had nothing to do with all of this and yet he felt he had done something worthwhile with the Beasts. And he owed part of it to that group of losers that followed him. He couldn't let them down.
Kurtz wanted to trick him. Just like his father had tricked him with the scooter. And the old man as well, when he said that he wanted to give him an important role within the company. Just like Serena had tricked him when she said she wanted to be his geisha, and that the twins, in the end, were just like one baby.
That's why he had become a Satanist. Because everyone tricked him.
What sort of a gift is a gift that every time you use it your father is forced to take the bus?
Saverio Moneta hated them all. Every single one of them. The whole of humanity who moved forward through trickery and exploitation of their peers. Sheltered by his hate, he had fed, he had regained his strength, he had shielded himself. Hate had given him the strength to endure. And in the end, Saverio had made it his religion. And Satan his god.
And Kurtz was just like all the others. Who the fuck does he think he is, saying that the Wilde Beasts of Abaddon are an insignificant blip?
‘No,’ he said.
‘No what?’
‘No. I'm not interested. Thank you, but I'll stay on as the leader of the Wilde Beasts of Abaddon.’
Kurtz was surprised. ‘Are you sure you know what you're saying? Think about it. I won't make the same offer twice.’
‘I don't care. The Wilde Beasts of Abaddon may very well be an insignificant blip, as you said. But even a tumour is only a single cell at the beginning, then it grows, it multiplies and it kills you. The Beasts will become a blip that everyone will have to contend with. Just wait and see.’
Kurtz burst into laughter. ‘You're pathetic. You're over.’
Saverio put his seat belt on. ‘Maybe. But as you well know, it's not certain. It's not certain at all. And anyway, I'd rather become a priest than work for you.’
He hung up.
The remains of the sunset had melted away and the shadows had descended across the land. The leader of the Wilde Beasts of Abaddon turned the indicator on and skidded off down the motorway.
8
The old Indian writer kept to himself, sitting in a corner with a glass of water in his hands.
He had arrived by plane from Los Angeles that morning, following two exhausting weeks of book presentations across the United States, and now he wanted to go back to the hotel and stretch out on his bed. He would try to sleep, but he wouldn't succeed in doing so, and in the end he would take a sleeping pill. Natural sleep had abandoned his body a while ago. He thought of his wife Margaret, in London. He would have liked to call her. Tell her that he missed her. That he would be home soon. He looked across to the other side of the room.
The writer who had spoken about the fire was surrounded by a throng of readers who wanted his name signed on their copy of his book. And for each person the young man had a word, a gesture, a smile.
He envied his youth, his relaxed desire to please.
He no longer cared about any of this. What did he care about? About sleeping. About getting in six hours of rest, with dreams. Even the trip around the world that he had been forced to do since winning the Nobel made no sense. He was a rag doll, thrown from one end of the globe to the other, to be exhibited to the public, taken in hand by people he didn't know, people he would forget about as soon as he moved on. He had written a book. A book that had taken ten years of his life to write. Didn't that alone suffice? Wasn't it enough?
During the presentation he had not managed to get past the introductions. Not like the Italian writer. He had read his novel on the plane. A small, fluid novel. He had read it out of scruple, because he didn't like to be presented by writers whose work he didn't know. And he had enjoyed it. He would like to tell the writer. It was not good manners to keep to himself.
As soon as the old man got up from his chair, three journalists who were waiting on the sidelines were suddenly all over him. Sawhney explained that he was tired. The next day he would be happy to answer their questions. But he said it so softly, so sweetly, that he was unable to free himself of these annoying flies. Luckily a lady arrived, from his publishing house, who shooed them away.
‘What must we do now?’ he asked the lady.
‘There is a cocktail party. Then, in about an hour, we will go and eat in a traditional restaurant, in Trastevere, which is famous for its Roman specialities. Do you like spaghetti carbonara?’
Sawhney placed his hand on her arm. ‘I would like to talk with the writer . . .’ Oh God, what was his name? His head wasn't working any more
The lady came to his aid. ‘Ciba! Fabrizio Ciba. Certainly. Please stay here. I'll go and call him straight away.’ And she threw herself, her high heels tapping, into the throng.
‘You're not supposed to be asking me for my autograph . . . Ask Sawhney. He's the one who won the Nobel Prize, not me.’ Fabrizio Ciba was trying to dam the sea of books engulfing him. His wrist was sore from the autographs he had signed. ‘What's your name? Paternò Antonia? Pardon? Just a moment . . . Oh, you liked Erri, Penelope's father? He reminds you of your grandfather? Me, too.’
A chubby woman, clearly overheated, elbowed her way through the crowd and planted another copy of The Lion's Den in front of him.
‘I came all the way from Frosinone just for you. I've never read your books. But they tell me they're real good. I bought it at the station. You are so nice . . . And so handsome. I always watch you on the television. My daughter is in love with you . . . And so am I . . . a bit.’
A polite smile was sculpted on his face. ‘Well, maybe you should read them. You might not like them.’
‘What do you mean? Are you serious?’
Another book. Another autograph.
‘What's your name?’
‘Aldo. Can you make it out to Massimiliano and Mariapia? They're my children, they're six and eight years old, they'll read it when they've gro . . .’
He despised them. They were a bunch of idiots. A herd of sheep. Their appreciation meant nothing to him. They would have gathered with the same enthusiasm for the family memoir of the director of the Channel 2 news, for the romantic revelations of the most uncouth showgirl in television. They only wanted to have their own conversation with the star, their own autograph, their own moment with the idol. If they could, they would have ripped off a piece of his suit, a lock of hair, a tooth, and they would have carried it home like a relic.
He couldn't bear another minute of having to be polite. Of having to smile like a moron. To try and be modest and gracious. He was usually able to conceal perfectly the physical revulsion he felt towards indiscriminate human contact. He was a master at faking it. When the moment came, he threw himself into the mud, convinced that he enjoyed it. He emerged from bathing in the crowds weary but purified.
However, that evening a ghastly suspicion was poisoning his victory. The suspicion that he didn't behave properly, with the discretion of a real writer. Of a serious writer
