Authors: Niccolo Ammaniti
He pulled the brake levers gently, not trusting the drums, especially now that they were full of water. The front shock absorber
started vibrating like a pneumatic drill and the back wheel began
thrashing about like a fish caught on a hook.
He came to a stop fifty yards further on, at a point where the
road through the woods widened out into a rest stop with a concrete electricity hut.
Quattro Formaggi quickly dismounted from the Boxer and laid
it down on the asphalt, taking care not to turn off the engine, right
in the middle of the road. He took off his gloves and lay face down
on the ground, arms and legs outspread.
Fabiana Ponticelli rounded the last bend and entered the long descent
that ran straight down the hill to the plain. She was almost there.
She had to go past the service station and turn along a road that
cut across the fields for about a mile, and she would be home. In
her mind she was already in bed under the duvet, she had already
had a boiling hot shower and what was left of the strudel in the
oven. The rain and the cold wind had washed away her torpor, so if she did happen to find her parents still awake she wouldn't start
giggling like an idiot.
I could tell them I was late because my scooter broke down and
there was no one around. And that the battery of my cell phone
had run down. I coul...
She didn't finish the thought because she saw in front of her a
red glow in the middle of the road. As she got nearer she noticed
that there was also a pool of white light on the asphalt. She slowed
down and heard the metallic gurgle of the exhaust of the loony's
scooter, and realized at once that the idiot had crashed on the final
slope.
(Keep still.
Motionless.
You're a scorpion-fish waiting for the minnow.)
There she is. I can see her.
(Keep still! Don't move.
Let her be.
Let her come closer.
If you move you'll ruin everything.
Dead.)
Sure, boss. Stone dead. Deader than the dead themselves.
Jesus, he had crashed all right.
He was on the ground, lying full length, beside the scooter, and
wasn't moving. Fabiana Ponticelli passed by and didn't stop.
He must be dead. At that speed, on that ancient scooter...
She didn't know what to do. Or rather, she knew very well what
she should do, but she didn't like the idea of it at all. She was soaked
to the skin, half frozen and almost home.
(You can tell a person's quality from whether they help people in
trouble.)
That's what papa would have said.
If Esmeralda was in my shoes .. .
Only she wasn't Esmeralda, though for the past six months she
had been trying to be. She helped other people, even tramps who
thought they were Valentino Rossi.
She puffed out her cheeks resignedly, turned her scooter around
and went back.
Danilo Aprea was ringing Quattro Formaggi at thirty-second intervals and as soon as the odious recorded voice replied, saying "The
number you are calling is not...," he would hang up with a curse.
He was certain by now that, like the bonehead he was, he had
forgotten all about the bank raid.
"It's possible. Oh yes, it's perfectly possible. He's capable of anything," said Danilo, taking a swig from a bottle of bitter artichoke
liqueur that he had found at the back of a cupboard in the kitchen.
That bitter awareness was the result of years of friendship with
Quattro Formaggi, and in particular of the famous "Belladonna question," after which he had refused to see him for three months.
About a year earlier Danilo had found a job at the villa of the
Attorney Ettore Belladonna, but to do it properly he had needed
help. Between Rino and Quattro Formaggi he had chosen Quattro
Formaggi, because Rino wanted fifty per cent. A demand which,
in Danilo's humble opinion, was ridiculous, given that he had
found the job. He had offered Quattro Formaggi thirty-five per
cent of the fee and he, without any argument, had accepted. The
job involved repairing a crack in the villa's septic tank. It had
been emptied a few days earlier by a specialized firm, but when
Danilo had climbed down into it he had almost fainted from the
stink.
In order to be able to work he had poured some eau de cologne
onto his handkerchief and tied it over his face. When he had finished filling the crack with quick-drying cement, as agreed, he had given
two tugs on the rope to alert Quattro Formaggi, but the top end had
fallen into the tank. Danilo had shouted himself hoarse calling him.
But there was no reply. He had gone away. All he could see from
down there was the circular eye of the manhole and the blue sky with
clouds scudding across it like a flock of fucking sheep.
Danilo couldn't sit down without putting his buttocks in the
muck. It was hotter than the devil's asshole in there and the air
stank of rotten cheese.
Suddenly a little boy's face had appeared. Ten or eleven years old.
A tuft of blond hair and a nice innocent smile. It must be Rene, the
Attorney Belladonna's son. Rene had waved to him and then,
although Danilo implored him not to, had closed the manhole,
burying him alive.
Quattro Formaggi, two hours later, had reopened it and pulled
out a hysterical creature covered in excrement who bore a distant
resemblance to his workmate Danilo Aprea.
The fool had apologized, saying, "I went away for a moment,"
a moment, that was what he'd said, "to buy a slice of pizza because
I was starving. I've brought you a piece with potato and rosemary,
your favorite."
Danilo had snatched the pizza out of his hands and jumped up
and down on it with his shit-soaked boots.
"That's the kind of people I have to work with!" he said and
took another swig of Cynar, grimacing like a little boy who has been
forced to drink cod-liver oil.
Through the visor of his crash helmet Quattro Formaggi saw the
long legs of the minnow approaching.
Come here, little fish.
It took one step and then stopped. But it was a well-brought-up
little fish and would never leave a man lying injured, perhaps dead,
on the road.
"Sir... ? Sir? Are you hurt?"
(Dead.)
"Sir, can you hear me?"
Three more three steps. It was less than three yards away.
If I make a sudden lunge...
(Wait!)
He had never been so close to that girl. The blood pulsed in his
temples. His muscles were charged with enough electrical power to
bend an iron bar. And, as if by magic, his twitches and tics had
disappeared.
The minnow crouched down and looked at him uncertainly.
"Sir, would you like me to call an ambulance?"
Hidden behind the helmet, a dreamy smile spread on Quattro
Formaggi's lips, revealing his big yellow teeth.
"Can you hear me? If you can't talk, move something ... your
arm... " asked Fabiana Ponticelli.
Christ, he's really dead...
The scooter on the ground, in the middle of the road, with the
wheel still spinning, illuminated the white exhaust fumes and the
form of the motionless man.
A quick thought ran through her mind: how come he had crashed
here, where the road was straight? He must have skidded in a
puddle, or got a puncture and hit his head.
But he's wearing a crash helmet...
She took another hesitant step and stopped. It didn't make sense.
She didn't know exactly what, but something was screaming at her
not to go any closer. Not to touch him. As if what lay there on the
road was not a poor devil who'd had an accident, but a scorpion.
I'm going to call an ambulance.
(Stop her! She's making a phone call.)
Fabiana Ponticelli didn't even have time to press the on-switch of
her phone before she felt the earth disappear from under her feet
and found herself falling, open-mouthed, and she landed, hitting the
asphalt with her chin, hip and knee.
She didn't understand what had happened and thought she had
just slipped over and tried to get up again, but she realized that
something was preventing her from rising.
When she saw a dark hand around her ankle, her heart, like a
hydrant, burst in her chest and she gave a strangled little cry.
It's a trap! He's not hurt at all!
Fabiana tried to break free, but fear had snatched away the air
she needed for breathing. Gasping, she tried to get up on her arms,
to crawl away somehow, but all she managed to do was graze the
palms of her hands and her elbows on the asphalt. Then she started
kicking out with her free leg. She struck the man on the back and
on the helmet, but to no avail. He lay there on the ground clutching
her ankle; he took the kicks like a sack of potatoes and he didn't
let go, the bastard, he didn't let go.
Kick him on the hand.
So she did.
Once, twice, three times, and at last she felt his grip slackening.
Another kick right on those thick fingers and she was free.
She leaped to her feet, but the man threw himself at her with all
his weight, tackling her around the hips like a rugby player and
bringing her down again.
Fabiana, at this point, started writhing about as if she was having
an epileptic fit, screaming, hitting out wildly, but most of her punches
either missed altogether or landed on his helmet without hurting
him. "Let me go! You bastard, let me go!"
"No, don't scream! Don't scream, please! I don't want to hurt
you!" She thought she could hear the muffled voice of the man in
the helmet.
"Let me go, you piece of shit!" Fabiana looked around. If only
she'd had a stick, a stone, anything, but she was surrounded by
asphalt and nothing else, so she bent double and, with all the
strength in her body, stretched out her arm toward the Boxer lying
in the middle of the road.
Dragging herself along on her elbows, she managed to grab
hold of the rear-view mirror and started pulling to get free of the
man's grip, but the mirror, with its whole supporting rod, snapped
off.
Fabiana turned and, screaming, jabbed it into his shoulder.
The man gave a yelp and lashed out with his elbow, hitting her
full on the nose. The cartilage of her nasal septum broke with a
crunching sound and at first she felt nothing, but her neck jerked
back with a horrible CRACK and then a dense liquid began to flow
out of her nostrils, mingling with the tears and rain.
She opened her mouth, spitting out streams of blood and trying
to gulp in air.
(What have you done?)
I swear I didn't mean to hurt her...
Quattro Formaggi got up on his knees, pulled the mirror out of
his shoulder and threw it on the ground.
The pain had clouded his vision. When he could see again he
realized that Ramona was wheezing with her mouth open and spitting blood, her face a mask of terror.
He was about to take off his helmet but then...
(She mustn't see you.)
... thought better of it. He took his flashlight out of his pocket
and switched it on. He pointed it at her.
She's in a bad way. She can't breathe.
"Wait ... Wait, I'll help you..."
Ramona was bent over on the ground, but when he tried to
touch her she got to her feet and started staggering, bent double,
trying to breathe. A horrible noise was coming out of her mouth.
Quattro Formaggi put his hands into his crash helmet and started
biting his fingers.
She had fallen into darkness and she was dying.
If her lungs didn't start working she would suffocate, of that she
was certain.
Fabiana Ponticelli could still think and she knew she must
calm down, because the more agitated she got the more oxygen
she would consume. She stopped, with her mouth open, waiting
for some miracle to start her lungs working again. And the miracle, which was not in fact a miracle but merely her paralyzed
diaphragm relaxing, did happen, and her rib cage started expanding
and contracting of its own accord, without her having to think
about it.
A thin thread of icy air was sucked into her windpipe and from
there through her bronchial tubes into her compressed lungs, like
when you open a vacuum-packed bag of coffee.
She started spluttering and gulping air and coughing violently,
not caring about the light that was dazzling her and the man who
was standing behind her.
The sounds around her had amalgamated and she felt as if she
had an airplane's jet engine throbbing in her head, but despite this
noise she could hear the man repeating over and over again like a
cracked record: "Please forgive me! I didn't mean to hurt you! I'm
sorry, let me look at you."
He's coming closer.
Fabiana straightened up and tried to run away, but as soon as
she moved her head she was overcome by the pain, as if someone
had inserted a blade between her collarbone and neck. With her eyes closed she hobbled toward the middle of the road, raising her
arm and hoping someone would pass by.
Now! Now her savior must arrive. This was the perfect moment.
He must get out of a car and shoot that bastard in the stomach, so
she could just faint in peace.
Quattro Formaggi watched Ramona take a few steps, her body all
twisted and her arm raised as if she wanted to call a taxi, then he
saw her trip over the Scarabeo and fall down with her arms and
legs splayed out like Wile E. Coyote.
Poor thing, she must have hurt herself.
But there was something he couldn't understand. On the one hand
he so pitied her, he was sorry, but on the other hand he enjoyed
seeing her suffer. It was an agreeable sensation. He felt like a lion
and could have fought anyone. His cock was stiffening and pressed
against his belly.
Clutching his wounded shoulder he approached the girl, who was
still lying on the ground and moving her legs and head like a pale
water dragon.