Anna. Niccolo Ammaniti

head sitting on rounded shoulders, without the interval of a neck.

      ‘I don’t need your batteries. I’ve got loads of them.’ He opened a drawer full of packets of cigarettes. ‘Would you like one?’

      ‘Yes, thanks.’

      ‘What brand do you like?’

      ‘Any one.’

      He passed her a packet of Marlboro, together with a lighter. ‘How old’s your brother?’

      Anna lit the cigarette. ‘Seven, maybe eight.’

      ‘It can’t be Red Fever, then.’

      ‘He must have eaten something rotten. He’s got a temperature and he keeps being sick. I need some antibiotics.’

      The fat boy rubbed his neck. ‘Do you want to see him?’

      Anna realised he meant his twin brother. ‘All right. But which one are you?’

      ‘Mario. Paolo was my brother.’ He led her into the area at the back of the shop, a storeroom full of cardboard boxes and crates, and a white van with the word ‘Despar’ on the side. ‘I put him here.’

      Paolo lay in a big open freezer, the kind that used to be used for storing pizzas and bags of prawns. Heaped up around him were jars of tuna preserved in oil, of various makes. He was starting to swell up. The eyes had gone, sucked down inside two purple blobs. Hands like blown-up gloves. He smelled really bad.

      Anna took a drag on her cigarette. ‘I bet tuna was his favourite food.’

      ‘And how old are you?’ Mario asked her.

      ‘I’ve lost count.’

      He smiled, displaying small yellow teeth. ‘I remember you at school.’ He examined her. ‘Have you got the blotches?’

      Anna shook her head.

      ‘Why do you think my brother died first? I can’t understand it – we’re twins. We were born together, we should have died together.’

      ‘The Red Fever comes to everyone differently. You can even catch it at fourteen.’

      He nodded, pursing his lips. ‘How long do you reckon I’ve got?’

      Anna stubbed the cigarette out under her sole and went up to him. She scrutinised his neck, made him lift up his T-shirt so she could see the other blotches on his back, and checked his hands. ‘I don’t know . . . Maybe a couple of months.’

      ‘That’s what I think.’ He rubbed his eye. ‘But have you heard the rumour? They say a Grown-up has survived.’

      How many times had she heard such stories? Everyone she met said there were Grown-ups who’d survived somewhere or other. It was all bullshit. The virus had exterminated the Grown-ups, and as soon as children reached puberty, it killed them too. That was the truth of the matter. And after all these years she no longer believed the rumours about a vaccine. But she kept quiet, still hoping to get the antibiotics for Astor.

      ‘I know you don’t believe it. I didn’t either, at first. But it’s true.’ Mario put his hand on his heart.

      ‘What makes you so sure?’

      ‘The guy who told me must have been at least sixteen. Had a beard, and not a blotch on him. Said a big woman had saved him. Not a normal Grown-up, bigger. They call her “the Little Lady”. She’s three metres tall. Caught the Red Fever, but recovered.’ Mario’s face, until then about as expressive as that of a grazing cow, came to life. ‘It cost me five bottles of wine to find out where she lives.’

      ‘And where does she live?’ asked Anna.

      ‘In a place in the mountains. The Spa Hotel, he said. Do you know it?’

      Anna thought for a moment. ‘Yes, I do. It’s not far away.’

      ‘Have you been there?’

      ‘Not to the hotel itself, but very close. Anyway, it’s easy to find on a map.’

      ‘This Little Lady can cure you.’

      Anna couldn’t suppress a sceptical smile. ‘How does she do that?’

      ‘You have to kiss her, on the mouth. Her saliva is magic.’

      Anna burst out laughing. ‘Kiss her using your tongue, you mean?’

      ‘That’s right.’

      ‘What if she won’t let you? If she doesn’t like you?’

      ‘She will, she will. As long as you take her some presents.’ He started coughing again, nearly choking. Then he went on in a feeble voice: ‘Especially bars of chocolate.’

      ‘Chocolate’s no good nowadays. It’s all white and tasteless.’

      Mario smiled like a grocer displaying his mortadella. ‘We have a special way of preserving it. We keep it cool, down in the cellar. Sealed up in plastic containers. Five bars get you a kiss, and six . . .’

      Anna interrupted him. ‘Do you want me to take you there?’

      ‘Where?’

      ‘To the Little Lady. I’ll show you the way, if you like.’

      The twin fell silent for a moment, scratching the scabs on his lips with his fingernail. He pointed to the storeroom door. ‘Let’s go back in there.’ They returned to the shop. ‘What am I going to do with Paolo?’

      ‘He’s dead. Leave him here.’

      Mario picked up a cereal bar, took off the wrapper and scoffed it without offering her a bite. ‘The trouble is, I’ve never been anywhere without my brother. We used to like being in the shop. Swapping things with customers, collecting batteries, medicines . . . Since the fires, nobody’s come any more. Only gangs trying to raid the shop.’

      ‘We wouldn’t be gone long.’

      ‘How long?’

      ‘A couple of days.’

      ‘I don’t know . . . I suppose I could give you some chocolate so she’d let you kiss her too.’

      Anna smiled. ‘Yes, but that’s not enough. If you want me to take you there, you’ll have to give me the medicines I need for my brother.’

      He opened three drawers. ‘Take as many as you want.’

      She immediately found two boxes of antibiotics and put them in the rucksack. ‘And you’ll have to give me all the food we can carry. I’ll choose it, though. And some live batteries.’

      ‘Okay.’

      ‘This is what I suggest: we drop by at my house to give my brother the medicines, then we leave tomorrow morning.’

      Mario had perked up. ‘All right, I’m tired of being on my own. What’s your brother’s name?’

      ‘Astor.’

      ‘Funny name.’ Mario extended a plump hand. ‘It’s a deal.’ Anna’s plan was simple. At Torre Normanna she’d run off with the stuff, and to hell with Mario and the Little Lady.

      *

      They advanced along a country road which passed through a suburb consisting of a few houses, a small church and a roundabout, in the middle of which was a monument to servicemen killed in the First World War. Fire had consumed the public gardens around the local tourist office, and the trunks of the eucalyptuses looked like black pencils stuck in the earth. All that remained of the newsagent’s kiosk was its iron frame. The nose of a fire engine was rammed into the barber’s shop.

      Anna was carrying a bag full of jars. Michelini, wearing a red cap with ‘Nutella’ on the peak, the shotgun slung over his shoulder, was pushing a wheelbarrow full of boxes. The load was covered by a piece of tarpaulin held down with bungee cords.

      They