Let the Games Begin by Niccolò Ammaniti Page B

Never again. And you will be unable to mourn them because you will be too depressed to mourn them. You decide now. Decide if you are your wife's slave or if you are Mantos, the grand master of the Wilde Beasts of Abaddon. Decide now who the fuck you are .
    He took the towel off his head. He swigged down the last of the Jägermeister. He grabbed the clippers, turned them on, and he shaved his head.

 
    16
    Washed up .
    Fabrizio Ciba was driving his Vespa down the winding road of Monte Mario. Foot to the floor, he curved right and left like he was Valentino Rossi. He was fit to be tied. Those cowboys from Martinelli had said that he was washed up and they wanted to slip him the pill. Him, the one who pulled them out of bankruptcy, who had sold more than all the other Italian writers together. Him, the one who had been translated into twenty-nine languages, including Swahili and Ladino.
    â€˜And you even cop twenty per cent of the sales of the translation rights!’ he shouted as he swerved to overtake a Ford Ka.
    If they thought they could treat him like the bulimic nun, they were making a big mistake.
    â€˜Who do you think you are? Everybody wants to publish me. You'll see when I publish my new novel, you worthless bastards.’
    He began zig-zagging through the traffic of Viale delle Milizie. Then he threw himself down the tramway, screeching to a halt at a red light.
    He had to go to another publisher. And then leave this fucking country. Italy doesn't deserve me . He could live in Edinburgh, amidst the great Scottish writers. He didn't know how to write in English, but that didn't matter. Somebody would translate his novels for him.
    Alice . . .
    He was struck by the vision of the two of them in a Scottish cottage. She, naked, would translate while he would prepare a dish of cacio and pepe rigatoni. He needed to call her tomorrow and ingratiate himself with her.
    A raindrop as big as a coffee bean hit him in the middle of the forehead, followed by one on his shoulder, one on his knee, one . . .
    â€˜No!’
    A downpour of rain exploded. People ran for shelter. Umbrellas were opened. Gusts of wind shook the banana trees on the sides of the road.
    Fabrizio decided to keep on nevertheless. His agent's house wasn't too far away. He would have a warm shower and then they would organise their counter-attack.
    He reached the Lungotevere Road. Millions of stationary cars were at a standstill in the underpass. Everyone honked their horns. The rain whipped the panels, the asphalt and everything else. Headlights created a blinding glare.
    What the hell is happening ?
    Friday night + yobbos on the loose + rain = bumper to bumper traffic across town for the whole night .
    Fabrizio hated Friday evenings. Hordes of barbarians came from the Prenestino, from Mentana, from Cinecittà, from i Castelli, poured themselves from the surrounding ring road into the historical town centre, Trastevere and the Piramide, in search of pizzerias, Irish pubs, Mexican restaurants and sandwich bars. All of them determined to have fun.
    The writer cursed and threw himself along with the others onto the Lungotevere Road. He couldn't make any headway, though. The Vespa couldn't fit between one car and the next. He clambered onto the pavement, but even there it was hard to travel forwards. There were cars parked all over the place, thrown about like the Matchbox toys of a spoilt brat. He came, soaked through to his underwear, to a sort of bottleneck that funnelled into a lake. Cars drove through it, sending up waves like speedboats. He took a deep breath and threwhimself in. He did the first twenty metres in a jubilee of splashes. The Vespa's wheels disappeared below a dark, freezing cold liquid. He began struggling. The water level was rising above the footboard. It was up to his ankles. The engine began to splutter, to stutter. Like an injured beast, the scooter shuddered forward, wheezing. Fabrizio begged: ‘Come on, you fucker, come