But First Corporal Major Torsu . . . that’s a hell of a problem. Especially given the condition he’s now in. It’s understandable that the family is looking for someone to blame—let’s admit it, a scapegoat. (The major doesn’t say those last words, in all likelihood deeming them to be biased.)
“The situation,” Caracciolo continues, “is complicated by a report drafted by a neutral observer who was visiting the FOB during the period in question.”
Egitto’s arms jerk involuntarily, just the kind of somatic reaction that should be avoided in such circumstances. He grips his knees to keep himself anchored. The observer Caracciolo has so mysteriously referred to is actually a she, but Egitto has the distinct impression that he’s the only one in the room who knows it. He decides to keep that little detail to himself.
In Irene Sammartino’s report the lieutenant is described as being—and here the colonel quotes verbatim—“in an evident state of lethargy, fatigued, not very lucid,” which would explain his “injudicious assessment” of First Corporal Major Torsu’s physical condition. Caracciolo adds, on a personal note, that a little exhaustion seems to him the least you could expect after months and months spent in that hell; again the major taking minutes stops writing, leaving out the justification.
Lastly, the colonel reminds Egitto that this is a friendly interview. He invites him to take the floor, but Egitto is still absorbed by the image of Irene, sitting at a desk in a darkened room, tapping swiftly on her keyboard and then printing her document. She’d complained that her computer was continually being requisitioned: they must have given it back to her. I’m just staff, Alessandro, like all the others.
“Lieutenant?” the colonel prompts him.
Why did she do it? Was it because he didn’t call her? No, that’s absurd. She did it because that’s her job; she had no choice. She was assigned to submit a report and she wrote it. Irene Sammartino is not the type of professional who shirks her responsibilities. She treats the system’s infirmities with a determination that keeps her from having any regard for anyone.
The lieutenant has a sudden feeling of tenderness toward her, for the solitude life has forced on her: transferred from base to base, among strangers, compiling reports for which she is then hated—a stateless individual hopelessly on the outside. Was it because of this similarity of theirs that they clung so tightly to each other in the darkness of the tent? He can imagine the regret his friend must have felt as she reread the report. Maybe she walked into the kitchen, poured a glass of wine, and swallowed it down in one gulp. He can still clearly picture the ceremonious way she has of tossing her head back when she has a drink, but he can’t say he misses her, not really. Not all forms of attachment correspond to longing.
“Do you recognize these?”
The officer to the left of Caracciolo had been silent until now, as if waiting for the right moment to enter the scene. His voice is higher than one might imagine from his imposing physique. Egitto turns to look at him.
He’s holding up a transparent plastic bag, the body of proof. It contains a handful of yellow-and-blue capsules: by the looks of it, enough for a month’s treatment. Jumbled up in the bag like that they look innocuous, even cheerful.
“Are they yours, Lieutenant?”
“They were mine. Yes, sir.”
The officer puts the evidence back on the table, satisfied. The capsules’ gentle clatter sounds like a drizzle. The major is feverishly taking notes.
Caracciolo is now studying him with a look of consternation. He shakes his head. “I’m forced to ask you, Alessandro. How long has this situation with the psychotropic drugs been going on?”
Egitto grips his knees even tighter. He sits up straighter. “Please, Colonel, don’t you call them that too.”
“Why, what should I call them?”
“Anything but that. Antidepressants. Medication. Even tablets is fine. But not psychotropic drugs. It confers a rather hasty moral judgment.”
“And don’t you think a moral judgment is called for?”
“Why?”
“Because of the fact that you take those . . . those things.”
“Drugs,” the officer to his left suggests. The major records it: drugs.
Egitto replies slowly: “If you feel the need to formulate a moral judgment about it, you’re free to do so.”
Suddenly he’s out of patience. Not because of the way they’re grilling him, not because of the hostility shown by the external members, which they make no attempt to hide, and not because they’ve waved a bag in front of him containing irrefutable proof of his weakness. The problem is something else. Irene Sammartino, the disciplinary committee, the distant relatives of First Corporal Major Torsu, avid for justice and also for money . . . they’re all right, and the realization hits him like a resounding slap. He shouldn’t have let him go. He’d left it up to the soldier to decide, believing that Angelo Torsu’s body belonged to Angelo Torsu, period, whereas he was his appointed guardian. He’d found it more convenient to look the other way instead, wallowing in a pall of indolence and self-pity. Fatigued, not very lucid. An evident state of lethargy.
It seems that, in the end, his innate inclination to not intervene has had its consequences—the worst possible. Caracciolo said it well earlier: a moral judgment is called for, and theirs can only testify against him. Why, then, does he suddenly feel so alert, refreshed almost, as if things were finally falling into place?
He takes a deep breath, then another. Then he turns to the colonel: “I take full responsibility for what happened.”
Caracciolo grabs the major’s arm. “Don’t write that! It shouldn’t be recorded . . . you can clearly see that we’re still framing the situation.” The major is skeptical, but indulges him. “Alessandro, please don’t be rash. I’m sure there must have been some circumstantial reasons why you chose to act one way rather than another. You probably need to take your time and reconstruct them calmly.”
“First Corporal Major Torsu was not in any condition to confront a mission of that kind, Colonel.”
“Yes, but that has nothing to do with the explosion and all the rest! And if it hadn’t been Mr. Torsu on board that Lince, on the turret, but someone else—” He stops, perhaps realizing that his line of reasoning is about to exceed an acceptable level of cynicism. He tries another approach: “If we always used the utmost caution in war . . . well, it would be a disaster—we’d be defeated in the blink of an eye . . . At one time they didn’t send soldiers back from the front even if they had pneumonia, let alone a little diarrhea.”
The colonel is doing his best to defend him. The incident will be reabsorbed, he’d promised him. But for Egitto it’s too late: the hemorrhaging coagulated some time ago. Torsu was flung out of the Lince, among the stunned sheep, his cheeks raked over the rocks.
“It was my duty to safeguard the corporal’s health.”
“Two hundred men!” Caracciolo talks over him, as if he hasn’t even heard him. “Imagine worrying about two hundred men day and night. The probability of an oversight is huge. And we’re not talking about a normal place, we’re talking about—”
Egitto raises the volume of his voice slightly: “I made a mistake, Colonel. The responsibility is mine.”
He reasserts it so firmly that this time Caracciolo can’t prevent the major from recording it. Speechless, he stares at Egitto: Why is he doing it? Why does he want to cause problems for himself, unnecessarily? You don’t get anywhere by being a hero, by being conscientious—hasn’t he figured that out yet?
But it’s not a matter between them, nor an issue of loyalty to a principle. For Egitto, it’s much simpler than that: it’s purely about understanding what concerns you and what doesn’t. The bodies of the soldiers at FOB Ice were his concern. He responds to the colonel in silence: Go ahead, do what you’re supposed to do and get it over with.
Caracciolo
sighs. Then, in a tone that is no longer quite so amiable, he says: “It would be best for us to resume this conversation later on. The lieutenant has the right to have some time to develop his defense strategy.” He straightens the packet of papers, evening out the pages.
“What about these?” the officer without stripes asks, shaking the bag of pills.
“Oh, for God’s sake! Do me a favor!” Caracciolo explodes. “Throw them away!” Then, turning to Egitto: “Alessandro, you should know that we are considering a suspension of two to four months, plus a penalty that we’ll discuss later. Pending a resolution, I am obliged to relieve you of your duties. I realize that you reside in the barracks, but you will have to find a temporary accommodation. I will do my best to see that the room is returned to you when you return to service.”
“It’s not necessary, Colonel.” Egitto says it without having planned to. There it is, then, a new opportunity to change his life.
Caracciolo is visibly disappointed. “What do you mean?”
“I accept the maximum suspension. And you don’t have to worry about the room. In fact, Colonel, there’s something I’d like to talk to you about.”
• • •
He manages with very little baggage: two crammed duffel bags and a backpack—living in the barracks has trained him to travel light. He’ll decide later what to do about the furnishings he paid for out of his own pocket; for now they’ll be stored in a warehouse in the outskirts.
Marianna came running at the news of his imminent departure. She’s wearing a very long black sweater and heavy makeup that coarsens her pale complexion.
“They can’t kick you out like this. It’s crazy.”
“They’re not kicking me out. They’re reassigning me. It’s pretty normal, you know.”
“Yeah, sure, too bad they didn’t even give you the chance to choose. Retaliation, plain and simple. To send you to such an abominable place. Belluno, who’s ever heard of it? I didn’t even remember where it was, until today.”
He didn’t tell her the real truth. In fact, what he told her is his own rather sketchy version, full of omissions. All the energy he feels charged with isn’t enough to make him admit to Marianna that it was he who decided to leave, to give it all up, as she’d said earlier on the phone. “They make excellent knödel up there,” he jokes. “You know what that is?”
Marianna shakes her head. “Who cares.”
She’s sitting on the bed, her back against the wall, her shoes disrespectfully resting on the soft white mattress stripped of its sheets. Her chin tucked into her chest makes her look kind of sulky. Egitto isn’t really sure why, but his sister still has an adolescent way of curling up into a fetal position. Maybe it’s just that in his eyes she will remain eternally young, a little girl, even when she has gray hair and wrinkles. It occurs to him that this is only the second time she’s set foot in his room: the day he’d arrived and now, when he’s about to leave the barracks.
“I’m telling you that if we put it in the hands of an attorney, for sure—”
“No lawyers. Drop it.”
Marianna toys with her fingers, trying to touch them together one by one. She’s capable of supernatural concentration; her motor coordination is as perfect as it used to be. Even after all the battles she’s involved him in, the affection that Egitto feels for her remains intact.
“Anyway, it’s not fair that you’re going so far away. And I don’t understand the reason for all the rush, given that at the moment you’re suspended.”
“I have to look for a place to live. Get myself settled. You can come up as soon as I get squared away.”
She jumps off the bed and casts a cold eye on the stripped mattress. “You know I don’t drive on the highway. And since he’s had back problems, Carlo can’t handle long trips. He had an operation, in case you don’t remember.”
“That’s right. I’d forgotten that.”
All Egitto needs to do now is make yet another promise, fabricate the first nagging thought that will disturb the future that awaits him. “Then I’ll come back here,” he says. Though he adds: “As soon as I’m able to.”
Marianna gives him a quick peck on the cheek. They’ve never been comfortable with effusive shows of affection, and they both remember the few fleeting ones they’ve exchanged, which marked events of extraordinary import. She starts toward the door. “I really have to go. It’s late. She rummages absently in her handbag, then turns to look at him, knitting her brows. “Keep in mind, Alessandro, you’ve never been able to look after yourself very well.”
• • •
On the contrary, at least judging from the way things start out, that doesn’t seem to be the case. In Belluno, Egitto quickly finds an apartment to rent: not much bigger than four hundred square feet, but charming in its own way. It’s the best he can afford with his pay cut.
He’s surrounded by furnishings that he chose more for functionality than for aesthetics. They don’t remind him of anything. In time, perhaps, each piece will acquire some meaning.
Before now he had never considered the idea of setting up house. Living in the barracks made him feel transitory and he took it for granted that it was his optimal state, the only one possible. He struggles to let go of that view of himself, but if he were to judge only by how he feels now—at peace, free, moderately serene, except for certain ups and downs—he’d begin to wonder whether he’d been wrong for a long time. It may be that Alessandro Egitto really is made to exist in the world like other human beings: at ease, buoyant.
Meanwhile, people are starting to know him in the neighborhood. When he reveals a piece of himself—to a guy at the café, the two lone clerks at the local bank, the woman in the laundry with a bandaged wrist following her recent surgery for carpal tunnel—he’s repaid with an added grain of trust. It’s a slow process, a meticulous labor of reclamation from suspicion: the construction of a security bubble whose only hypothetical perimeter is the white-rimmed circle of the Dolomites.
In his free time after getting the apartment fixed up, he serves as a volunteer with the local blood donor association. The mobile unit is parked in a different place each day, and from the open back door the lieutenant watches various forms of communal life unfold, lives far removed from combat, yet each related to a specific embodiment of the war. Not many people climb the metal steps to offer their arm to his needle; overall, the elderly appear more generous than their grandchildren, but it’s only because they’re wiser, he thinks—it’s just that young people don’t yet know how forcefully blood is pumped through the arteries, and how it gushes out when one of them is cut.
Every now and then he goes out to dinner with the male nurses he works with. They are quiet evenings, at least until alcohol loosens them up enough. The men don’t feel the need to know about Egitto’s past, or why he moved away without having a permanent job. For a short time there’s even a girl. Egitto visits her apartment and she his, a couple of nights each. But she’s still young, just twenty-one; a river of experience lies between them and they both know it. They stop seeing each other without shedding any tears.
Sometimes he wonders where he’d be now, if what actually happened hadn’t happened there in the valley, if on a night like any other an Afghan driver, a man he didn’t know, hadn’t decided to drive off in a diesel truck, if Angelo Torsu hadn’t been pitched out of a blown-up jeep, and if Irene Sammartino hadn’t considered him responsible for all that. But they’re idle questions, and he quickly decides to put them to rest.
He’s drug-free. When he wakes up short of breath in the middle of the night and can’t get back to sleep, he takes to pacing through the house, trying to control his breathing. If in the morning he’s weak and listless and feels like he’s in terra incognita, in another world, he falls back on these measures, waiting for it to pass. It may take days, but eventually it happens. Staying off drugs is neither a struggle nor an ac
hievement. He doesn’t rule out the fact that he might use them again, might entrust his well-being to disinterested science—somewhere there’s a room with no exit, always waiting for him—but not now.
One weekend in March, without telling anyone, he takes a plane and flies to Cagliari. To get to Angelo Torsu’s house he has to rent a car and travel west from the capital city. He goes the long way just to enjoy the coastal route. He drives slowly, drawn by the scenic views and the water roiling against the rocks.
On duty at the housing paid for by the city where Torsu has been living since he was discharged from the various rehab centers, he finds a young man with thick, unkempt black hair and heavy-lidded eyes. “I’m from the parish,” he explains. “I come two afternoons a week, on Thursdays and Saturdays. With Angelo there’s not much to do anyhow. I can study almost the whole time.”
Egitto has appeared in civilian clothes and said he was a friend (with the legal case pending with the soldier’s family, he suspects his presence around there wouldn’t be appreciated). Maybe that’s why the volunteer feels at liberty to add, “This shitty war. I’m a pacifist, of course.” He checks the clock, one of the few touches adorning the walls. “It’s still not time for his nap to be over, but I can wake him. Angelo will be happy to have company. No one ever comes here.”
“I’m in no hurry. I’ll wait.” Egitto pulls a chair out from the table, sits down.
“The same thing happens with the elderly,” the volunteer continues. “Those of us in the parish also go to nursing homes, you know. After the first few months, people lose interest. There’s only one girl who keeps coming. Fairly often, I mean. Her name is Elena, do you know her?”
The Human Body Page 30