Authors: Niccolo Ammaniti
After supper Cristiano lay down on the sofa to watch TV. It was
nice there. The heater gave off a pleasant warmth. He loved to fall
asleep like that, wrapped up in the tartan blanket.
His father stretched out on the beach chair with a beer in one
hand and the broomstick for changing channels in the other.
That evening Cristiano would have liked to watch You Reap
What You Sow, the show where they played tricks on people (which
even if they weren't genuine were funny anyway), but his eyelids
were heavy, and without realizing it he fell asleep.
Rino Zena hated television. The variety shows, the talk shows, the
political programs, the documentaries, the news bulletins, even the
sport and the perennially inaccurate weather forecasts.
It had been different in the old days.
Television had been something else in his childhood. Two channels. No more, no less. State-run. There had been good programs,
made with passion. Things you looked forward to all week. Pinocchio,
for example. A masterpiece. And what about those actors? Manfredi,
one of the greats. Alberto Sordi, a genius. Toto, the best comedian
in the world.
Now all that had changed.
Rino hated the presenters with their dyed hair and the half-naked
dancing girls, and it made him cringe to see people willing to talk
about their private lives in front of half the population of Italy. He
despised those stupid fuckheads who went on TV and burst into tears and told everyone how sad they were that their wives had left
them.
He hated the hypocritical politeness of the presenters. He hated
the call-in games. The slapdash dance routines. He hated the comedians' corny jokes. And he loathed the impersonators and the
impersonatees. He hated the politicians. He hated the TV films
with their good cops, friendly carabinieri, funny priests and crime
squads. He hated the spotty little kids who would give their back
teeth to gain admission to that two-bit heaven. He hated the hundreds of semi-famous celebrities who wandered around like stray
dogs begging for a place on a talk-show. He hated the experts who
made money out of other people's tragedies.
They know everything. They know all about betrayal,
poverty, the glut of road deaths on Saturday nights, the minds
of murderers.
He hated it when they feigned indignation. When they licked each
other's asses. He hated the fights that lasted about as long as a fart.
He hated the appeals for African children when there were people
in Italy who were starving. But what he hated most was the women.
Bitches with breasts as round as grapefruit, swollen lips and madeto-measure reconstructed faces.
They always talk of equality, but what kind of equality is that?
When the image they present is that of a bunch of brainless bimbos.
They would sleep with some asshole who had a bit of power just
so they could get out of the house and be recognized. They would
walk over their own mothers" bodies for a bit of success.
He hated every person in that little box, so much that he sometimes had to restrain himself from picking up the broomstick and
smashing it to pieces.
I'd like to line you up one behind the other and shoot you. What's
your crime? You lie to people. You're rotting the minds of millions
of children. Showing them worlds that don't exist. You drive people
to run up huge debts to buy a car. You're ruining Italy.
Yet Rino Zena couldn't stop watching television. He would sit
glued to it all night. And in the daytime, when he was at home, he
was always there on that beach chair swearing at them.
Rino changed channels, then he turned and noticed that Cristiano
was asleep.
His temples were beginning to throb, but he didn't feel like going
to bed. For a moment he considered going around to Danilo's, but
he decided against it. In the evening Danilo was a pain in the ass:
he would start moaning about his wife and go on till he collapsed,
knocked out by the grappa.
No, what I need is a fuck.
He put on his jacket and went out, with no clear destination in mind.
The van was nearly out of gas. Those two thought it ran on water.
They never contributed a penny. He found an all-night garage on
the highway and put in his last ten euros. Now he didn't even have
the money to buy a beer.
He replaced the nozzle and was about to get back into the van
when a silver Mercedes with its highbeams on stopped two yards
short of him. A female arm extended from the window on the
driver's side. The hand clasped a fifty-euro note and a two-euro
coin.
Rino drew nearer.
At the wheel was a slim woman with long blonde hair and a pair
of oval glasses with blue lightweight frames. A microphone wire ran
down from her ear across her cheek, ending beside her thin lips,
which were painted dark red.
"Fifty euros," she said to Rino, then carried on talking into the
microphone. "I don't think so ... No, I really don't think so ... You're
wrong, you're missing the point, Carlo dear..."
Rino took the money, got back into the van and drove off.
Danilo Aprea lay in bed in the dark. His arms alongside his body.
His face looking up at the ceiling. His green pajamas with blue
polka dots smelled of fabric softener. The sheets, too, were fresh
and well ironed. He put out his hand on the side where Teresa used
to sleep. It was cold and flat. He regretted changing the mattress.
The new one, which had springs, was hard and unyielding. The
old one had taken on the shapes of their bodies. On Teresa's side
there had been a long S-shaped hollow, because she always slept on her side. With her back toward him and her face towards the
wall.
The red digits of the radio alarm showed 11:17p.m.
He was wide awake. And yet in front of the television he hadn't
been able to keep his eyes open ... There had been a documentary on the migration of whales. Nature documentaries had always
been Teresa's passion. And her favorites were those about whales
and dolphins. She loved cetaceans because, as she said, they had
made such an effort to get out of the sea and then, once they had
got onto the land, they had decided to go back again. Millions
of years spent turning into four-legged animals and then millions
of years to turn back into fish. Danilo didn't see what was so
wonderful about that story. Teresa had explained to him: "Because
when you make a mistake, you must have the courage to retrace
your steps." Danilo had wondered if she was alluding to the two
of them.
He could call her and tell her that there was a documentary about
whales on TV.
He heard his wife's voice thanking him.
Don't mention it... Can I see you tomorrow?
(Why yes, of course.)
Shall we meet at the Rouge et Noir? I've got lots of news to tell
you.
(Would four o'clock be okay?)
Four o'clock it is.
He switched on the bedside lamp, put on his glasses and eyed the
telephone ...
No. I promised.
... then picked up The Da Vinci Code, of which, in two years,
he had read about twenty pages.
He got himself comfortable and read a page without really reading
it. He looked up from the book and stared at the wall.
But this time he would be calling her about something important. She would be able to see the last quarter-of-an-hour of the documentary. There were killer whales in it too. He picked up the
receiver and dialed the number, holding his breath. The phone rang
and nobody answered.
Two more rings and I'll hang up.
One ... two ... three ...
"Hello! Who is it?" Teresa's sleepy voice.
He didn't reply.
"Hello, who is it? Is that you, Danilo?"
He repressed the impulse to reply and ran his hand over his cheeks
and mouth.
"Danilo, I know it's you. You mustn't call me, don't you understand? I've turned off my cell, but I can't unplug the landline. You
know Piero's mother's not well. Every time you call you give him a
turn. You've woken us up. Please stop it. I beg you." She stopped
for a moment as though she didn't have the strength to go on. Danilo
could hear her breathing heavily. But then she did go on, in a flat
tone: "I told you I'd call you. If you keep doing this I won't call
you any more. I swear it."
She hung up.
Danilo put down the receiver, closed the book, took off his glasses,
lay them on the bedside table and turned out the light.
Ramona had just been released from jail. She wore a sleeveless top,
a pair of skin-tight denim shorts and cowboy boots. She was hitchhiking and Bob the lumberjack, dressed in a checkered shirt and sitting at the wheel of a pickup, stopped.
"Where are you going?" he asked Ramona.
Quattro Formaggi, sitting in his underpants in front of his little
TV, said together with the blonde: "Wherever fortune takes me.
What have you got to offer me?"
Bob smiled and let her in.
Quattro Formaggi reached out and pressed the fast-forward key
on the video recorder.
The images on the screen began to flash by. The pickup came
to the little house in the woods. Quick greetings. Lunch with
turkey. And then everyone naked on the table, screwing. Darkness.
Morning. Ramona woke up naked and went out into the yard.
Bob the lumberjack was chopping wood. Ramona undid his pants and took his cock in her hand. Here Quattro Formaggi pressed
PAUSE.
This was his favorite scene. He had watched it at least a thousand times and the quality of the pictures was terrible, the colors
had all toned to red. He went into the kitchen and turned on the
light.
The smell of the boiled cauliflower he had eaten two days before
hung in the air, its purple remains still floating in a saucepan on the
gas cooker. On the table were the dried-up carcass of a chicken and
an empty Fanta bottle.
He took a dozen ice-cube trays out of the freezer. He put them
under the tap and dropped the cubes into a bucket, which he
filled with five inches of water. He stood the bucket on the table,
rolled up the right sleeve of his dressing gown and thrust in his
hand.
A thousand needles pierced his flesh. But after a while the water
began to seem boiling hot.
He knew from experience that it took at least ten minutes.
He gritted his teeth and waited.
When it seemed to him that enough time had passed, he took his
red, frozen hand out of the bucket and dried it with a rag.
He pinched it.
Nothing.
He picked up a fork from the table and stuck it into his palm.
Nothing.
Holding his right arm up, he went back to the television and
pressed PLAY.
He sat down, lowered his underpants and grasped his penis with
his ice-stiffened hand.
He felt on his skin the cold fingers squeezing it hard.
That was just how it felt when a girl took your cock in her hand.
It was exactly how it felt.
Ramona's icy hand started going frantically up and down.
Quattro Formaggi parted his legs and opened his mouth. His head
fell back and an incandescent pleasure exploded just below the back
of his skull.
The Peace Warrior squat was a leather goods factory that had closed
down in the early '70s. The building had been occupied and rock
concerts were often held there.
Six enormous concrete buildings all in a row, covered with graffiti and surrounded by a gravel yard. Tongues of flame and columns
of black smoke poured out of a cluster of barrels. A thick fog had
formed which dimmed the headlights of the cars into golden haloes.
Deafening music came from inside.
Rino parked near a row of big motorcycles.
He got out of the van clutching a bottle of Johnny Walker Red
Label, courtesy of the lady in the Mercedes. He set off, with two
slits instead of eyes, toward the entrance.
A lot of young men, dressed as punks, American bikers or metalheads, massed in front of the social center.
Rino pushed his way through the crowd. Some guys protested,
but when they looked at him even the biggest and meanest fell silent
and let him through. Despite the alcohol that dulled his senses Rino
could almost smell their fear of him, as a wild animal can, and it
felt great. It was like having a sign on your head: MAKE MY DAY: PISS
ME OFF.
But that evening he wasn't looking for a fight. And it had been
a mistake to drink all that whisky when he had such a headache.
He reached the bouncers. Three assholes with hair curled into
thick, filthy, evil-smelling twists were holding shoeboxes full of
banknotes.
One gaunt-faced guy with sunglasses asked him to make a contribution of his own choosing for the musicians. He clearly hadn't
realized, in all the commotion, who he was dealing with, and when
he looked up and saw that shaven-headed, muscular, eyeless beast
in front of him, he gave a nervous smile and stammered: "No ...
You ... I know ... Go on in ... Go on in..." And waved him through.
Inside it was at least eighty degrees and the air was unbreathable. The effect of those thousand-odd bodies crammed into the
place, heaving and surging like the sea. There was a horrible smell. A disgusting mixture of marijuana, cigarettes, sweat and damp
plaster.
At the other end of the room a wall of speakers was blasting out
music at the audience. The band, distant dots lit up by red spotlights, were playing some dreadful crap, a mess of fuzzy guitars and
drums. One poor idiot was screaming his head off and jumping
about as if someone had rammed a hedgehog up his ass. A huge
peace flag hung above the stage.
Rino slipped through the crowd and reached the side of the room,
near the wall. There the pressure eased and there was a little room to
breathe. The beams of the spotlights hanging from the ceiling didn't
reach there and in the half-light you could see silhouettes sitting on
the ground, red cigarette stubs, heads kissing, groups of people talking.