As God Commands by Niccolò Ammaniti Read Free Book Online Page A

Corso Vittorio. It was cold, and his breath condensed in the air into
white vapor. A solid gray blanket of clouds covered the sky, and it
was drizzling.
    Quattro Formaggi waved to Franco, a shop assistant in the
Mondadori Mediastore, which occupied all the upper floors of the
house.
    The building stood in a central position, among the clothes shops
and shoe shops, close to Piazza Bologna and the church of San Biagio.

    The previous owner, the old notary Bocchiola, had died leaving
the whole building to his children, except for an apartment in the
basement behind the elevators, which he had bequeathed to Corrado
Rumitz, aka Quattro Formaggi, his trusted caretaker and factotum
for over ten years.
    His heirs, furious at his decision, had done everything they could
to get rid of the tramp, offering him money and alternative accommodation and mobilizing lawyers and psychiatrists, but to no avail.
Quattro Formaggi wouldn't budge.
    In the end they had managed to sell the rest of the building at
a knock-down price to Mondadori, who had divided the three
floors into the holy trinity: music, books and videos. The owners
of the firm had, in their turn, made several attempts to buy the
basement, wanting to turn it into a storehouse. But they had no
luck either.
    Quattro Formaggi put on his pea-green full-face crash helmet,
unlocked the chain that tied up his old green Boxer and with one
kick at the pedal, started it first time.
    The engine fired and the exhaust pipe belched out a cloud of
white smoke, which snaked its way down the street and gathered
under the red-and-black-striped awning of the Cafe Rouge et Noir.
    Mrs. Citran and Colonel Ettore Manzini, who were sitting at one
of its tables, started coughing, choked by the fetid smoke of the
three-per-cent mixture. The old lady spat out a piece of croissant
filled with white chocolate, which was instantly hoovered up by
Ottavio, the colonel's wire-haired dachshund.
    "Don't breathe in, whatever you do, Giuliana, don't breathe in!
You've only just recovered from pneumonia!" said the colonel,
pressing his napkin over his mouth.
    "Oh my goodness, it's all gone down my throat! Help!" croaked
Mrs. Citran, sticking out her tongue.
    It took them a few minutes to recover their composure, and by
the time they had Quattro Formaggi had ridden off on his scooter,
despite the fact that the center of the village was strictly off limits,
day and night, to any form of transport equipped with wheels,
skates, air cushions or caterpillar tracks.
    For a while the old lady and the colonel sat in silence, too indignant for words.

    Finally, after taking a sip from her cappuccino, Mrs. Citran managed to say: "It's scandalous. Did you see what he did?"
    The colonel shook his head. "Quite disgraceful, Giuliana. I've
heard the wretched man takes trash into his house."
    "Really, Ettore, do you mind? I'm eating..."
    Manzini sank his teeth into a doughnut and said: "I'm sorry, my
dear, but these things make my blood boil. So much for all the fine
talk about cleaning up the center of Varrano. People like that need
to be helped, locked away in some institution..."
    Giuliana Citran wiped the crumbs away from her mouth and
asked: "So you know who he is, do you?"
    The colonel nodded: "I most certainly do."
    It was rumored in the village that Corrado Rumitz was Bocchiola's
illegitimate son-that the late lamented notary had dumped him in
an orphanage when he was a baby, but then, twenty years later, had
been overcome with remorse and had given him a job and left him
that apartment which was worth a fortune.
18
    As Cristiano Zena walked along the highway, resigned to going on
foot, he heard the high-pitched drone of a scooter's exhaust pipe
growing louder and louder behind him.
    Cristiano looked around and his heart missed a beat.
    A beige Scarabeo 50 with a big yellow smiley face sticker on the
front was coming toward him.
    It was Fabiana Ponticelli's scooter.
    What am I going to