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that’s a very good idea,’ said Valeria Loria as she was setting the table for dinner. The smell of frying shallots filled the kitchen. Alex’s mother aimed the remote control at the television set and muted the sound, before pouring water into a pitcher that she placed at the centre of the table.
    â€˜How long are you planning to stay away?’ said Alex’s father, Giorgio, his voice decisive and strong. ‘A long weekend?’
    Alex limited himself to nodding in agreement.
    â€˜I don’t understand what the point of it would be. As if the two of you don’t already see enough of each other.’
    Alex opened his mouth to protest, but his mother stopped him with a wave of her hand.
    He held in his objections and went and sat down at his place. The large kitchen of the Loria home was furnished with antiques made of dark wood, brass handles, and floral wallpaper and decorations. A long wooden table dominated the room. Hanging from the ceiling, over the centre of the table, was a crystal chandelier. On the wall opposite the stove, a 1950s oak sideboard with glass doors displayed the silver used only on special occasions.
    Alex hated that room. He detested it. Just as he hated the rest of the apartment. For him it was nothing more than a sophisticated, gilded prison.
    â€˜There’s a school assembly on Friday,’ he said, hesitantly. ‘But it’s not compulsory. I could go to Marco’s Thursday night … and stay until Sunday.’
    His father stared at him for a few moments without saying a word, then he unfolded his napkin and laid it across his lap.
    Valeria looked first at her husband and then at her son. She knew it was her job to find a solution that would make them both happy.
    â€˜Don’t you have a match on Sunday?’ she asked, again.
    â€˜No, we’re not playing this Sunday.’
    â€˜Don’t you need to train?’ Giorgio broke in. ‘The playoffs are coming up.’
    Alex said nothing. He knew that his father had a point.
    â€˜You’re still the team captain, aren’t you? They might expect you not to spend your weekends playing PlayStation with that half-crazy friend of yours.’
    â€˜Marco isn’t crazy. He’s a genius.’
    â€˜Yes, of course.’
    For the second time, he held in his anger. He couldn’t run the risk of getting into an argument just then.
    â€˜Well, so, can I go or not?’
    Valeria exchanged a glance with Giorgio, who had already turned up the volume on the television, as if leaving to her the job of deciding whether or not to give their son permission.
    â€˜Go on, go on,’ she replied, as the day’s top stories could be heard in the background, a moment that in the Loria household meant ‘end of discussion’.
    He’d done it.
    He’d passed the first obstacle.

7
    At 9.30 on Thursday night, in an apartment on Viale Gran Sasso, the doorbell rang. It wasn’t the usual annoying noise. Instead, the intercom emitted a sound more like a mobile-phone ring tone of the Rocky IV theme. Marco Draghi pressed a button on a small green remote control, and the front door opened. Alex ran upstairs and entered the apartment with a basketball duffel bag slung over his shoulder.
    â€˜I got your message,’ his friend shouted from the bathroom. ‘Are you going to tell me what the hell’s going on?’
    Marco pressed the button on the remote control again, and the door now closed. Alex was accustomed to these ‘tricks’, as his friend liked to call them. The tricks of a genius.
    In Marco’s apartment, almost everything was operated by switches, remote controls, or even voice commands. Doors, heaters, kitchen appliances, stereos, and lights all responded to a remote control, like certain modern apartments designed according to the laws of domotics, with the difference that, in this case, every single microchip had been patented and built by Marco