anyway, I'd rather become a priest than work for you.â
He hung up.
The remains of the sunset had melted away and the shadows had descended across the land. The leader of the Wilde Beasts of Abaddon turned the indicator on and skidded off down the motorway.
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8
The old Indian writer kept to himself, sitting in a corner with a glass of water in his hands.
He had arrived by plane from Los Angeles that morning, following two exhausting weeks of book presentations across the United States, and now he wanted to go back to the hotel and stretch out on his bed. He would try to sleep, but he wouldn't succeed in doing so, and in the end he would take a sleeping pill. Natural sleep had abandoned his body a while ago. Hethought of his wife Margaret, in London. He would have liked to call her. Tell her that he missed her. That he would be home soon. He looked across to the other side of the room.
The writer who had spoken about the fire was surrounded by a throng of readers who wanted his name signed on their copy of his book. And for each person the young man had a word, a gesture, a smile.
He envied his youth, his relaxed desire to please.
He no longer cared about any of this. What did he care about? About sleeping . About getting in six hours of rest, with dreams. Even the trip around the world that he had been forced to do since winning the Nobel made no sense. He was a rag doll, thrown from one end of the globe to the other, to be exhibited to the public, taken in hand by people he didn't know, people he would forget about as soon as he moved on. He had written a book. A book that had taken ten years of his life to write. Didn't that alone suffice? Wasn't it enough?
During the presentation he had not managed to get past the introductions. Not like the Italian writer. He had read his novel on the plane. A small, fluid novel. He had read it out of scruple, because he didn't like to be presented by writers whose work he didn't know. And he had enjoyed it. He would like to tell the writer. It was not good manners to keep to himself.
As soon as the old man got up from his chair, three journalists who were waiting on the sidelines were suddenly all over him. Sawhney explained that he was tired. The next day he would be happy to answer their questions. But he said it so softly, so sweetly, that he was unable to free himself of these annoying flies. Luckily a lady arrived, from his publishing house, who shooed them away.
âWhat must we do now?â he asked the lady.
âThere is a cocktail party. Then, in about an hour, we will goand eat in a traditional restaurant, in Trastevere, which is famous for its Roman specialities. Do you like spaghetti carbonara?â
Sawhney placed his hand on her arm. âI would like to talk with the writer . . .â Oh God, what was his name? His head wasn't working any more
The lady came to his aid. âCiba! Fabrizio Ciba. Certainly. Please stay here. I'll go and call him straight away.â And she threw herself, her high heels tapping, into the throng.
âYou're not supposed to be asking me for my autograph . . . Ask Sawhney. He's the one who won the Nobel Prize, not me.â Fabrizio Ciba was trying to dam the sea of books engulfing him. His wrist was sore from the autographs he had signed. âWhat's your name? Paternò Antonia? Pardon? Just a moment . . . Oh, you liked Erri, Penelope's father? He reminds you of your grandfather? Me, too.â
A chubby woman, clearly overheated, elbowed her way through the crowd and planted another copy of The Lion's Den in front of him.
âI came all the way from Frosinone just for you. I've never read your books. But they tell me they're real good. I bought it at the station. You are so nice . . . And so handsome. I always watch you on the television. My daughter is in love with you . . . And so am I . . . a bit.â
A polite smile was sculpted on his face. âWell, maybe you should read them. You might not like
John F. Carr & Camden Benares