Let the Games Begin by Niccolò Ammaniti Read Free Book Online Page A

them.’
    â€˜What do you mean? Are you serious?’
    Another book. Another autograph.
    â€˜What's your name?’
    â€˜Aldo. Can you make it out to Massimiliano and Mariapia? They're my children, they're six and eight years old, they'll read it when they've gro . . .’
    He despised them. They were a bunch of idiots. A herd of sheep. Their appreciation meant nothing to him. They would have gathered with the same enthusiasm for the family memoir of the director of the Channel 2 news, for the romantic revelations of the most uncouth showgirl in television. They only wanted to have their own conversation with the star, their own autograph, their own moment with the idol. If they could, they would have ripped off a piece of his suit, a lock of hair, a tooth, and they would have carried it home like a relic.
    He couldn't bear another minute of having to be polite. Of having to smile like a moron. To try and be modest and gracious. He was usually able to conceal perfectly the physical revulsion he felt towards indiscriminate human contact. He was a master at faking it. When the moment came, he threw himself into the mud, convinced that he enjoyed it. He emerged from bathing in the crowds weary but purified.
    However, that evening a ghastly suspicion was poisoning his victory. The suspicion that he didn't behave properly, with the discretion of a real writer. Of a serious writer like Sarwar Sawhney. During the presentation the old man had not uttered a word. He had sat there like a Tibetan monk, his ebony eyes offering wisdom and aloofness, while Fabrizio played court jester with all that crap about the fire and culture. And as per usual, the question upon which his entire career balanced sneaked into his mind. How much of my success is thanks to my books and how much is thanks to TV ?
    As always, he preferred not to answer himself, and instead drink a couple of whiskies. First, though, he had to shake off that swarm of flies. And when he saw poor Maria Letizia push her way towards him, he couldn't help but rejoice.
    â€˜Sawhney wants to talk to you . . . As soon as you finish, would you mind going to him?’
    â€˜Now! I'll come now!’ he answered her. And as if he'd been summoned by the Holy Ghost himself, he stood up and said to those fans who still hadn't received their certificate of participation: ‘Sawhney needs to talk to me. Please, let me go.’
    At the drinks table he sank two glasses of whisky one after the other, and felt better. Now that the alcohol was in his body, he could face the Nobel Prize winner.
    Leo Malagò came over to him with his tail wagging happily like a dog who's just been given a wild-boar pâté bruschetta.
    â€˜You legend! You knocked them all out with that little tale about the fire. I wonder how you come up with such ideas. Now Fabrizio, though, please don't get drunk. We have to go to dinner afterwards.’ He folded his arm through Fabrizio's. ‘I had a look at the book sales. Guess how many copies you sold this evening?’
    â€˜How many?’ He couldn't help answering. It was an automatic reflex.
    â€˜Ninety-two! And you know how many Sawhney sold? Nine! You don't know how pissed off Angiò is.’ Massimo Angiò was the foreign-fiction editor. ‘I love seeing him so pissed off! And tomorrow you'll be splashed across the papers. By the way, how fucking hot is his translator?’ Malagò’s face relaxed. The look in his eyes suddenly softened. ‘Imagine what it would be like to fuck her . . .’
    Fabrizio, instead, had lost all interest in the woman. His mood was dropping like a thermometer in a cold snap. What did the Indian want from him?! To tell him off for the crap he had shot off? He plucked up his nerve.
    â€˜Excuse me a moment.’
    He could see him in a corner. He was sitting opposite the window and was watching the tree branches scrape the yellow skyline of Rome. His black hair shone under the light of