Authors: Niccolo Ammaniti
This meant that God, fate, chance, or whoever it was, had wanted
it to happen. What were the odds against such a thing happening?
Ten billion to one.
Those keys had remained there, all those years, immersed in the
water and mud, waiting for him to go and retrieve them.
Half-drowned and nearly frozen to death, Danilo Aprea felt a
sensation of warmth in the middle of his chest which heated him
up and banished any doubt or fear about what he was doing, just
as a red-hot furnace instantly turns a piece of paper to ashes.
Up there in heaven there was someone who was helping him.
He slipped the keys off the rod and gripped them tightly, digging
them into the palm of his hand. Then, confident that he would find
a way of getting out of that river, he took a deep breath, shut his
mouth, held his nose and let go.
The three rusty cables supporting the big banana strained like the
rigging of a sailing ship in a northerly gale.
About thirty yards away from the sign, in the Rimor SuperDuca
688TC, Beppe Trecca and Ida Lo Vino were going at it, full throttle.
The social worker was lying on his back in the sleeping compartment above the driver's cabin, and sitting astride him, in a cramped
version of the "candlesnuffer" position, Ida was pounding and
panting and massaging her small white breasts which spilled out of
her black lace bra.
Deafened by the noise of the rain, the thunder and Ida's head
bumping against the camper's padded ceiling, Beppe breathed in
and out, with his best friend's wife impaled on his penis, and
engaged in a battle against his sympathetic nervous system, which
had decided to make him have an orgasm in the space of a few
seconds. He felt it rise inexorably up through his spinal cord, sink
its teeth into his thighs and converge angrily on his pelvis, contracting his muscles.
He must get Ida to slow down, to stop for a moment-just a
moment would be enough-because if she went on like this he
wouldn't be able to hold out much longer ...
He grabbed her by the waist, trying to lift her up and take it
out of her, but she misinterpreted the gesture, clung to him tightly
and, still pumping away, whispered in his left ear: "Yes ...
Yes ... You don't know how often I've imagined this moment.
Fuck me!"
Okay, so that didn't work. He'd have to find some way of delaying
the orgasm on his own-distract himself, think of something disgusting, repugnant, which would calm him down. All he needed was
a moment and it would pass.
He imagined he was humping Father Marcello. That hideous creature, pitted with smallpox and ravaged by psoriasis, who lived in
the rectory. He imagined he was penetrating the flaccid, hairy buttocks of the priest from the Italian Marches.
That did indeed help a little. But as soon as he saw, in the halflight cast by the reading lamp, Ida's pleasure-distorted face and noticed how, as if in a trance, she was putting her forefinger between
her wet lips and passing it over her tongue, he couldn't resist, he
tried to think of something more depressing, he thought of Cortes's
noche triste and the gruesome massacre of the Aztec people, but it
wasn't enough, he came anyway, in silence.
He couldn't tell which was greater, the pleasure or the disappointment. He stifled a cry and hoped he could stay erect long enough
for her to come too.
He gritted his teeth, as poker-faced as a Prussian infantryman.
"Beppe ... Beppe ... Oh my God, I'm going to come ... I'm coming!
I'm coming!" Ida moaned, digging her fingernails into his shoulders.
At that very same moment, outside, a gust of wind gave the
coup de grace to the camp sign, the cables snapped and the banana
broke free of its moorings and took flight, whirling like a
boomerang across the parking lot, skimmed over the soft drinks
kiosk, over a few caravans and sliced into the right-hand side of
the camper.
Beppe yelled, clutched hold of Ida and thought a bomb had gone
off. Mario Lo Vino had discovered them and put an explosive device
under the camper. But then he noticed that one wall was split, having
been opened like a can of tuna by half a yellow banana, complete
with brown stem, which was peeping in between the dinette and
the kitchen area.
The sign must have hit a critical point in the camper's structure
because the roof came away from the side with a sinister groan and
the wind, howling through the gap, ripped it off and carried it away.
The two poor lovers, wet and naked, clung together in terror on
what was left of the sleeping compartment.
On the way home Quattro Formaggi hadn't met a soul. This hadn't
surprised him, it was a special night.
His night.
Nearly five miles of flooded streets, fallen trees and billboards
torn down by the storm. In Piazza Bologna the great luminous display showing the temperature and the time of day, on top of
the General Insurance building, had blown off and was dangling
from an electric wire; there wasn't a single police car or fire engine
about.
Quattro Formaggi stopped outside Mediastore, chained his scooter
to the usual post and limped toward the narrow steps that led down
to his basement apartment. He opened the door and closed it behind
him, leaned against it, opening his mouth, and despite the pain in
his shoulder, where Ramona had stabbed him with the mirror, he
began to weep with joy, shaking his head.
He looked at his hands.
Those hands had killed.
Quattro Formaggi gulped and a lustful shiver gripped his thighs
and tightened his groin. His legs sagged and wouldn't support him,
and he had to grab hold of the bolt of the lock to stop himself
falling.
He kicked off his shoes and undressed, throwing everything on
the floor as if his clothes burned his skin.
He shut his eyes and saw the girl's hand holding his cock, on her
finger the silver skull ring. He searched for it in his pants pocket
and when he found it squeezed it hard between his hands and then
swallowed it.
Rino Zena, the Great General of the Ants, had drawn up his army
of insects in a million battalions.
The ants were good and obedient and would do anything he told
them to do.
Listen to me!
The ants, under the violet sky, stood at attention and billions of
black eyes looked at him.
I want you all to go into my right arm.
His arm-at least as he saw it-was a long black tunnel that
widened out into a sort of piazza from which five small blind tunnels led off.
The ants piled up inside it, one on top of the other, and completely
filled it, right down to the end, to the very tips of the fingers.
And now if you all move together, in the right way, my arm will
move and my hand will pick up the cell phone.
Well done ants, you're doing a great job.
Danilo Aprea had returned to the garage, he was shivering all over
and his teeth were chattering. The cold had got into the very marrow
of his bones.
"My God it's cold! I'm freezing!" he kept repeating, trying to
open the door of his Alfa Romeo.
At last the half-rusted key entered the lock.
Danilo held his breath, closed his eyes, turned and, as if by magic,
the knob of the door lock rose.
"Yes! Yes! Yes!" He started doing pirouettes with his arms in
the air like a flamenco dancer, then he got into the car and
stripped off his soaking wet clothes, socks and shoes and was left
naked.
He needed something to wrap himself up in at once, or he'd die
of cold.
He looked to see if there was anything on the back seat that he
could put over himself...
That tartan blanket Teresa used to use for picnics.
... but couldn't see anything. What he did find was the bottle of
grappa he had bought on the way back from the funeral. It was still
half full.
"Just what I need!" He gulped it down in such a frenzy he almost
choked himself. The alcohol went through his esophagus and warmed
his guts.
That's better. Much better.
But it wasn't enough. He needed something to wear, but he didn't
want to go up to the apartment.
Finally he stripped the black-and-white checkered plush covers
off the front seats and put them on, one over the other. He stuck his head through the hole for the headrest and his hands out between
the laces at each side.
"Perfect."
But it still wasn't enough. He needed to switch on the car and
turn the heat up full blast.
He put on his glasses, inserted the key in the ignition and turned.
Not a tremor, not a lurch, from the starter.
The battery was dead.
What did you expect after all this time?
He put his hands on the steering wheel and gazed in a stupor at
the bottle of Arbre Magique scented with forest pine.
It was really strange that the car hadn't started.
Something didn't add up. How come God had made him find the
keys but hadn't recharged the battery?
He took another sip of grappa and, rubbing his arms, began to
reflect on the nature of the two miracles.
As a matter of fact, if you thought about it, they were two very
different phenomena.
That the key ring should have caught on the steel rod was highly
unlikely-more unlikely than winning the first prize in the lottery.
But there was a chance of it happening. A pretty remote one, admittedly, but there was a chance.
If the battery had recharged itself, it would have been a megamiracle, like the Madonna of Civitavecchia weeping blood or Jesus
Christ multiplying the loaves and fishes.
A real marvel which, if the Church had come to hear about it,
would have turned that garage into a place of worship.
Danilo was sure the Lord was helping him, but not to the extent
of performing an out-and-out miracle which broke the laws of
physics. The finding of the keys was definitely a miracle, but-so
to speak-a second-class one, whereas the battery's recharging itself
would have been a first-class one, almost on a par with an apparition of the Madonna.
"Fair's fair! What you've done is enough for me, Lord. Don't
worry, I'll see to the battery," said Danilo, and at that very moment
the garage door rolled up. The dazzling light of two tungsten headlamps lit up the whole place as bright as day.
Danilo tried to disappear under the dashboard.
Now who's this, for fuck's sake?
A big silver four-by-four with smoke-gray windows and golden
wheel rims cruised past and parked in the space next to his.
It's that stupid little moneybags Niccold Donazzan. His parents
have bought him a car worth fifty thousand euros. He's probably
coming back from the disco stoned out of his mind.
What the hell did his parents think they were doing?
Danilo looked at his watch. It was full of water and the hands
had stopped. He must hurry, the first commuters would be leaving
home soon.
Niccolo Donazzan got out of the four-by-four wearing a black
bandana, a buckskin jacket with fringes and, attached to his belt,
some tatters of denim.
At the same moment the other door opened and out came a
dumpy girl with straw-colored hair braided into two plaits a la Pippi
Longstocking. Some huge, very dark shades were wrapped around
her face. She wore a violet coat with a fur-lined hood and pants so
baggy the crotch sagged down to her knees.
He saw his young neighbour unceremoniously grab the girl by
the arms and dump her on the hood of the Alfa.
"What the f... ?" Danilo clapped his hand over his mouth.
Donazzan leaped on the hood himself and started kissing her
passionately, like he was trying to rip her tongue out of her mouth.
Danilo, hidden below the dashboard, cursed and swore.
What now?
Those two horny little bastards meant to screw on his hood.
Young Donazzan was tugging at the zipper of the girl's pants. She
was banging her head against the glass, squirming and moaning,
though the boy had hardly touched her yet. Either she was epileptic
or she was so spaced out she thought she was acting in a porno
film.
Donazzan tried to calm her down: "Pannocchietta, if you keep
wriggling about I won't be able to undo your pants ..."
Danilo straightened up and shouted: "That's enough, you two!
I'm going to tell your father!"
When he heard that voice explode in the silence the boy popped
up in the air like a champagne cork and fell off the hood.
Pannocchietta gave a querulous squeal and jumped off the car too.
They clung together, frightened and guilty, trying to make out
who had spoken.
"Did you hear what I said? I'm going to tell your father. And I'm
going to bring it up at the next residents meeting."
At last the two saw that the head of a large man dressed like
Fred Flintstone was sticking out of the window of the Alfa Romeo.
It took Niccolo Donazzan a few moments to realize that it was
Aprea, the guy from the second floor. He was so terrified by the threat
to involve his father that he didn't even wonder why Aprea was sitting in his car at three o'clock in the morning dressed like that.
"I'm sorry ... We didn't know you were there. Or..." he stuttered.
"Or what, son?"
"Or I wouldn't have done it. I swear! I'm terribly sorry."
"Okay." Danilo assumed a contented expression. "Give me your
jacket. I'll give it back to you tomorrow."
"My jacket? But it's an Avirex original... It was a present
from..." The boy was evidently very attached to his horrendous
biker jacket.
"Do you have a hearing problem? Your jacket! And cut the chat.
Do you want me to go and see your father?"
"But..."
"But nothing. And give me your pants and boots too."
Donazzan hesitated.
"Give them to him, go on. Can't you see what a state he's in?
He's out of his mind, he looks mad enough to carry out a massacre," interposed the girl, quite calmly. She had recovered well from
the fright and had lit herself a cigarette.