I Am God

by Giorgio Faletti

  He advanced in the semi-darkness, taking care where he put his feet, towards the door on the right-hand side. Making an effort not to think about the fact that this place full of rough surfaces and sharp corners had meant everything to him.

  Beyond that doorway, clinging to the wall of the building like a mollusc to a rock, there was one large room with a single window protected by an iron grille. A kitchen area and a bathroom on opposite sides completed the layout of his old home.

  He reached the door and pushed it.

  And stood there, open mouthed in surprise.

  Here the shapes were more distinct. The light through the window from the lampposts in the parking lot sent almost all the shadows scuttling into the corners.

  The room was perfectly tidy, as if he had left it hours rather than years before. No dust hung in the air, and it was obvious that it had been cleaned often and carefully. Only the bed was covered with a sheet of transparent plastic.

  He was about to take another step into his old home when he suddenly felt something knock against him and slide quickly between his legs. Immediately afterwards, a dark shape jumped on the bed, making the plastic rustle.

  He closed the door, went to the night table and lit the bedside lamp. In the dim light, the nose of a big black cat emerged, and two huge green eyes looking at him.

  ‘Waltz. Holy Christ, you’re still here.’

  Without any fear the animal approached, walking slightly lopsidedly, and sniffed him. He reached out his hand to grab it and it let itself be picked up. He sat down on the bed and pulled it on to his knees. He started to scratch it gently under the chin, and the cat immediately started purring, as he knew it would.

  ‘You still like that, huh? You’re still as much of an old softie as ever.’

  He stroked it with one hand, and with the other reached the place where the right back leg should have been.

  ‘I see it never grew back.’

  There was a strange story behind the cat’s name. Ben had sent him to do some repairs at the clinic of Dr Peterson, the vet. A couple had showed up carrying a kitten wrapped in a bloodstained blanket. A large cat had come into their garden and bitten their kitten, maybe just to punish it for existing. The kitten had been examined and immediately operated on, but it had not been possible to save its leg. When the vet had come out of the operating room and told the owners, the man and the woman had looked at each other in embarrassment.

  Then the woman, asked the vet in an uncertain voice, ‘Without a leg, you say?’ She had turned to the man beside her for confirmation. ‘What do you think, Sam?’

  The man had made a vague gesture. ‘Well, of course, the poor little beast would suffer, with a leg missing. It would be maimed for life. I wonder if it wouldn’t be better to …’ He had left the sentence hanging.

  Dr Peterson had looked at him questioningly, then finished his sentence for him. ‘Put him to sleep?’

  The two had looked at each other with eyes full of relief. They couldn’t believe they had found a way out: they could pass off as a suggestion from an authoritative source what they had in fact already decided.

  ‘I see you agree, doctor. Do it, then. He won’t suffer, will he?’

  ‘No, he won’t suffer,’ the vet replied. Her voice was icy, and so were her blue eyes. But the two were in too much of a hurry to leave to even notice.

  They had paid, and gone out the door with more haste than might have been considered necessary in the circumstances. Then the sound of a car starting up outside had confirmed that the final verdict had been pronounced on the poor animal.

  He had witnessed the whole scene. But when they had gone he put down the pail in which he was mixing plaster and approached Dr Peterson.

  ‘Don’t kill him, doctor. I’ll take him.’

  She had looked at him without speaking. Her eyes searched his for a long time before replying. Then she had said just two words.

  ‘All right.’

  She had turned and gone back into her clinic, leaving him alone as the new owner of a cat with three legs. That was what had given rise to its name. Growing up, its way of walking had reminded him of waltz time: one-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three …

  And Waltz it had become.

  He was about to move the cat, which was continuing to purr blissfully beside him on the bed, when suddenly the door was kicked open. Waltz took fright, jumped down nimbly on his three paws and hid under the bed. A commanding voice filled the room.

  ‘Whoever you are, you’d better come out with your hands up. Don’t make any sudden movements. I have a shotgun and I’m prepared to use it.’

  For a moment, he did not move.

  Then, without saying a word, he stood up and walked calmly towards the door. Just before placing himself in the doorway, he raised his arms in the air. That was the only movement that still caused him a little pain.

  And a flood of memories.

  CHAPTER 5

  Ben Shepard moved behind one of the cement mixers, trying to find the best position from which to keep the door in his sights. A bead of sweat running down the side of his face reminded him how hot and damp the building was. For a moment he was tempted to wipe it off, but he preferred not to take his hands off his Remington pump-action shotgun. Whoever was in that room, he didn’t know how he would react to the order to come out. Above all, he didn’t know if he was armed or not. Anyhow, the man had been warned. He was holding a shotgun, and he never said anything he didn’t mean. He had fought in Korea. If the guy or guys in there didn’t believe he was prepared to use it, they were making a big mistake.

  Nothing happened.

  He had preferred not to switch on any lights. In the semidarkness, time seemed like something personal between him and the beating of his heart. He waited for seconds that seemed an eternity.

  It was pure chance that he was here at this hour.

  He had been on his way back after an evening spent bowling with the team he played for. He was driving along Western Avenue and had just passed North Folk Village when the oil gauge had lit up on the dashboard of his old van. If he kept going, the engine might seize up. A few dozen yards up ahead was the track that led to the his construction company. Rather than be forced to brake, he had quickly done a wide turn onto the other lane and then onto the track, immediately afterwards switching off the engine and putting it in neutral to take advantage of the momentum and get as far as the gate.

  As he approached the building, hearing the loose stones under the tyres roll with an ever deeper sound as he lost speed, he’d had the fleeting impression that there was a dim light visible through the windows.

  He had immediately stopped the van, taken the Remington from behind the seats, and checked it was loaded. He had got out without slamming the door and had approached, walking on the grassy verge in order to avoid making a noise with his heavy shoes. When he had gone out, a couple of hours earlier, he might have forgotten to switch off the light.

  That must have been it.

  But in any case he had preferred to make sure by being at the right end of a shotgun barrel. As his father used to say, nobody had ever died from being too careful.

  He had kept on, hugging the fence until he came to the point where it had been cut. Then he noticed that a light was on in the room in back, and saw a silhouette passing the window.

  His hands on the grip of the Remington had started to get damper than they should. He had quickly looked around.

  He hadn’t seen any cars parked in the vicinity, which he found puzzling. The building was full of materials and tools. They weren’t worth a great deal, but they might still tempt a thief. They were all quite heavy, though. It seemed strange that someone would come here on foot if they planned to clean him out.

  He had gone through the hole in the fence, and reached the door next to the vehicle entrance. When he had pushed the door, he had found it open. Groping with his hands, he had felt the key in the keyhole, and in the dim light from the lampposts ref
lected off the clear wall he had seen that the little window in front of the fire extinguisher was half open.

  Strange. Very strange.

  Only he knew of the existence of that spare key.

  Curious and cautious in equal measure, he had gone inside, woven in and out of the equipment heaped up there, and kicked the door of the backroom wide open.

  Now he was holding his shotgun aimed at the open door.

  A man appeared in the doorway with his hands up. He took a couple of steps and stopped. Ben moved accordingly, so that he was still protected by the squat, ungainly mass of the cement mixer. From here, he could keep the man’s legs in his sights, and if he made even one abrupt movement he would shorten his height by ten inches.

  ‘Are you alone?’

  The answer had come immediately. Calm, steady, apparently genuine. ‘Yes.’

  ‘OK, I’m coming out. If you or any friend you have with you are planning any nasty tricks, I’ll blow a hole in your stomach as big as a railroad tunnel.’

  He waited a moment and then came cautiously out into the open. He held the shotgun at his side, firmly aimed at the man’s stomach. He took a couple of steps towards him, until he could see his face clearly.

  And what he saw sent a shudder through him. The man’s face and head were completely disfigured by what looked like terrible burn scars. From his face, they continued down his neck and disappeared inside the open collar of his shirt. His right ear was completely missing while all that remained of the other was only a fragment, attached like a joke to the cranium, where coarse healed skin had replaced hair.

  Only the area around the eyes was intact. And now those eyes were following him as he approached, more ironic than worried.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’

  The man smiled. If what appeared on his face when he moved his mouth could be called a smile.

  ‘Thanks, Ben. At least you didn’t ask me what I am.’

  Without asking permission, the man lowered his arm. It was only then that Ben realized he was wearing gloves of some light material.

  ‘I know I’m not easy to recognize. I was hoping at least my voice had stayed the same.’

  Ben Shepard opened his eyes wide. Involuntarily, he lowered the barrel of his shotgun, as if his arms had suddenly become too flabby to hold it up. Then the words arrived, as if he hadn’t had the gift of speech before now.

  ‘Christ almighty, Little Boss. It’s you. We all thought you were …’

  The sentence was left hanging.

  The other man made a vague gesture with his hand. ‘Dead?’ The next sentence came from his lips like a thought spoken aloud and a long-buried hope. ‘What makes you think I’m not?’

  Ben suddenly felt old. And he realized that the person in front of him felt much older than he. Still confused by this unexpected encounter, without really knowing what to do or say, he went to the wall and reached his hand out to a switch. A dim emergency light came on. When he made to switch on another light, Little Boss stopped him with a gesture.

  ‘Let it be. I guarantee I don’t look any better in the light.’

  Ben realized his eyes were moist. He felt useless and stupid. Finally he did the one thing that instinct dictated. He put the Remington down on a pile of crates, approached this soldier and gently embraced him.

  ‘Hell, Little Boss, it’s good to know you’re alive.’

  He felt the boy’s arms go around his shoulders.

  ‘There is no Little Boss any more, Ben. But it’s good to be here with you.’

  They stood there for a moment, out of an affection that was like that between a father and a son. With the absurd hope that when they separated it would be some ordinary day in the past, with everything normal and Ben Shepard, staying late to give instructions to his worker for the next day.

  They separated. Ben made a sign with his head. ‘Come this way. There should still be a few beers. If you want one.’

  The young man smiled and replied, with some of the old familiarity, ‘Never refuse a beer from Ben Shepard. He might get mad. And that sure ain’t a pleasant sight.’

  They moved into the back room. Little Boss went and sat down on the bed. He called out, and Waltz immediately came out from his hiding place and jumped onto his lap.

  ‘You left everything the way it was. Why?’

  Ben walked to the refrigerator, pleased that Little Boss couldn’t see his face as he replied. ‘Call it a premonition, call it an old man’s stubborn hope. Call it what you like.’

  He closed the door and turned with two beers in his hand. With the neck of one of the bottles he indicated the cat, which had accepted, with its usual feline sense of entitlement, to be stroked on the head and neck.

  ‘I had your room cleaned occasionally. And every day I fed that critter you have there.’

  He handed the young man his beer. Then he went to a chair and sat down, and for a while they drank in silence. Both knew they were full of questions that were going to be difficult to answer.

  Ben realized he had to be the first.

  Forcing himself not to look away, he asked, ‘What happened? Who did that to you?’

  The boy took his time before replying. ‘It’s a long story, Ben. And it’s an ugly story. Are you sure you want to hear it?’

  Ben leaned back in his chair and tilted it until it rested against the wall.

  ‘I have time. All the time in the world …’

  ‘… and all the men we need, soldier. Until you and your comrades realize you’re going to be defeated in this country.’

  He was sitting on the ground, up against a branchless tree stump whose roots clutched uselessly at the ground, hands tied behind his back. In front of him, dawn was rising. Behind him he felt the presence of his buddy, who was similarly immobilized. He hadn’t spoken or moved for a while now. Maybe he’d managed to fall asleep. Maybe he was dead. Both theories were plausible. They had been in this place for two days. Two days of not much food, of sleep broken by spasms in his wrists and cramps in his ass. Now he was thirsty and hungry and his clothes were stuck to his skin with sweat and dirt. The man in the red headband leaned over him and dangled their dogtags in front of his face, letting them sway from side to side with an almost hypnotic effect. Then he turned them towards himself, as if he wanted to check their names, even though he remembered them perfectly well.

  ‘Wendell Johnson and Matt Corey. What are two nice American boys doing here in the middle of these paddy fields? Didn’t you have anything better to do at home?’

  Of course I did, you fucking piece of shit.

  He screamed those words in his head. He had learned the hard way what these people did when you expressed what you felt.

  The guerrilla was a skinny guy, of indefinable age, with deep-set small eyes. Slightly above average height. He spoke good English spoiled only by a guttural accent. Time had passed

  how much time?

  since his platoon had been wiped out by a sudden Vietcong attack. They had all died, except the two of them. And immediately afterwards, their calvary had started: constantly being moved from place to place, harried by mosquitoes, forced to keep marching, forcing themselves to keep going through sheer will, one more step, one more step, one more step …

  And getting the crap beaten out of them.

  Every now and again they had come across other groups of fighters. Men with identical faces who carried arms and supplies by bicycle along almost invisible paths amid the vegetation.

  These had been their only moments of relief

  Where are they taking us, Matt?

  I don’t know.

  Any idea where we are?

  No, but we’ll make it, Wen, don’t worry.

  and rest.

  Water, blessed water, was here a piece of paradise on earth, and their jailers seemed to dispense it with a sadistic pleasure.

  His jailer didn’t wait for a reply. He knew it wouldn’t come. ‘I’m really sorry your other comrades died.’

&n
bsp; ‘I don’t believe you,’ he blurted out, and immediately tensed the muscles of his neck, expecting a slap by way of reply.

  Instead of which, a smile appeared on the man’s face, a smile made cruel by the sardonic gleam in his eyes. Silently, he lit a cigarette, then replied in a neutral voice that sounded strangely sincere, ‘You’re wrong. I really would have liked to have you alive. All of you.’

  The same tone of voice he’d used after the attack when he’d said

  ‘Don’t worry, corporal. We’re going to take care of you …’

  and immediately afterwards had gone up to Sid Margolin, who was lying on the ground complaining of the wound in his shoulder, and blown his brains out.

  From somewhere behind him came the caterwauling of a radio. Then another guerrilla, a much younger man, walked up to the commander. The two men exchanged a hasty dialogue, in the incomprehensible language of a country he would never understand.

  Then the chief addressed him again.

  ‘This looks like it’s turning into quite an amusing day.’

  He bent his knees and crouched in front of him, so that he could look at him straight in the face.

  ‘There’s going to be an air raid. There are raids every day. But the next one will be in this area.’

  That was when he understood. There were men who went to war because they were forced to go. Others who felt they had to go. The man in the red headband was there because he liked it. When the war was over, he would probably invent another one, maybe just for himself, so he could continue to fight.

  And to kill.

  That thought put an expression on his face that the other man misunderstood. ‘What’s the matter, soldier? Are you surprised? Didn’t you think the yellow monkeys Charlie, as you call us, were capable of mounting intelligence operations?’

  He gave him a pat on the cheek with the palm of his hand, all the more mocking in that it was as light as a caress.

  ‘Well, we are. And today you’ll get a chance to find out who you’re fighting for.’

  He leaped to his feet and gave a signal. Immediately, four men armed with AK-47s and rifles came running and surrounded them, weapons aimed straight at them. A fifth man approached and untied their wrists. With an abrupt gesture he motioned them to stand up.