence. Then, slowly, a murmur rose. Ciba walked down the aisle while six hundred eyes watched him. He turned backwards for a second, lowered his head, touched his ear lobe and put on a fearful expression, trying to appear slightly awkward and embarrassed. The message his body language sent out was simple: I am the greatest living writer on earth, and yet even I can run late because, despite everything, I am a normal person. Just like you all are. He looked exactly the way he wanted. Young, troubled, with his head in the clouds. With his tweed jacket worn through at the elbow and his baggy trousers two sizes too big (he had them made in a kibbutz near the Dead Sea), with his waistcoat bought in a charity shop on Portobello Road, with his old Church shoes, which had been given to him the day he graduated from university, with his nose that was just a little too big for his face and that wild tuft of hair that fell over his green eyes. A star. An English actor who had been given the gift of writing like a god.
As he moved towards the table Fabrizio studied the components of the crowd. He guessed that ten per cent were officials, fifteen were journalists and photographers, at least forty per cent were students (actually female students popping with hormones), and thirty-five per cent old bags on the verge of menopause. Then he added up the percentage of these wonderful people holding a copy of his book or the Indian's book to their chest. Easy done. His was a powder-blue colour with the title written in a bright blood red, while the Indian's was white with black writing. More than eighty per cent were powder blue! He managed to make his way through the last few bunches of people in the crowd. Some shook his hand, some gave him a brotherly slap on the back as if he had just returned from a stint on some celebrity reality TV show. Finally he reached the presenters’ table. The Indian writer was seated in the middle. He looked like a turtle who had his shell slipped off and a white tunic and black-rimmed glasses put in its place. He had a peaceful face and two small, wide-set,
