Читать книгу Let the Games Begin - Niccolo Ammaniti - Страница 15

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 like Sarwar Sawhney. During the presentation the old man had not uttered a word. He had sat there like a Tibetan monk, his ebony eyes offering wisdom and aloofness, while Fabrizio played court jester with all that crap about the fire and culture. And as per usual, the question upon which his entire career balanced sneaked into his mind. How much of my success is thanks to my books and how much is thanks to TV?

As always, he preferred not to answer himself, and instead drink a couple of whiskies. First, though, he had to shake off that swarm of flies. And when he saw poor Maria Letizia push her way towards him, he couldn't help but rejoice.

‘Sawhney wants to talk to you . . . As soon as you finish, would you mind going to him?’

‘Now! I'll come now!’ he answered her. And as if he'd been summoned by the Holy Ghost himself, he stood up and said to those fans who still hadn't received their certificate of participation: ‘Sawhney needs to talk to me. Please, let me go.’

At the drinks table he sank two glasses of whisky one after the other, and felt better. Now that the alcohol was in his body, he could face the Nobel Prize winner.

Leo Malagò came over to him with his tail wagging happily like a dog who's just been given a wild-boar pâté bruschetta.

‘You legend! You knocked them all out with that little tale about the fire. I wonder how you come up with such ideas. Now Fabrizio, though, please don't get drunk. We have to go to dinner afterwards.’ He folded his arm through Fabrizio's. ‘I had a look at the book sales. Guess how many copies you sold this evening?’

‘How many?’ He couldn't help answering. It was an automatic reflex.

‘Ninety-two! And you know how many Sawhney sold? Nine! You don't know how pissed off Angiò is.’ Massimo Angiò was the foreign-fiction editor. ‘I love seeing him so pissed off! And tomorrow you'll be splashed across the papers. By the way, how fucking hot is his translator?’ Malagò’s face relaxed. The look in his eyes suddenly softened. ‘Imagine what it would be like to fuck her . . .’

Fabrizio, instead, had lost all interest in the woman. His mood was dropping like a thermometer in a cold snap. What did the Indian want from him?! To tell him off for the crap he had shot off? He plucked up his nerve.

‘Excuse me a moment.’

He could see him in a corner. He was sitting opposite the window and was watching the tree branches scrape the yellow skyline of Rome. His black hair shone under the light of the chandeliers.

Fabrizio drew near carefully. ‘I beg your pardon . . .’

The old Indian turned around, saw him and smiled, showing off a set of teeth too perfect to be real.

‘Please, take a seat.’

Fabrizio felt like a child who'd been sent for by the headmaster.

‘How's it going?’ Fabrizio asked in his high-school English, as he sat down opposite Sawhney.

‘Well, thank you.’ Then the Indian thought again. ‘To tell you the truth, I'm a little tired. I can't sleep. I suffer from insomnia.’

‘I don't, luckily.’ Fabrizio realised that he had nothing to say to the man.

‘I read your book. A little hastily, on the aeroplane, I do beg your pardon . . .’

Fabrizio coughed out a suffocated ‘And?’ He was about to hear the verdict of the winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature. One of the most important writers in the world. The man who had the best press reviews of anyone in the last ten years. A part of Fabrizio's brain wondered whether he really wanted to hear it.

I bet he hated it.

‘I liked it. A lot.’

Fabrizio Ciba felt a shot of well-being float through his body. A sensation like what a drug addict feels when he injects himself with good-quality heroin. A sort of beneficial heat that made the back of his neck tingle, slid down across his jaw, shut his eyes, slipped between his gums and his teeth, went down his trachea, it spread out pleasantly boiling hot like Vicks VapoRub from his sternum to his spine, through his ribs, and skipped from one vertebra to another until it reached his pelvis. His sphincter tensed briefly and goosebumps shot up his arms. A warm shower without getting wet. Better than that. A massage without being touched. While this physiological reaction – which lasted a few seconds – took place, Fabrizio was blind and deaf, and when he snapped back to reality Sawhney was talking.

‘ . . . places, facts and people are unaware of the force that wipes them away. Don't you agree?’

‘Yes, certainly.’ He answered. He hadn't heard anything at all. ‘Thank you. You've made me happy.’

‘You definitely know how to keep the reader interested, how to move the best chords of your sensitivity. I would like to read something you've written that's a bit longer.’

‘The Lion's Den is my longest work. I've recently . . .’ – it was actually five years ago – ‘ . . . published another novel, Nestor's Dream, but that is also quite short.’

‘How come you don't venture further? You most certainly have the expressiveness to do so. Don't be scared. Let yourself go without fear. If I may give you a piece of advice, don't hold yourself back, let yourself be taken by the story.’

Fabrizio had to stop himself from hugging that dear adorable old man. How true what he had said was. Fabrizio knew he was capable of writing THE GREAT NOVEL. What's more, THE GREAT ITALIAN NOVEL, like I promessi sposi to be exact, the book the critics said was missing in our contemporary literature. And after various attempts, he had begun work on a saga about a Sardinian family, from the seventeenth century until the present day. An ambitious project that was definitely much stronger than the Gattopardo or I Viceré.

Fabrizio was about to tell Sawhney all this, but a little humility held him back. He felt obliged to return the compliments. So he began inventing: ‘I wanted to tell you that your novel had me literally inspired. It is an extraordinarily organic novel and the plot is so intense . . . How do you do it? What is your secret? It has a dramatic energy that left me shaken for weeks. The reader is not only called on to weigh the consciousness and innocence of these powerful female characters, but, through their stories, how can I say it . . .? Yes, the reader is forced to transfer your point of view from the pages of the book to his own reality.’

‘Thank you,’ said the Indian. ‘How nice to pay each other compliments.’

The two writers burst out laughing.