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supervision of Zóltan Patrovic, the unpredictable Bulgarian chef and owner of the extremely famous restaurant Le Regioni , had become Rome's number one for organising banquets and buffets.
    Saverio wasn't listening. And if I decapitated Padre Tonino with a stroke of the Durendal? He's got Parkinson's so I'd just be doing him a favour, really. Tomorrow, after the paediatrician, I'll take the sword to the knife-sharpener . . . No, that would be copying Kurtz Minetti a bit .
    â€˜Saverio? Can you hear me?’
    â€˜Yeah . . . Sorry . . . I can't help you out,’ he faked.
    â€˜My arse, you can't. You weren't even listening to me. You don't get it. I am desperate. I put my backside on the line with this party. I've been working at it for six months, Save’. He lowered his voice. ‘Swear you won't say anything to anyone.’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜Just swear.’
    Saverio looked around and realised just how ugly the ethnic lampshade was. ‘I swear.’
    Antonio whispered in a conspiratorial tone of voice: ‘Anyone and everyone's gonna be at this party. Tell me a VIP. Anyone at all. Come on. The first name that springs to mind.’
    Saverio thought about it for a second. ‘The Pope.’
    â€˜Oh, come on. A VIP, I said. Singers, actors, football players . . .’
    Saverio huffed. ‘What do I know? What do you want from me? Who can I say? Paco Jimenez de la Frontera?’
    â€˜The centre-forward for Rome. Bingo!’
    Now, if in the whole world there was a word Saverio Moneta hated, it was ‘bingo’. He, as did all serious Satanists, detested popular culture, slang, Hallowe'en and the Americanisation of the Italian language. If it were up to him, everybody would still be speaking in Latin.
    â€˜Give me another one.’
    Saverio couldn't take it. ‘I don't know! And I don't care! I've got too much on my plate at the moment, I have.’
    Antonio now put on an offended tone of voice. ‘What's the matter? You're a weirdo, you know that? I'm giving you and your friends the chance to make some money, to participate in the most exclusive party of the last few years, to rub shoulders with famous people, and you . . . You tell me to fuck off?’
    Saverio felt like ripping out his cousin's carotid artery and bathing in his blood, but he sat down on the couch and tried to reassure him.
    â€˜No, Anto, I'm sorry. Really, I'm not angry with you. It's just that I'm tired. You know, the twins, my father-in-law, it's been hard going . . .’
    â€˜Yeah, I hear ya. But if you think of anyone who could helpme out, give me a bell. I've got to find four kids by tomorrow morning. Think about it, OK? Tell them the pay's great and during the party there's even a concert with Larita and fireworks.’
    The leader of the WB pricked up his antennae.
    â€˜What did you say? Larita? Larita the singer? Who did Live
    in Saint Peter and Unplugged in Lourdes ? Who sings that song “King Karol”?’
    Elsa Martelli, known artistically as Larita, had been the lead singer of the Lord of Flies for a couple of years, a death metal group from Chieti Scalo. Their songs had been the anthems of the Evil One and they had been much appreciated by the Italian Satanic community. Then suddenly Larita had left the group and converted to the Christian faith, been baptised by the Pope, and had undertaken a solo career as a pop singer. Her releases were a flavourless mix of new age, teenage love affairs and feel good sensations, and as such had obtained a huge amount of success in the world. But she was loathed by all Satanists.
    â€˜Yeah. I think it's her. Larita . . . The one that sings “Love Around You”.’ Antonio was no expert of pop music.
    Saverio realised that the air had a nice smell, of earth and grass from the freshly mowed street islands. The moon had disappeared and it was completely dark. The windows vibrated and the ficus was restless, tossed about by a