“Go on, verginella, move,” Cederna urges him from behind.
But Ietri’s calves are as heavy as wet sandbags. He can’t even think about raising his leg to kick. His boots might have fused with the ground, for all he knows. “I can’t,” he says.
“What do you mean, you can’t?”
“I can’t.”
“Why can’t you?”
“I feel dizzy.”
Cederna is silent for a second; Ietri feels his hand on his shoulder. René is signaling him again to break down the door.
“Breathe, Roberto,” Cederna says. “Do you hear me?”
He can’t die, not as long as his mother is alive. She’s already been through so much, poor woman. Roberto Ietri’s life doesn’t belong to Roberto Ietri, not entirely; a nice big chunk of it still belongs to his mother and he can’t let himself take it away from her. It would be a crime, a sacrilege. He feels so light-headed. Sweat is running down his forehead and down his neck, under his armpits, pouring down inside his clothes.
“Take long, deep breaths, okay? Just do that. Breathe. It’s the only thing you have to worry about. Everything will be fine. Count to five. Keep breathing. Kick down that fucking door, then jump aside. I’m here to cover you. You hear me, Roberto?”
Ietri nods. What about his final thought, though? And his mother? The hell with his mother.
“Breathe, Roberto.”
One.
How does it go? Which comes first, the noise of the blast or the bullet? For sure the interval isn’t enough to get out of the bullet’s path. But maybe it’s enough for the brain to understand, to tell the rest of the body it’s on its way, you’re dead.
Two.
He glimpses movement at the edge of his field of vision, to the left. He snaps his head around and sees a white flash of light.
Three.
It’s just a stone reflecting the sun’s rays. He looks in front of him. The door, the door, the door, kick down the door.
Four.
He shuts his eyes a minute, jumps to the side, and kicks with his right leg. The wood shudders, the door bursts open, springs back once, then stops halfway, still attached to its hinges.
• • •
Egitto returns to the infirmary with his sleeping bag rolled up under his arm and catches Irene snooping on his computer. Before he has a chance to say anything to her, like, how the hell did she discover his e-mail password and would she mind exiting his mailbox immediately, she defuses him with the most seraphic voice in the world: “I didn’t know about the child you saved. The commander told me. That’s wonderful, Alessandro. I was moved.” With a smooth, swift gesture—not swift enough, however—she closes the mailbox and brings up another window, which contains a sterile list of folders. She turns to him. “You’re kind of a hero, in fact.”
Egitto, staggered by such nerve, finds nothing better to do than collapse in the chair across the table, like a customer in a travel agency, or one of his patients. He drops the sleeping bag. “I wouldn’t say that,” he snaps.
All right. If Irene is willing to pass over the reason he went to sleep in another tent last night and why he’s now come back looking haggard, he, in return, won’t ask her to account for her awkward intrusion into his private life. After all, there’s nothing really that interesting in his e-mail. They seal that pact in silence, in a fraction of a second. A residue of accord still exists between them.
Irene frowns, gazes into the lieutenant’s eyes with great tenderness. “I didn’t get around to telling you yesterday, but I heard about your father. I’m so sorry, Alessandro. It’s just awful.”
This time Egitto isn’t able to suppress his irritation. “And you came all the way here to give me your condolences?”
“You’re so harsh. Always on the defensive.” Then, suddenly cheery, she adds: “So, tell me, what have you been up to all this time? Are you married? Do you have a million kids?”
“I have the impression you’re already in possession of that information.”
Irene shakes her head. “You’re the same as always. You haven’t changed one iota.” Is that meant to be a criticism? Or rather, a show of relief? Friendships fall into exactly two categories: those who’d like you to change and those who hope you’ll always stay the same. Irene undoubtedly belongs in the second camp. “Anyway, no,” she continues, “I’m not in possession of ‘that information,’ as you put it. Still, I admit to having noticed that your ring finger is still bare.”
Hers is too, Egitto observes. “And you’re in Gulistan for what? To investigate?”
“Let’s say I’m making a tour of the bases in the south. Just to see how things are going.”
“And how are they going?”
“Worse than they seem.” She remains absorbed for a moment, withdrawn.
“Meaning?”
She turns back to him with an icy expression. “Forgive me, Alessandro. I can’t discuss the details of my assignment with you. I have instructions that come . . . from above, you know.” She flutters her hands vaguely.
“Of course. I didn’t know you were involved in such a mission, that’s all.”
In fact, he’s irritated by Irene’s superior manner, as well as by being more curious than he’d like to be about the circumstances that brought her to Gulistan—and about her life. He’s also remotely envious. All of a sudden there seems to be an implicit disparity between them: while Irene Sammartino has become someone who receives instructions from above, he has pursued the inconsequential career of a junior army officer.
“You’ve moved up. I get it,” he says.
“Oh, no big deal,” Irene replies, self-importantly. “I’m just staff, like all the others.” Then she adds, as if offering him a small concession: “In recent years, however, I’ve learned Dari. It’s a language that fascinates me. So ancient. It has convoluted and very elegant ways of saying the simplest things.”
At one time, like many of his willing colleagues, Egitto had also attempted to learn Dari. He still has the manual somewhere in his footlocker. He didn’t get beyond the greetings. Irene, however, must have taken the challenge seriously—she’s a persistent woman. His brilliant classmate let the fruit of her awesome study ripen and is now waving it, succulent and sweet-smelling, under his nose. It doesn’t work out that way for everyone, Egitto thinks; the tree of knowledge also produces fruit that is stunted and bitter. He remains silent.
Irene unplugs the power cord from the laptop, as if it were really her computer after all and he merely some annoying pain in the neck. “If you don’t mind, I’ll take it over there. I have an urgent report to finish. With us, it’s a disaster—they’re continually seizing our computers for security reasons, they always have to . . . update them. It’s exasperating. I’ll see you for lunch, if you want.” Once again without asking his permission, with the impulsiveness that characterizes her, she picks up the laptop, blows him a kiss, and disappears around the canvas divider. Once again Lieutenant Egitto, as dismayed as if his lunch has just been snatched away, is unable to object.
• • •
Ietri’s face is red, his lips scored by small, dark cracks with a blob of saliva clotted at each corner. He feels confused. He has the urge to vomit and he’s more fatigued than he’s ever been in his entire life. He dumps his helmet and backpack on the ground, grabs his canteen, drinks until he has to come up for air, then spits.
“Well? Did you get them?” Zampieri had stayed behind the whole time to guard the vehicles; she probably gnawed her fingers till they bled while she was waiting.
Ietri shakes his head, avoids looking at her.
“The bastards,” she says.
He’d been afraid, scared shitless, and now all that fear can’t find a way out. It’s stuck in his throat. He’s about to start crying, but he can’t, he mustn’t, because the men are around and Zampieri is right the
re. Is he a soldier or what? Isn’t this what he wanted? Isn’t this the reason that he trained, the reason he marched for dozens of hours up and down the mountains? If Zampieri doesn’t quit staring at him that way, he really might burst into tears. He leans against the hood of the Lince. It’s sizzling hot, but he doesn’t move. He’d stayed outside, frozen against the wall of the house, while the others scoured the interior. When they came out escorting the family, he tagged after them, like the last of the seven dwarves, the dopey one whose tunic is too long.
Cederna surprises him from behind. He pounces on him, grabs him by the collar of his camouflage vest, and knocks him to the ground. “Were you trying to get yourself killed, verginella? Huh? Did you want them to put a hole in your belly, you son of a bitch? Right here? Did you want a fucking hole right here?”
He presses his knee into Ietri’s stomach, against the lead plate of his bulletproof vest. Ietri protects his face with his hands. “I’m sorry,” he gasps.
“Sorry? Sorry? Sorry doesn’t fucking cut it, verginella! Tell God Almighty you’re sorry. He’s the one who saved you.”
Cederna slaps him once, then a second time. Quick smacks that take Ietri by surprise and cloud his vision. Cederna picks up a handful of dirt and throws it at his buddy’s face—maybe he’d like to stuff it in his mouth, suffocate him, but he doesn’t. Ietri doesn’t defend himself; Cederna is right. He feels like his chest might cave in at any moment. The dirt gets in his nose, his eyes.
It’s Zampieri who comes to his aid. “Leave him alone,” she says, but Cederna shoves her away.
“Why didn’t you move? Huh? Why didn’t you move, you ugly piece of shit?” His eyes are red, possessed. He knees him again, cutting off his breath. “Fuck it!” Cederna swears, then lets go of him and quickly walks off, swearing at the Virgin Mary.
Ietri coughs for a long time, writhing, unable to stop. After he’d kicked in the door he’d stood there, rooted to the spot, until Cederna covered him. If there’d been a gun in there, he’d be in the arms of the Creator now. His first taste of action was a total failure, and everyone witnessed it. His head abandoned him almost immediately and instinct did not take over. Not even the worst, the most inexperienced soldier in the world would have behaved that way. Surely René thinks so too: when he’d slapped him lightly on the butt and said “Good job” earlier, he didn’t really mean it; it was just to encourage him, and in fact he’d quickly turned on his heels.
Zampieri kneels beside him. “Look what he did to you,” she says.
She slips the keffiyeh from around her neck. She pours some water from the canteen on it and wrings it out. She pats his face, first his forehead, then his cheeks.
“What are you doing?”
“Ssshh. Close your eyes.”
She wets the keffiyeh again and wipes his neck. When it goes behind his ears, Ietri feels an intense pleasure. He shivers. “I don’t know why he acts like such an asshole sometimes,” he says.
She smiles at him. “He cares about you. That’s all.”
But it’s not true. Cederna didn’t beat him up because he cares about him, he beat him up because his own life could have been at stake. Ietri had put every one of them in danger. He tries to get up, but the girl holds him down. “Wait.”
She passes the cloth under his nose to wipe away the encrusted snot.
“Doesn’t it disgust you?”
“Disgust me? No. Not even a little.”
Symbols and Surprises
Torsu’s illness is never-ending. The food poisoning led to dysentery, the dysentery to a fever. To bring it down he took antibiotics, which caused a gingival abscess and another fever, which kept him in bed so long that he developed hemorrhoids. The shooting pains make him cry like a baby. If that weren’t enough, now that his temperature is at least under control, he feels really depressed. His platoon mates treat him with a lack of concern, or open hostility. When they bring him his meals in the tent, the food is cold and even more disgusting than usual. No one is eager to stop and keep him company during the afternoon, and all those hours alone in bed have a crushing effect on him. At the beginning it wasn’t like that—they took care of him—but his lingering infirmity quickly irritated them. This morning Cederna, going past his cot, taunted him with a resounding gibe: “Another day of jacking off, honeybunch?”
“I’m sick.”
“Right, you’re yellow as piss. If you ask me you’re going to die, Sardinian.”
There’s more. He’s just made a disturbing discovery. If he lines his toes up on the sleeping bag, he can clearly see that his right leg is longer than the other. He’d never noticed it—it must have been the illness that made him asymmetrical: the affliction modified his body. Just to be sure, he does a few tests. He lies down nice and straight on the cot, arms down along his sides, flexes the arches of his feet as far as he can, then raises his head slightly to look: there’s no doubt about it—the right leg is longer than the left, the tip of the big toe extends much farther out. The thought drives him wild. He imagines half of his body expanding. There was a guy in his village who wore corrective shoes, with a black wedge under one of his feet to balance him out, but even so he walked like a cripple and was plainly avoided by everyone. Overwrought, Torsu writes to his virtual girlfriend, the only person he can confide in. It takes a great deal of courage to explain what’s happened to him, but she appears indifferent, skeptical.
THOR_SARDEGNA: i wasn’t like that before, don’t you see?
TERSICORE89: it’s just your impression. you must be tired, try to sleep on it
THOR_SARDEGNA: that’s all you tell me these days, that I should sleep. hell, that’s all i do. i’ve had enough of sleeping. and if i tell you that my right leg has gotten longer you should believe me, but no, because you always know everything
TERSICORE89: i don’t like you talking to me in that tone
THOR_SARDEGNA: i’ll talk to you any way i like
For nearly half an hour Torsu stares at the screen of the laptop that’s resting on his belly (besides being the only place possible, it warms his stomach pleasantly). He doesn’t write anything and Tersicore89 doesn’t either. Every now and then he takes a peek at his feet; now it seems like his right leg is growing longer by the minute. He’s becoming a monster! Tersicore89 is still online, mute. Come on, say something! In the end, he’s the one who gives in.
THOR_SARDEGNA: would you still love me if i were different than i am?
TERSICORE89: i’ve never even seen you! . . . i love you for what’s expressed in the words you write, nitwit. i don’t care how long your legs are. and you?
THOR_SARDEGNA: me, what?
TERSICORE89: would you love me even if you found out i’m different than you imagine?
Torsu stiffens. He plumps up the pillow to straighten his back. What does she mean? Different how? Zampieri’s words run through his head: If you ask me, she’s a he.
THOR_SARDEGNA: different how?
TERSICORE89: who knows . . .
THOR_SARDEGNA: stop teasing me!!! different how?
TERSICORE89: look, i really don’t like the way you’re talking to me today. you’re abusive and aggressive. i think you need to get some rest. we’ll talk when you’re feeling calmer.
THOR_SARDEGNA: I ASKED YOU DIFFERENT HOW! ANSWER ME!
TERSICORE89: hey i don’t take orders from you. i’m not a serviceman
THOR_SARDEGNA: why did you write serviceman?
TERSICORE89: ???
THOR_SARDEGNA: you wrote SERVICEMAN
TERSICORE89: so?
THOR_SARDEGNA: you should have written SERVICEWOMAN, not SERVICEMAN
TERSICORE89: i don’t know what you’re talking about
THOR_SARDEGNA: oh no? you don’t know? i think you know very well
TERSICORE89: you should get some sleep
What a fiasco! Torsu feels his te
mperature rising quickly, clenching his temples. His sweaty fingers slip on the keyboard. A man! For months he’s had a relationship with a man, a fucking pervert. He feels like throwing up. He writes the question and deletes it, then rewrites it, looks at it for a while, and finally presses the send key.
THOR_SARDEGNA: are you a guy?
His virtual girlfriend—or his boyfriend, at this point he has no idea anymore—takes her time thinking about it. It’s not a question that requires reflection: either you’re a man or you’re not; few issues are that simple in the world. If she’s hedging, it’s because she’s considering how to get around the truth. From time to time, Torsu continues to monitor the state of his lower limbs. Very soon he’ll end up deformed, and alone.
TERSICORE89: you’re pathetic. good-bye.
She disconnects immediately. Torsu figures it’s probably over between them and, at the moment, he doesn’t feel any great regret.
In the afternoon, however, as he crosses the square (with the impression of limping, as if his pelvis were now off kilter), he automatically thinks, Now I’ll go write to Tersicore89, and the recoil from that thought chills him. What the hell was he thinking? Tersicore89 can’t possibly be a man, not after all the wonderful, intimate things they wrote to each other. It must have been extreme exhaustion that made him imagine something so absurd. And that meddlesome Zampieri. The problem is he’s not sure how to put things right now, he’s not too experienced in apologizing. But what is he worrying about? He’ll find a way for sure.
The Human Body Page 13