Let the Games Begin by Niccolò Ammaniti

for black espadrilles.
    Saverio went back into the living room and, trying not to make any noise, took the Durendal out of its box, and from the mantelpiece the car keys. He grabbed an umbrella and the bottle of Jägermeister, and was just about to lower the handle of the front door when the hall light came on, illuminating the Zanzibar collection.
    Serena was standing in the doorway of the living room in her night gown.
    â€˜Where are you going?’
    Saverio hunched forward, lowered his head and tried, unsuccessfully, to hide the sword behind his back. ‘I'm going out for a moment . . .’
    â€˜Where?’
    â€˜I'm going to the shop to see a thing . . .’
    Serena was confused. ‘With the sword?’
    â€˜Yes . . .’ He had to come up with some crap quickly. ‘You see . . . There's this piece of furniture . . . It's a living-room piece that could hold it perfectly, and I wanted to check whether it fits. I'll go and come back straight away. It'll only take me a second. You go to sleep.’
    â€˜And what's in the bag?’
    Saverio looked around him. ‘Which bag?’
    â€˜The one you've got in your hand.’
    â€˜Oh, this one.’ Saverio shrugged his shoulders. ‘No, nothing. Just some clothes I have to give back to Edoardo. They're for a costume party.’
    â€˜Do you know how old you are, Saverio?’
    â€˜What sort of a question is that?’
    â€˜You tire me. Truly tire me.’
    When Serena said that she was tired, sick and tired, with that worn out tone of voice, Saverio knew that within a few minutes they would start arguing. And an argument with Serena was never worth it. She was capable of obliterating you, of turning into something so terrible that you cannot even begin to describe it. The best strategy was to stop talking and smile vaguely. If she started shouting, the twins would wake up and whine, and then he would have to stay at home.
    Let her talk. Superior .
    â€˜And you haven't just tired me. You know what Dad says? He says that of all the departments in the furniture shop, yours is the only one in the red.’
    Saverio, despite what he'd just promised himself to do, couldn't take that.
    â€˜Too right! Thyrolean furniture sucks. Nobody wants to buy it! That's why your father gave it to me. You know that. This way he can . . .’
    Serena interrupted him, strangely enough without raising her voice. She seemed so discouraged as to not even have the strength to scream.
    â€˜Oh! Thyrolean furniture sucks? Are you aware that for over twenty years my father sold solely and exclusively Thyrolean furniture? May I remind you that he was the one to bring it to the Lazio region? Do you know how many people have copied him since then? The wood-style furniture and what-notonly came thanks to that furniture you hate so much.’ She crossed her arms. ‘You have no respect . . . No respect for my father and not even for me. I am really so tired of covering for you, of hearing Dad insult my husband every day. It mortifies me.’ She shook her head, embittered. ‘Hang on . . . hang on . . . What did he call you last time? Oh, yes . . . a cockroach with no balls. Do you know where he'd have sent you by now, if you weren't with me?’
    Saverio squeezed the handle of the Durendal like he wanted to snap it. He could have killed him, that old bastard. It would have been so easy. One clean slice of the sword between the third and the fourth cervical vertebrae.
    â€˜Can't say he's wrong.’ Serena pointed at him. ‘Look at you. You sneak out with a bag full of fancy dress, and a sword, and you go off to play with your mates . . . You are not thirteen years old. And I am not your mother.’
    Saverio, his head lowered, began to dig the tip of the Durendal into the parquet flooring.
    â€˜We can't go on this way. I have lost all respect for you. I need a man. Do you ever ask yourself why I don't want to make love to you?’