Читать книгу Let the Games Begin - Niccolo Ammaniti - Страница 23

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.

‘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.

‘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.