Saverio looked at her. She was wearing elastic denim shorts covered in rhinestones, patent white-leather cowboy boots and a black t-shirt with an enormous V for Valentino on it.
Not even the girls who hang out at the shopping centres put on that sort of get-up.
Serena Mastrodomenico was forty-three years old, and all those years of sunbathing had dehydrated her like a sundried tomato. She was very skinny, despite having given birth to twins less thank a year ago. From far away she looked great, with her toned physique, those balloon tits and that caffé latte-coloured complexion. But if you moved in closer and took a better look, you discovered that her derma was stretched and leathery like a rhinoceros's, and a tangle of thin wrinkles ran across her neck, the corners of her mouth and her cleavage. Her green eyes, sparkling and lively, sat upon cheekbones that were as shiny and round as two Annurcan apples.
She often wore open-toed shoes that showed off her tapered ankles and delicate feet. She preferred little summer dresses that left room for lacy bras and two synthetic hemispheres to stick out. She covered herself in more ethnic jewellery than a Berber princess at her coronation.
During their long years of marriage, Saverio had noticed that his wife was very popular with men, especially the younger ones. Every time he went down into the factory warehouse the couriers, a pack of letches, would pull him into their banter. They didn't even respect the boss's daughter.
‘Your wife must be something to watch in bed. Forget about these young chicks, she's got experience. She'll open you like a sofa bed.’ ‘Go on, do a sex tape for us.’ ‘Save, how do you keep her satisfied? I reckon she needs a whole team of beasts . . .’ ‘She's the classic type of woman who acts all sophisticated, but in reality she's a total animal . . .’ And other vulgarities it's best not to mention.
If those morons only knew the truth. Serena deplored sex. She said it was crude. She abhorred any type of nudity, and found body fluids and everything that was involved in physical relationships repellent (except for massages, and those only to be done by a woman).
But something in all of this didn't make sense to Saverio Moneta. If sex disgusted her so much, why did she dress like a playmate? And why, of all the vacant spots, did she always park the car right in front of the storeroom?
* * *
Saverio got up from the table and began putting things away. He didn't feel ready for bed, he was too excited. Luckily, the twins were asleep. The time was right to concentrate on the idea that would shake up the WBA and the rest of the world. He took out a note pad and a pen, and grabbed the remote control to turn off the television when he heard Gerry Scotti say: ‘Unbelievable! Friendly Francesco from Sabaudia has made it, all hush-hush, to the question worth a million euro . . .’
The contestant was a fidgety little man with a sneer pulled across his mouth. It looked like he was sitting on a hedgehog. Gerry, instead, had the satisfied expression of a tabby cat who's just scoffed a tin of tuna. As if he was about to sprout claws and start scratching the couch. ‘So, dear Francesco, are you ready?’
The little man swallowed and adjusted his collar. ‘Pretty much . . .’
Gerry puffed out his chest and turned towards the audience, enjoying himself. ‘Pretty much? Do you hear what he says?’ Then, suddenly serious, he spoke to the people at home. ‘Which of you wouldn't be nervous in his place? Put yourselves in his shoes. One million euro can change your life.’ He began talking to Francesco. ‘You said your dream was to pay off your house loan. And now what? If you won, in addition to your loan, what would you do?’
‘Well, I'd buy my mum a car and then . . .’ The contestant was suffocating. He gasped and managed to answer. ‘I'd like to make a donation to the San Bartolomeo Institute of Gallarate.’
Gerry studied him down his nose. ‘And what do they do, if I may ask?’
‘They help the homeless.’
‘Well done.’ The presenter encouraged the audience to clap their hands and the audience responded with an uproarious applause. ‘You're a philanthropist. Are you sure we won't see you zooming around in a Ferrari? No, you can see that you're a good man.’
Saverio shook his head. If he won that sum of money, he would buy a medieval castle in the Marche region and turn it into the headquarters of the Beasts.
‘Now, let's take a look at the question. Ready?’ Gerry tightened the knot in his tie, cleared his throat and, while the question and the four answers appeared on the screen, he recited:
WHO WAS ABADDON?
| A) | AN ANGLICAN PREACHER OF THE 18TH CENTURY |
| B) | A DEMON CITED IN THE APOCALYPSE |
| C) | AN ASSYRIAN DIVINITY |
| D) | A MAYAN RELIGIOUS FESTIVAL |
Saverio Moneta almost fell off his chair.
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 . . .’