“Where’s she going?” Mattia asks. “How do I know,” Vanessa says. “I’m sorry I dragged her into this, she’s different, she’d never fuck up, she’s pure, I don’t know if I’m making sense. She’s either in or out, she doesn’t do things behind your back, she doesn’t know what betrayal is.” Mattia has already gone after her. The door to the church is open. Someone is playing the organ in the back. Mass is over, a small group of faithful, numb from the cold interior, emerge into the even colder January air. Mattia enters and finds himself in a circular vestibule that feels like the entrance to a museum. Dark paintings hang on the walls: Christ crucified and Christ risen, with a gardener’s hat and a spade in his hand, and some tombs. Painters, the inscriptions say, but their names—Salvator Rosa, Carlo Maratta—don’t mean anything to him. He walks under the big arch that leads to the nave. In a niche above him looms a giant sculpture; he wears the habit and the inconsolable sadness of a monk. To the right and left, like guardians, marble angels hold stoups for holy water. They’re looking in opposite directions: one at those who enter, the other at those who exit. The welcoming angel looks in his direction, but doesn’t see him. His eyes seem to open inwardly, contemplating a secret happiness. His wings are long and curved, like the volute of a harp. He is very beautiful.
Mattia is astounded by the immensity of the space. A few candle stubs still burn under the altars, but the light is on only in the presbytery, where it illuminates a keyboard. A bald priest in a white chasuble tries out the score, singing in a powerful baritone. Mattia can only make out the invocation, which is being repeated continuously: Ave Maria. He has lost sight of Manuela. But her footsteps echo in the silence, in time to the music. She drags her bad leg, and the sound of that limping wounds him.
The church is solemn, and its massive dimensions give rise to a vague anxiety. They banish warmth and erase all intimacy. Everything is theater. Minuscule human figures drift in the gloom among the colossal granite columns that support the vault, like crickets in the grass. One arm of the nave is taken up by the monument to Armando Diaz, Marshal of Italy, Duke of Victory. Mattia joins Manuela at the foot of the apse. Her hands rest on the balustrade that prevents access to the presbytery; she is staring at the small painting on the main altar. Much older than those on the other altars, more naïve, friendlier. Mattia thinks it looks Venetian. Manuela mumbles softly. “And you, Mother of God, purer than snow,” he can make out. “You who know every last breath and every sacrifice of your Alpini…” “Come on, we have to go,” he urges, without realizing he’s interrupting her, “your sister needs help, we shouldn’t waste time.” “This is where my funeral was supposed to be,” Manuela says.
“I’m sorry,” Mattia says, “I didn’t know.” “It was here. This basilica is called Santa Maria degli Angeli e dei Martiri, Saint Mary of the Angels and Martyrs. They always hold them here, I don’t know why. Maybe because it’s so big. I’ve seen lots of them on TV. They put the coffin on a red carpet, dress cap on top. At the end, the trumpet calls for silence, and they recite the prayer. The Alpino prayer closes with: bless and smile upon our battalions and our troops, amen. Then the priest blesses the remains with holy water and swings the incense, which means that it’s all over. For us, this is the saddest place on earth. This place means death. Our Elysian Fields. I won’t meet them on a journey to the otherworld; I could meet them in my dreams, only I don’t know how to dream. Do you remember the Odyssey? When Odysseus meets the shade of Achilles in the Elysian Fields and tries to console him, telling him he’s a great hero, the most powerful warrior that ever lived, that he was a god in life and is now the king of the dead so there’s no need to grieve over his death? And Achilles replies, I’d rather be the lowest servant of a peasant on earth than the king of this dead world.”
Mattia shudders. It’s freezing in the church, and their shadows are like ghosts on the dark floor. “I don’t believe in another life,” Manuela says. “This is the only life we have, it’s this certainty that makes the time we have worthwhile. We can’t waste it. We know we have to die. Giving one’s death is like giving one’s life. But if your death doesn’t contribute to life, then your life is truly lost. I can’t stand it. I wasn’t here, I couldn’t come, I was in the hospital. I couldn’t even say goodbye to them.” She breaks off suddenly and turns away. She catches a glimpse of the Virgin’s red dress in the painting. That and a symphony of angels. So many angels. She dries her tears on her jacket sleeve. This is the first time she has been able to cry.
Mattia leaves her to her belated funeral. Manuela always uses the plural. We, we, we. He, on the other hand, knows only the first person singular now. They can never speak the same language. He reascends the nave, stepping on a line that cuts diagonally across the floor, inscribed with the constellations of the zodiac. It’s a meridian line. It used to mark the passing of time for Rome. He wonders if it also marks the end of time, which is ritually celebrated here. Whenever he saw the ceremonies, the uniforms and flags, the false sorrow of the powerful and the infinite sorrow of the soldiers’ relatives, he would change the channel. The farewell angel greets him with the same contemplative look as his companion. But this one isn’t baroque, it’s a modern imitation. Art pays homage to those who enter, but not to those who leave; here the dead count more than the living. This church is the cemetery of all of Italy’s good intentions.
He slowly makes his way to the car. He is extraneous to Manuela’s most authentic life, as she is to his. Yet he would have wept over her friends with her, and over her entire past. The lowest servant of a peasant on earth … The surprising wisdom of Achilles. He never would have imagined that Sergeant Paris loved Homer. Prejudices.
Vanessa, looking glum, taps on the window. “Where do you want us to go?” he asks. “Home,” Vanessa orders. Mattia says she shouldn’t give up, they can keep looking, there are at least three hospitals they haven’t tried yet. And if that doesn’t work, he will take her to Campania or Tuscany, things are different there. Vanessa realizes that this stranger is worried about her, and wants to help her. Even though he’s old and probably married, he is kind, and he seems to really care for Manuela. “No,” Vanessa says, “enough. I don’t want to be told no again, or to be asked why I’m asking. I’m a human being, I have my dignity, it’s clear this was how it was supposed to go, it must be a sign, I’m converting, I don’t know if I told you.” She breaks off and bites her lip. Manuela wouldn’t want her to tell Mattia her theories about the name of God and the Jehovah’s Witnesses, it’s better if she keeps quiet. “Converting to what?” Mattia asks. “I don’t know, and anyway, I may have changed my mind already, I’m really fickle. And I’m about to faint with hunger,” she says, changing the subject. “I haven’t eaten for twenty-four hours.” So when Manuela gets back in the car he resets the GPS for Ladispoli and at ten he stops the car in front of the Paris home.
* * *
“Come on up,” Vanessa invites Mattia. “I’ll fix something; I’m a lousy cook, but I don’t want you eating crackers from the minibar all alone in your hotel room.” Mattia objects; it doesn’t seem right, he doesn’t want to invade their home. But Vanessa insists: the restaurant at the Bellavista is already closed, it’s her fault that he and Manuela couldn’t go out to dinner together. Manuela expects Mattia to hesitate, or invent an excuse. He’s always so elusive. Instead he smiles and accepts. He gracefully guides the car into the hotel garage, picks up Alessia, who is still sleeping, in his arms, and makes his way up the stairs after the Paris sisters.
He places Alessia on the bed and helps Manuela untie her shoes. They slip off her dress. Candy pink, with sequins, as if she were going to a party. Mattia lifts the covers and Manuela tucks her in. Alessia’s so tired she doesn’t even react, but lets them handle her as if she were a doll. “Where’s her father?” Mattia asks. “She doesn’t have one,” Manuela says. “Vanessa never wanted to say who it is. And she’s never wanted to live with another man because she doesn’t want to impose one on he
r.” “And how is she?” Mattia whispers. “I mean, how has it been, growing up without a father?” “Fine, she did without,” Manuela replies, gently closing the door. “Maybe because she never had one,” Mattia says. “She doesn’t know she’s missing something.” Manuela doesn’t want to ask herself why he wanted to know.
While Vanessa improvises in the kitchen, rustling up some spaghetti with garlic, olive oil, and pepperoncino, Manuela and Mattia go out on the balcony and look at the closed windows of the Bellavista. They seem small and insignificant from this side of the street. “Why did you tell Alessia that story about the Marquis of Carabas, that you’re in disguise and have to deliver a message?” she asks him. “Because you should never lie to children,” Mattia says, “it’s hard for them to tell the difference between truth and lies, and we need to help them figure it out.” “And what about adults?” Manuela asks. “I’ve never told you a lie, Manuela,” Mattia says, “I just can’t tell you the whole truth. It’s different.”
They eat in the living room, speaking softly because Alessia and Grandma are sleeping. Mattia tells them that he has invited Alessia to the Marquis of Carabas’s castle—he means the Palo Castle. Obviously she accepted enthusiastically. They have to come, too. “It’s private, you know,” Manuela says. “The owners still live there, they only open it for receptions, weddings, fashion shows.” “I guess I’ll have to rent it, then,” Mattia says, disappointed. “I already promised.” “Why are you doing this for her?” Vanessa asks. “You don’t owe us anything.” “I’m doing it for myself, not for her,” Mattia says. An unpleasant pulsing in the nape of her neck reminds Manuela that it’s time for her drops. As soon as they’re alone, Mattia asks Vanessa what day of her cycle it was last night. She doesn’t remember and has to get her planner and count the days on her fingers. “The eleventh,” she concludes. And her previous cycle, how many days was it? Thirty-one. And the one before? Thirty-two. “You’re not pregnant,” Mattia says calmly, but with conviction. “Don’t worry about it anymore.”
“What are you, a fortune-teller? Or a doctor?” Vanessa whispers. “The latter,” he says. “Trust me.” “Did you tell Manuela?” she asks. Her cat eyes scrutinize him so intently that he has to tell the truth. “No. She’s had plenty of doctors, they’ve tormented her more than enough. And besides, I can’t help her. I don’t know how to heal her wounds.”
“I’m almost out of my drops,” Manuela interrupts them, worried. She shakes the little bottle, which is nearly empty. “I don’t know how much longer they’ll last. I need a prescription. Your father’s a surgeon,” she says to Mattia, “can’t you ask him to write me one?” “No.” Mattia reacts as if what she proposed were unthinkable. “Absolutely not.” “Come on, would it really be such a big deal?” Manuela insists. “My father is dead,” Mattia says without looking at her.
They smoke the last cigarette of the day out on the balcony, the lights of the Bellavista sign bouncing in the darkness. The B is burning out and blinks intermittently, dazzling them with blue, then enveloping them in darkness. Mattia has met nearly all the Paris women now, whereas Manuela knows nothing about his family, and she doesn’t believe that his father is dead. When Mattia talked about him before, it didn’t sound like he was dead. He would have been more compassionate. But not knowing where a person comes from, what he has lived through, what he has left behind, takes away substance, depth, importance. It’s like being with a photograph. “Come to bed with me,” Mattia says, staring at the dark square of his room across the way.
* * *
At four, Manuela flails about in her sleep, screaming. She lashes out, arches her back, protects her face with her arms. Mattia shakes her by the shoulder and gets a fist in the face. “Hey, hey, you’re home, you’re with me.” Manuela wakes up and opens her eyes. She can’t remember what she was dreaming about. She’s drenched in sweat. She can’t feel her leg anymore. There’s a nail boring into the nape of her neck. She smells fire and blood. There’s no basin under the bed at the Bellavista. She vomits everything she has inside her onto the rug, until a bitter wave of bile rises from her esophagus. It’s like before, like always. She doesn’t have the strength to get out of bed and clean it. She falls back on the pillow. She can’t decide what’s worse: the pain or the humiliation. Mattia rests his ear on her racing heart. It’s like listening to a herd of bison galloping, it makes her lungs shake, her bones creak. That wild roar frightens him a little, but it also makes him sad; the pain is almost physical. “It’s never going to end,” Manuela murmurs. A tear of frustration and anger gathers on her eyelashes and trickles along her temples. She can’t fall back to sleep.
Mattia wads up the rug and throws it in the bathtub. “I’m sorry,” she says. She’s ashamed. She feels naked. It’s even worse than showing him her scar. He lends her a dry T-shirt and strokes her hair silently. They lie there, next to each other under the comforter, fingers interlaced, eyes wide open in the dark. He forces himself to stay awake. If he could, he’d tell her everything. It wouldn’t do any good, but knowing that he understands might help. Instead, every now and then, when she moves an arm or shakes, which tells him she’s still awake, he just says a word or two to let her know he’s awake, too, and won’t leave her. Ordinary words, but in the absolute silence of the night, broken only by the dripping of the air-conditioning pipes, they seem to glide solemnly down from above.
At dawn they go down to the beach for a walk, her horrific cries still ringing in his ears. They’re sitting on the cement wall at the Tahiti when the sun appears behind the apartment buildings and projects a ray of white light on the sand. “The psychologist says I have to talk about it,” she whispers, “but I don’t know what I’m supposed to say. I never remember my dreams. And I can’t talk about what I feel. They taught us that a soldier keeps his feelings inside, and I learned well, because I know it’s important.” “But we don’t talk just with words,” Mattia says. “We talk with our eyes, our hands, our bodies. I’m listening to you, Manuela.”
15
LIVE
The first article stored on Traian’s pen drive is from June 9, the day after the attack. The reconstruction of facts is perfunctory and imprecise; even the place-names are wrong. But the reporter describes the region well, he’s clearly been there. Manuela may have met him, maybe even escorted him on a reconnaissance mission. But his name means nothing to her. She’s sorry it’s not Daria Cormon. The blond reporter was unlucky. Had it happened while she was visiting Bala Bayak, she could have sold her piece to the national papers, it could have been her big break. She deserved it, she’d been touring battlefields for years; but she really did bring the soldiers good luck: nothing ever happened when she was around, and her good fortune, which made her famous among the troops, condemned her to anonymity.
The Italian soldiers—the article states—were at Qal’a-i-Shakhrak for the opening of a school for girls. This was to be the fifth school either rebuilt or reopened during the Tenth Alpini Regiment’s mission in Afghanistan. A total of fifty-five schools had been reopened since 2005, when Italy assumed command of the Provincial Reconstruction Team in Herat, but the PRT in Farah had encountered greater difficulties. The village, a cluster of dilapidated mud houses, topped by an equally dilapidated minaret, is located in western Afghanistan, on the edge of the area under Italian control: even though severe fighting continued elsewhere, a sort of truce had prevailed in Farah; unfortunately the situation deteriorated just as the Italians arrived to replace the U.S. Marines. Groups of insurgents, fleeing the fighting or flushed out over the course of the previous winter, had taken refuge in the barren hills that form the outer limit of the province, which runs parallel to the Iran border, or in the mountains and valleys that separate Farah from Helmand. With the help of U.S. aviation and intelligence, group after group had been arrested, at times one by one, in house-to-house searches. The Italians had established good relations with the village chiefs, and the district no longer seemed any more dangerous than the rest
of the country. There had been no particular reports or warnings.
It was a joyous occasion, and marked an important success in the reconstruction of a province devastated by thirty years of war. The girls’ school had already burned down three times. The Italian mission commanders and the highest Afghani civil authorities in Farah were expected to attend. But at the time of the explosion, only the Alpini EOD team had arrived, to search the area in front of the building for explosives and to signal any anomalies, along with a close protection team. The Alpini may have realized it was a trap and tried to intervene. The fact is that the attackers didn’t await the arrival of the Afghani authorities; the explosion occurred at 8:35 local time. It was one of the bloodiest sacrifices since the start of the mission. There were three casualties, all from Ninth Company. Lieutenant Nicola Russo of Barletta, thirty-three years old, married with one daughter, and Corporal-Major Diego Jodice of Marcianise, twenty-six years old, unmarried, were within the immediate blast radius of the explosion and were killed instantly. Corporal Lorenzo Zandonà of Mel, twenty-one years old, who suffered spinal injuries and grave internal hemorrhaging, died while being airlifted to the hospital in Farah. All three were due to return to Italy within days. Sergeant Manuela Paris of Ladispoli, twenty-seven years old, who was hit by shrapnel and suffered serious head injuries, is in critical condition. Three Afghani civilians were also killed.
The June 10 article didn’t add much to the initial reconstruction of facts, but it did provide further information on the victims. It noted that First Lieutenant Russo was a veteran, on his third mission in Afghanistan, and that Corporal-Major Jodice had also been previously deployed overseas. He was to be married in August. The article was accompanied by two photos: Russo, smiling affectionately at the Afghani baby girl he held in his arms, and Lorenzo and Diego in front of their Lince. Tan, relaxed, sunglasses perched on their helmets, they gaze defiantly at Manuela from the computer monitor and seem to be saying: we’ve slogged through one hundred and sixty-seven days, epigone, we’re at minus thirteen—then we’re going home.
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