The Sermon on the Fall of Rome, стр. 50
“I know what’s in that drawer. I’d keep your hand on it, if I were you. O.K.?”
“If you come back without your friends, I won’t need it. Don’t you worry about me.”
Libero placed both hands on the counter and took a deep breath.
“Right. Let’s clear up and close.”
Izaskun came back into the bar carrying a tray laden with dirty glasses which she set down on the bar. Virgile stared at her open-mouthed, his eyes blank. She met his gaze and started shouting at him in Spanish. Libero told her to go to bed, he came around the counter and took Virgile by the arm.
“Here, come along. Come with me.”
He made him sit out on the terrace in the fresh air and brought him a bottle of eau de vie. Virgile did not stir. Libero crouched down beside him and talked to him for a long time, he spoke in the language Matthieu would never understand, for it was not his own, he spoke in a voice filled with tenderness and warmth, clasping his hand, and it was a warmth that had no beginning and no end. From time to time Virgile shifted his head. Libero left him alone on the terrace. He told Gratas he could go home to be with Virginie and poured out two glasses. He gave one to Matthieu.
“I don’t know if it was such a good idea to humiliate him like that.”
“What else could I do? I don’t give a fuck about that idiot. If he wants a fight, I’ll give him a fight and that’ll be that. I’ll give it to him even if he doesn’t want it.”
The night when the world came to an end was tranquil. Not one Vandal horseman. Not one Visigoth warrior. Not one virgin with her throat cut amid burning houses. Libero cashed up, with the pistol laid on the counter. Perhaps he was thinking nostalgically about his student years, about those texts he had sought to make a bonfire of on the altar of the world’s stupidity, echoes of which nevertheless still came back to him.
For all God has made for you is a perishable world, and you yourself are destined to die.
A car stopped outside the bar. Pierre-Emmanuel got out. He was alone. He paused on the terrace and looked at Libero through the open door. But he did not try to come in. He passed close to Virgile Ordioni, ruffled his hair and remarked in genial tones,
“It’s time to go in and give her one,”
and he walked toward the waitresses’ apartment. Libero looked down at the till. Outside there were dull thuds, and a squeal more strident than the screaming of the rattles at the Tenebrae service. Libero came running out of the bar, pistol in hand, followed by Matthieu. The streetlights were switched off but by the light of the moon, right in the middle of the road, they could see the vast, shadowy figure of Virgile Ordioni crouched over Pierre-Emmanuel who was squealing and squealing. Virgile was seated on his chest, clamping his arms beside his body, while his legs beat frenziedly against the pavement, he had lost one shoe and was giving desperate heaves with his hips to break free, while Virgile snorted violently through his nose, like an enraged bull, pulling Pierre-Emmanuel’s pants down along his thighs before ripping the thin fabric of his underpants, Matthieu was unable to move, he watched the spectacle frozen to the spot, and Libero threw himself at Virgile’s shoulders, trying to tip him over, shouting out,
“Virgile! Stop! Stop!”
but Virgile did not tip over and did not stop, and it was as if he were giving himself a heavy shake, swinging an arm around behind him, and Libero fell flat on the road, his face turned up toward the stars, and Virgile dealt blows with his big clenched fists at Pierre-Emmanuel’s legs and pinned his knees to the ground with one hand, while with the other he opened the knife he had taken from his pocket, Libero began shouting,
“Stop! Stop!”
but the incessant whirling of the knife kept him at bay, he went behind Virgile just as Pierre-Emmanuel began squealing louder than ever, at the cold touch of the blade against his lower abdomen and Libero was now hammering on Virgile’s shoulders and the back of his neck with the butt of the pistol, but the latter remained unshakeable and contented himself with making sweeping gestures, as if he were chasing away a fly, before starting to rummage with his fingers between Pierre-Emmanuel’s legs, where he was bringing in the knife once more, prior to breaking off, for Libero was getting in his way, and knocking him to the ground once more with a back thrust of his arm, and Libero got to his knees, hearing Pierre-Emmanuel uttering a squeal that no longer had anything human about it which froze his blood, threw an imploring glance at the still unmoving Matthieu and began shouting once more,
“Virgile! I beg you! I beg you!”
but his shouting was in vain, the squealing rent the night and Libero stood up in one movement, cocking the pistol and holding out his arm, straight in front of him. He fired at Virgile Ordioni’s head and Virgile crumpled on his side. Pierre-Emmanuel crawled away as if he were escaping from a fire and remained sitting there, his pants lowered, shaking in all his limbs and groaning without being able to stop. He had grazed legs and a bloody gash on his pubis. Libero went up to Virgile and fell to his knees. There were brains and blood on the pavement and the corpse was still shuddering with convulsions that soon came to an end. Libero covered his eyes and repressed a sob. He got up for a moment to look at Pierre-Emmanuel’s wound and went back to sit beside Virgile, taking his hand and raising it to his lips. Pierre-Emmanuel was