“You see? Have you noticed?” Finizio says.
“Noticed what?”
“Your breathing has changed. You’re using your diaphragm—it’s going much better.”
René isn’t aware of any difference in his breathing. Instead, he has the feeling that his neck is shrinking, that his head is slowly sinking into his chest.
“Marshal, are you all right? You’re a little pale. Would you like some water?”
“No. No, thank you. No water.”
The longer he waits to say something, the more twisted his thoughts become. Now he feels that the hand that’s crushing him has to do with Finizio, that he’s the one controlling it, like a transparent extension of himself. The man is stealing his oxygen, sucking it all up for himself. And he won’t stop staring at him; maybe he’s trying to hypnotize him. René ducks his head to avoid his gaze. “Lieutenant, couldn’t you ask me some questions? It would help me.”
The psychologist smiles again, a forced smile with that irritating condescension. “We’re doing just fine,” he says.
“Just fine? But we haven’t even begun!”
Finizio opens his arms. Some of his gestures really make him seem like a priest. Someone once said to René, “You should talk to the chaplain about it.” It seems like such a long time ago.
“I’m expecting a baby.” Clearly it was his gut that expelled air in the form of words without him suggesting it; it was his diaphragm.
The psychologist nods, his smile firmly in place. Is it René’s imagination or did he already know what he was about to say?
“That’s good news. When’s the baby due?”
Due? He doesn’t know. He hasn’t yet done the calculation. “In six months,” he throws out. “More or less.”
“Good. You’ll be back in time, then.”
“Yeah.”
They fall silent again.
“I hope it’s a girl,” René adds.
“Why is that?”
“Because girls . . . well, they don’t get themselves in certain situations.”
“Are you alluding to the accident the other morning?”
René clenches his fists. “No. I mean, maybe.”
He’s not getting any benefit from the interview, only renewed frustration. The psychologist addresses him in an excessively even tone of voice. He seems to want to accuse him of something. And when he remains silent, like now, it’s even worse. The idea of offering moral support is a trap, probably. But what is he suspected of? Treason? Abuse of power? Homicide? He won’t fall for it.
“Marshal, are you familiar with the term ‘post-traumatic stress syndrome’?”
“Yes, they talked about it in the training course.”
“And do you think post-traumatic stress may have something to do with you, at this moment?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I told you. I don’t have tremors or hallucinations. Last night I slept and I didn’t have nightmares.”
“So you’re not experiencing a phase of post-traumatic stress.”
“Tremors, hallucinations, nightmares. Those are the symptoms I remember.”
“Are they the only symptoms?”
“Yes. That’s what they taught us in the course. And I don’t have them.”
“So what did you dream about instead, Marshal?”
“I never dream, sir.”
“Never?”
“Never.”
• • •
Cederna, when his turn comes, is even less cooperative. His companions’ long faces have put him in a bad mood; he thinks it’s ridiculous for them to be competing to see who can display the most grief over what happened. They should have thought of it before. It’s sad, in fact, goddamned sad, and he’s hurting too, but he certainly has no intention of showing it. Besides they’re at war—what did they think, that people don’t die in war? He’s a realist and sometimes reality is hard to face, because existence is raw and it bites you, but if you want to be smart, you have to keep your eyes wide open, at all times. Instead they’re making him meet with a psychologist. A navy guy, besides. Of all the bullshit the army has subjected him to, this is undoubtedly the worst.
“. . . so I’d like you to speak freely, without omitting or censoring anything.” Finizio completes his introduction and sits there waiting, but Cederna is quick to throw him a curve.
“With all due respect, Lieutenant, there’s nothing I want to talk to you about.”
“Forget the formalities, Cederna. In fact, let’s do this. From this moment on I am no longer a captain. Look, I’ll even take off my stripes. Now I’m just Andrea. And you? May I call you Francesco?”
“Cederna is fine, Lieutenant. Senior Corporal Major Cederna is even better. Or soldier, if you’re more comfortable with that. Francesco is only for my friends.”
“And you think I’m not a friend?”
“I think it’s unlikely I would have a friend like you, Lieutenant.”
The psychologist flinches. Cederna has to contain a grin of satisfaction. He has him right where he wants him.
“And why is that?”
He shrugs. “I choose my friends by instinct. I sniff them out. I’m a wolf—didn’t they tell you?”
“No, they didn’t tell me. And what did you sniff in me?”
“No censoring?”
“Like I said.”
“The stench of compromise. And piss.”
“Piss? Really?”
“You’re pissing your pants being here, Lieutenant. You’d rather be nice and comfortable behind a desk, far away from these god-awful places. Instead look where they’ve sent you.”
Finizio nods. Cederna enjoys seeing him disconcerted.
“That’s interesting. I’ll give it some thought. Do you want to tell me about some god-awful place I haven’t yet seen, then? Maybe the valley you came through.”
“Why should I?”
“Because I haven’t been there.”
“Do a search on Google. Just enter the name. Try ‘fucking hell.’ That way you can get a taste of it from behind your desk.”
“I’d rather you told me about it.”
“I don’t feel like it.”
“Okay, Cederna. I understand how difficult it is to communicate at this time. To externalize emotions other than anger. It’s all still very raw and grief silences us. You’re afraid that if you open the floodgate a river of pain will pour out that you won’t be able to stand, but I’m here to help you.”
“Grief doesn’t shut me up in the least. I can talk as much as I want. Blah blah blah blah. See? Even more, blah blah blah blah. I just have nothing to say to you, Mr. Lieutenant Commander.” Now the psychologist will dismiss him and this idiocy, too, will be over. Let him go ahead and write his venomous report afterward. Cederna has a résumé that would make any commission’s eyes pop. To get into the special forces, they certainly won’t be looking at that psychological shit.
Finizio looks up, his expression less conciliatory. “I see that you were the one who gathered up your friends,” he says point-blank. “It must have been a very painful task.”
“Who said they were my friends?”
“They weren’t allowed to call you Francesco either?”
“It’s none of your business what they called me.”
“Did they smell of piss too?”
“Shut your mouth!”
Finizio consults a folder. “I think they were your friends. One in particular. I must have noted his name somewhere . . . Here it is. Corporal Roberto Ietri. You two were—”
“Leave him out of it.”
“It says here that you—”
“I TOLD YOU TO SHUT UP, ASSHOLE!”
The psychologist remains expressionless. “Do you want to talk about this
one? About Corporal Ietri?”
The blood is pounding in his ears. It’s the first time Cederna has let himself think about Ietri since he whispered to his corpse. His friend’s forehead had already been cold when he touched it, the shape of the sideburns still visible, though somewhat botched; Ietri wasn’t practiced enough to keep them perfectly trimmed. He hadn’t had time to learn.
Without realizing it Cederna stands up. Now his massive bulk is looming over the navy officer. “Can I tell you what’s really going through my head, Lieutenant?”
“Please do.”
“What’s going through my head is that you are a disgusting piece of shit. You come here and tell me that grief silences us. Us who? You weren’t there. You were somewhere else. On one of those ships, reading your fucking psychology manuals. I know guys like you, Lieutenant Commander, you hear? The ones who’ve gone to university. You think you know everything. But you don’t know squat. NOT A THING! You like to get into other people’s heads, don’t you? Stir up the shit. You’d enjoy hearing me tell you all about my private affairs. You’d like that, right? You’d be all aroused there under the table. Ugly cross-eyed fucking pervert. Don’t you ever dare mention Corporal Ietri in front of me again, you hear me? He was a real man. You knocked on the wrong door, Mr. Psychologist. There are plenty of faggots here—go look for them outside. Unfortunately for you, I’m not one of them. I don’t talk about my goddamn business with just anybody. This interview is over.”
When he leaves the mess hall, slamming the door behind him, he feels like beating someone up, banging heads, bashing, shooting, killing. Instead he rushes over to the tavern, where he orders the closest thing to an alcoholic drink—a can of Red Bull. It’s not enough to rinse out his mind. Ietri plunks himself back in his head again, dead and then alive. Was he really a friend? He certainly was the nearest thing to a friend he’d found in a long time. As an adult, you no longer have any real friends, that’s the awful truth. You leave the best years behind and you settle for scraps. Ietri was better than scraps, though. What the hell is happening to him? He’s becoming a crybaby. The verginella is gone. That’s it, finished. It’s time to face reality, toughen up.
As he tries unsuccessfully to calm down, he listens to a conversation between two marines. He doesn’t understand all the words, but he hears them mention a masseuse who practices at the base. For Cederna, a masseuse in a military camp means only one thing, and in fact the marines are enthusiastic as they talk about her, making unmistakable gestures with their hands. That’s just what he needs to get rid of all the rage in his body: sex. Then for sure he’d be able to wipe it all out of his head: the bloody sheep, Ietri’s hair matted with sand, the ambush, Agnese treating him like a loser, and that psychologist’s face asking to be smacked. He’d sweep it all away.
He interrupts the soldiers and asks them how to find the woman.
He goes there after supper. The directions lead him to a set of sheet metal buildings near the prison, in an area off the beaten track. A sign that says “Wellness Center” is Scotch-taped to the door. The hours of operation aren’t listed.
Cederna knocks, but no one answers. He pushes the door open. A woman sprawled out in a plastic chair is smoking a cigarette. The white apron she’s wearing over her fleece sweatshirt makes her look like a cook. Her facial features are neither Western nor Asian. Under the pullover her arms must be fleshy and flabby.
“Massage?” Cederna asks.
The woman nods behind the pall of smoke. She gestures to him to wait. Then she gets up, stubs the cigarette out in an overflowing ashtray, and moves aside a curtain dividing the room into two parts. On the other side there’s a cot with folded towels on it, and a bowl of water on the floor with four flower petals floating on the surface.
“Ten dollars for thirty minutes,” she says in English.
“Huh?”
“Ten dollars. Thirty minutes.” The woman enunciates clearly.
Cederna is unfamiliar with the hourly rates for a masseuse and has only a vague idea of those of prostitutes, but it seems like highway robbery to him. Ten dollars! Nothing at the military bases is that outrageously expensive. But he has a desperate desire to have her hands on him. “Okay,” he says, and starts for the cot.
The woman stops him. “First you pay.”
Greedy bitch! Cederna flips through his wallet. He shows the woman a bill. “Five euros. Like ten dollars.”
She shakes her head sternly. “Ten dollars, ten euros.”
“Okay, okay. Fuck.” He slaps a creased ten-euro bill in her hand, as if she were stealing from him.
The woman doesn’t turn a hair. She invites him to lie down. “Undress,” she orders him.
“What?”
“Undress, you. You naked,” she explains by gesturing, then pulls the curtain and leaves him to himself.
It’s just the kind of place where what he needs to happen happens. He holds a towel up against the light—it’s very threadbare in some spots, almost see-through—and he brings it to his face to sniff it. He feels a vague sense of uneasiness. If Ietri were still alive they would have come here together. For the corporal it would have been just the right time; he could have dumped that nickname, verginella. Or maybe not. Cederna would have gone on calling him that even afterward. They would have had a few drinks together and he would have grilled him for details. He feels dizzy; he has to lean on the cot to keep from falling over. Why does his mind keep going back to him? He has no intention of saddling himself with a ghost. He has to banish it right now.
He unbuckles his belt. He undresses quickly, though he takes the trouble to fold his clothes. He has to think about himself; there’s no other way to get ahead in life. He’s paid ten euros and he might as well get everything he can for it. He strips off his underwear as well. He stands there naked, unsure what to do. Maybe he wasn’t supposed to undress completely—the masseuse wasn’t clear about the underwear. Suddenly he feels embarrassed. He puts his boxers back on and lies down on the cot like that, but immediately has second thoughts. He hops down, pulls them back off, and stretches out on his stomach again, with the towel over his butt.
“Ready?” the voice on the other side asks.
The massage starts at the extremities. Cederna is surprised by the woman’s strength. She pokes her fingers one by one into the tight spaces between his toes and then tugs as if wanting to yank his bones out. With her thumb she presses on a point at the center of the sole, causing a shiver to spread out and race up to his head. Then she moves on to the calves. Her palms, slick with scented oil, slide over Cederna’s muscles.
He stares at the floating rose petals, motionless in the bowl.
From the thighs, she ventures under the worn towel and strokes his buttocks. On the way down, her fingertips graze his groin, then pull back right away, leaving him unsatisfied. His body is full of tension that he’s having trouble letting go of.
Don’t think, don’t think. Stop it. Don’t think.
The woman kneads his back; it hurts but he grits his teeth. She works on the cramped nerves at length, torturing them with her thumbs. When she sticks an elbow between his shoulder blades, Cederna lets out a groan and shrugs her off.
“Massage too strong?” she asks, not at all frightened.
His pride prevents him from telling the truth. “No, not too strong. Keep going.”
It relieves the pressure, in any case. Cederna likes it when she gets to the back of his neck and his scalp. He struggles not to fall asleep, until the woman brusquely orders him to turn over on his back, then starts again. Back of the foot. Ankles. Quadriceps. Now she’s more perfunctory. When she’s done with his legs she gets rid of the towel, tossing it aside. Cederna’s prodigious erection is right under her nose, in plain sight.
There. Now we’re getting somewhere.
He opens his eyes for a moment, takes a peek at the woman’s face. She doesn�
��t seem unsettled and he feels a little affronted by this. She massages his abdomen distractedly.
Cederna has never had sex with a foreign woman. He could easily pick up an illness from someone like her—AIDS, gonorrhea, or something hideous and unknown, one of those infections that disfigure the genitals. Never mind; he’ll worry about it later. He’ll wash himself off thoroughly. Right now he just wants to get rid of Ietri’s ashen face that has suddenly appeared before him.
The woman has turned off the neon ceiling light and in its place switched on a lamp with a red-tinted bulb. The squalor of the small room is softened, though not entirely. As she keeps prodding around his groin, teasing him, a dark infinite sadness overcomes the senior corporal major. He suddenly feels a longing for Agnese, for Ietri, and for something indistinct and his alone, like a secret he knew a long time ago and has forgotten.
“Baby massage?”
“Huh?”
“You want a massage for your baby?”
Cederna flounders in his sadness. The masseuse explains, making the same gesture used by the marines. Seen from below, in the reddish light, she’s not very attractive. It doesn’t matter. Cederna tries to pull her to him by the arm. She twists free, again displaying her strength. “No! No sex!” she shrieks. “Only massage.”
Bewildered, he lets go. “No sex? But I gave you ten euros!”
“No sex,” the woman insists and takes a step back, folding her arms.
Cederna punches the side of the cot with his fist.
“Baby massage? Yes or no?”
He gives in. Okay, baby massage, whatever. As long as it takes him away from where he is. He lets his arms drop along the sides.
“You want music?” the woman asks.
“No. Please. No music.”
• • •
At the American base, garbage of all kinds has piled up alongside the wooden walkways and in the drainage ditches. A population of feral cats moves cautiously through the trash; occasionally the cats stop, spot something, then pounce forward. René doesn’t see even a single rat, but clearly they’re around, and in abundance.
The Human Body Page 24