tossed back his hair, adjusted the height of the microphone. ‘It's dawn. A dirty and distant dawn of eight hundred thousand years ago. It's cold, but it's not windy. A canyon. Low-lying vegetation. Stones. Sand. Three small hairy creatures, a hundred and fifty centimetres tall, covered in gazelle skins, are in the middle of a river. The current is tempestuous, it's a full-blown river. One of those water courses which, many years later, American families will travel down harnessed with inflatable life-jackets atop coloured rafts.’ Fabrizio took a technical pause. ‘The water is grey and it is shallow and freezing. It only comes up to their knees, but the current is bloody strong. And they have to cross the river and they move forward, placing each foot carefully. One of the three of them, the biggest, whose hair braided with mud makes him look like a Jamaican Rastafarian, holds a sort of basket tightly in his hands, one of those things made with small woven branches. At the centre of the basket a weak flame flickers, a miniscule flame prey to the winds, a flame that risks going out, poor little thing, which needs to be fuelled continuously with kindling and dried cactus pads, which the other two hold tightly in their hands. At night they take turns to keep it alight, curled up inside a damp cave. They sleep with just one eye closed, taking care that the fire doesn't go out. To gather wood, they have to brave the wild beasts. Enormous and frightening. Tigers with teeth like sabres, hairy mammoths, monstrous armadillos with spiky tails. Our little ancestors are not at the top of the food chain. They don't see it from the top downwards. They are in a good position in the hit parade, but above them are a couple of creatures with hardly a friendly little attitude. They have teeth as sharp as razors, poisons capable of nailing a rhinocerous in thirty seconds. It is a world full of thorns, spikes, stingers, of colourful and toxic plants, of miniscule reptiles which spray liquids like Cif bathroom cleaner . . .’ Ciba touches his jaw and glances encouragingly towards the affrescod vaulted ceiling of the hall.
The audience were no longer there; they were in prehistory. Waiting for him to continue.
Fabrizio wondered why the fuck he had carried them back into prehistory and where he was hoping to end up. No matter, he had to continue.
‘The three of them are in the middle of this river. The biggest one, the fire-carrier, is at the head of the line. His arms are as stiff as pieces of marble. He holds the weak bonfire in front of him. He can feel his muscles screaming in pain, but he moves forward, holding his breath. One thing he cannot do, fall over. If he falls over, they will no longer have the heat needed not to die of cold during those never-ending nights, the heat needed to roast the leathery warthog meat, the heat needed to keep the ferocious beasts away from the camping place.’ He took a peek at the Indian. Was he listening? He appeared to be. Alice was translating for him and he was smiling, keeping his head slightly cocked, like blind people sometimes do. ‘What's the problem, you are probably all wondering? What does it take to light a fire? Do you remember the history book in middle school? Those illustrations of the famous primitive man, with a beard and a thong, who rubs two rocks together next to a nice little bonfire like a diligent boy scout? Where are those bloody flint stones? Have you ever found one on a walk through the mountains? I haven't. You feel like lighting a cigarette while hiking, you're out of breath but a Marlboro is just what you need, you haven't got a lighter and so what can you do? Of course! Pick up two stones off the ground and – snap – a spark. No, my friends! That's not how it works. And these very ancestors, unlucky for them, live one hundred years before that genius, a nameless genius, a genius no one has ever thought of dedicating a monument to, a genius as important as Leonardo da Vinci and Einstein, who will discover that certain stones, rich in sulphur, when rubbed together make sparks. These three men, to make a fire, must wait for lightning to fall from the sky and burn a forest. An occurrence that does happen occasionally, but not that often. “Sorry, I need to roast this brontosaurus, I don't have any fire, darling. Go and look for a wildfire,” says the Hominid mum, and off her son goes. She will see him three years later.’
The audience laugh. There are even a couple of brief spurts of applause.
‘Now you understand why these three must keep the fire alive. The famous sacred fire . . .’ Ciba took a deep breath and lavished a big smile upon the audience. ‘Why I am telling you all of this, I have no idea . . .’ Chuckling. ‘On the contrary, I believe I do know why . . . And I think that you have all understood why, too. Sarwar Sawhney, this exceptional writer, is one of those beings who has taken on the difficult and terrible responsibility of keeping the fire alive and handing it over to us when the sky darkens and the cold settles in our souls. Culture is a fire that cannot be put out and re-lit with a match. It needs to be cared for, kept high, fuelled. And every writer – I consider myself to be one of them, too – has a duty to never, ever, forget about that fire.’ Ciba got up from his chair. ‘I would like everyone to stand. I am asking you, please. Stand up for just a moment. Here with us is a great writer who must be honoured for what he does.’
Everyone stood up amidst the din of chairs and broke into a wild applause for the old Indian man, who began bobbing his head, looking rather embarrassed. ‘Bravo! Well done! Bravo! Thanks for being you!’ someone, who had probably heard Sawhney's name for the first time tonight and certainly wouldn't buy his book, called out. Even Tremagli, reluctantly, was forced to stand and applaud that farce. A girl in the second row pulled out a lighter. Everyone else quickly followed suit. Flames lit up everywhere. Someone turned the big chandeliers off and the long room was lit by a hundred little flames. It was like being at a Baglioni concert.
‘Why not?’ Ciba pulled out his lighter, too. He saw the managing director, the general manager and the whole Martinelli group follow suit.
The writer was satisfied.
7
‘Mantos, I have a proposal to make. Come to Pavia tomorrow for a business lunch. I've already got you booked on a flight for Milano.’
Saverio Moneta was on the side of the motorway to Capranica. He couldn't believe that the famous Kurtz Minetti, the high priest of the Children of the Apocalypse, the one that had decapitated a nun with a double-edged axe, was talking to him. He rubbed a hand across his burning forehead. ‘Tomorrow?’
‘Yes. I'll get one of my followers to come and pick you up from Linate.’
Kurtz's voice was reassuring and accent free.
‘Um, what day is it tomorrow?’
‘Saturday.’
‘Saturday . . . Let me think.’ It was impossible. The next day was the beginning of the ‘Kid's Bedrooms Week’, and if he asked the old man for another day off his father-in-law would pour kerosene over him and set him on fire in the shop car park.
He took his courage in both hands. ‘No, tomorrow I can't make it. I'm sorry, but I really can't.’ I must be the first person who has dared to say no to an invitation from the greatest expert of Italian Satanism. He'll slam the phone down in my face.
But Kurtz asked him: ‘And when could you make it?’
‘Well, actually, to be honest, I'm quite busy for the next couple of days . . .’
‘Of course.’ Kurtz seemed more surprised than annoyed.
Mantos took a risk: ‘Couldn't we discuss it over the phone? You've caught me at a bad time.’
Kurtz breathed in deeply through his nose.
‘I don't like discussing these things over the phone. It's not safe. I can only give you an idea. As you well know, the Children of the Apocalypse are the number one Satanic sect in Italy, and the third-biggest in Europe. Our website registers fifty thousand hits per day and we have a calendar rich with events. We organise orgies, raids, black masses and excursions to Satanic sites, like
