Let the Games Begin by Niccolò Ammaniti Page A

She turned around and went back into the bedroom. He heard her say: ‘Off you go. Run along. You wouldn't want to keep your friends waiting . . . And take out the rubbish.’
    Saverio stood on the threshold of the front doorstep for about a minute. Outside the storm didn't show any sign of calming down. If he went out now, his life would be a living hell for a week. He put the Durendal back in the box and returned the plastic bag with the tunics to the closet. He sucked on the bottle of bitter liqueur. He'd better sleep on the sofa-bed. Tomorrow morning Serena will have calmed down and they will be able to make up, or something along those lines.
    He had to show her, though, that he wasn't a cockroach withno balls. And to prove it there was only one way: get his department's quarterly budget under control and shut the old bastard up. There was still a month to go, and if he worked himself silly he could make it. He took another sip of alcohol and, with his head spinning, went into the bathroom to brush his teeth.
    What was he thinking when he'd come up with the idea of killing Larita? To do so, he'd need to take a day off and, right now, under these expectations, it just wasn't do-able. And moreover, let's admit it, the problem wasn't simply his wife: the Wilde Beasts didn't believe in him either.
    He spat toothpaste into the basin, dried his mouth and looked at himself in the mirror. His temples had turned almost completely white and the shadow of a beard on his chin was grey.
    You're not thirteen years old. And I am not your mother .
    Serena was spot on. Spot on the dot. If he didn't prove to her that she could trust him, she would never let him manage the furniture shop after her father was gone.
    And I have two kids to look after. They can't grow up thinking their father is incompetent .
    And it was only his fault if that's what everyone thought.
    Enough! This whole story with the Satanic sect has to end . Tomorrow I'll call the Beasts together and I'll tell them the game is over .
    He took off his shirt and vest. Even the few hairs on his chest were beginning to turn grey. He opened the shower tap, then shut it again. He opened his mouth wide in a silent scream. His cheeks were tracked with tears.
    Why had he let himself go like this? What was the absurd reason that had made him lock himself in a cage with that harpy and throw away the keys of his existence? He had had so many ideas when he was young. Travel by train across Europe. Go to Transylvania to visit Count Vlad's castle. Seethe dolmen and the sculptures on Easter Island. Study Latin and Aramaic. He hadn't done any of these things. He had gotten married too young to a woman who loved holiday villages and sifting through factory outlets.
    He went back to the basin and looked at himself in the mirror, as if he wanted to check that it was still really him. He picked up a towel and placed it over his head.
    â€˜Hang on . . . Hang on just a moment,’ he said to himself.
    He couldn't forget. This had been a special day and one fight with Serena shouldn't erase it. He could feel in every fibre in his body that this was the beginning of a new existence. All he needed was the courage to rebel. And it wasn't because of Gerry Scotti, and not even because of the big cloud with the face of Satan that had come to him like an omen. It wasn't even because of Kurtz calling to ask him to be his representative. It was because of that no. It had been so great. So gratifying. He couldn't ruin it like that. It had been the first time he had said NO. A real NO.
    If you abandon the sect now, you must be conscious of the fact that from this point on your life will be a long series of YES. You must be conscious of the fact that you will go out slowly, amidst the general indifference, like a votive candle on an abandoned tombstone. If you lay down the Durendal now, and you go to sleep on the sofa-bed, there will be no more black masses, Satanic orgies, and graffiti on viaducts.