Читать книгу Let the Games Begin - Niccolo Ammaniti - Страница 17

10

After the revitilising injection to his ego, Fabrizio Ciba's mood was at stratospheric levels. He had written an important novel and he would write another one that was even more important. There was no need to question the reason for his success. Hence, when he saw Alice Tyler talking with the Martinelli sales manager, he decided that it was fine to intervene. He finished his whisky, messed up his hair and said to the Indian writer: ‘Excuse me a moment, I need to say hello to someone.’ And he went on the attack.

‘Here I am, hello there, I'm Fabrizio Ciba.’ He pushed in between the two, then said to Modica: ‘And seeing as you are bloodsuckers and you never pay me a cent for these presentations, I can do anything I want, so I'm taking the most charming and talented translator in the world away from you and off to drink a glass of Champagne.’

The sales manager was a chubby fellow, unhealthily pallid, and the only thing that he managed to do was puff up like a puffer fish.

‘You don't mind, do you, Modica?’ Fabrizio grabbed the translator by the wrist and dragged her along with him towards the refreshments. ‘It's the only way to get rid of him, talk about money. I wanted to congratulate you. You did a wonderful job with Sawhney's book, I personally checked the translation word for word . . .’

‘Don't make fun of me,’ she giggled, amused.

‘It's true, I swear! I swear on the head of Pennacchini! I checked every one of the eight hundred pages, and nothing. Everything is perfect.’ He put his hand on his heart. ‘Just one comment . . . Yes, on page six hundred and fifteen you translated “creel” as fishing basket and not as lobster pot . . .’ Fabrizio tried to look her in the eyes, but he couldn't take his eyes off her tits. And that skimpy blouse didn't help. ‘I'm sorry, but shouldn't you translators be ugly and badly dressed?’

He was clearly sailing. He was back to being Ciba the conquistador, the one for the most important occasions.

‘So, when should we get married? I write the books and you translate them, or the other way round, you write the books and I translate them. No flies on us.’ He poured her a glass of Champagne. He poured himself another glass of whisky. ‘Yes, we really should do it . . .’

‘What?’

‘Get married, right?’ He was forced to repeat himself. He had the vague feeling that the girl wasn't exactly responding to his advances. She wasn't your classic Italian bint, and maybe he needed to use a more subtle strategy. ‘I've got an idea. Why don't we make a run for it? I've got my Vespa outside. Just imagine, everybody here dying of boredom, talking about literature, while you and I drive around Rome having fun. What do you think?’

He looked at her with the expression of a boy who has just asked his mother for a piece of cake.

‘Are you always like this?’ Alice slid her hand through her hair and opened her lips, showing brilliant white teeth.

Fabrizio purred. ‘Like this how?’

‘Well, this . . .’ She paused for a moment in search of the right word, then sighed: ‘Idiotic!’

Idiotic? What does she mean idiotic? ‘It's the childlike part of the genius,’ he proffered.

‘No, we can't leave. Don't you remember? We've got the dinner. And Sawhney . . .’

‘The dinner, I forgot. Right,’ he lied. He'd overdone it, asking her to run off, and now he tried to dam the refusal.

She grabbed his wrist. ‘Come with me.’

As he passed the table, Ciba snapped up a bottle of whisky.

Where was she taking him?

Then he saw the door leading to the garden.