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. He thought 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.

      ‘What must we do now?’ he asked the lady.

      ‘There is a cocktail party. Then, in about an hour, we will go and eat in a traditional restaurant, in Trastevere, which is famous for its Roman specialities. Do you like spaghetti carbonara?’

      Sawhney placed his hand on her arm. ‘I would like to talk with the writer . . .’ Oh God, what was his name? His head wasn't working any more

      The lady came to his aid. ‘Ciba! Fabrizio Ciba. Certainly. Please stay here. I'll go and call him straight away.’ And she threw herself, her high heels tapping, into the throng.

      ‘You're not supposed to be asking me for my autograph . . . Ask Sawhney. He's the one who won the Nobel Prize, not me.’ Fabrizio Ciba was trying to dam the sea of books engulfing him. His wrist was sore from the autographs he had signed. ‘What's your name? Paternò Antonia? Pardon? Just a moment . . . Oh, you liked Erri, Penelope's father? He reminds you of your grandfather? Me, too.’

      A chubby woman, clearly overheated, elbowed her way through the crowd and planted another copy of The Lion's Den in front of him.

      ‘I 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.’

      A polite smile was sculpted on his face. ‘Well, maybe you should read them. You might not like them.’

      ‘What do you mean? Are you serious?’

      Another book. Another autograph.

      ‘What's your name?’

      ‘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