by Giacomo Papi
Seven
“You haven’t spoken about it with anyone, have you, Karaianni? Besides me, I mean.”
“No, you’re the first person I’ve told, Fogliani.”
“Not even your wife?”
“We’re not married, and no, I haven’t said a word to her. Why do you ask?”
“Because if what you say is true, we’re going to have to use it for what it’s worth.”
“How so?”
“Having this kind of information is important. It gives us power. Now, listen: I’m going to call the Director of Health, Carniglia, and you are going to tell him word for word what you just told me. Then we’re going to notify the police and then … let the games begin.”
He started at the beginning: with the supermarket, the decision to admit him to the hospital, his son’s house, the test results from the exam (including the DNA results), and all the while Fogliani kept playing Kreation. Sounds of thunder, explosions and tempests erupted from the computer speakers. Adriano paced up and down, gesticulating. He used words powerful enough to turn his experiences into reality. Ranuccio Carniglia, slumping into the only armchair in the room, looked him up and down, from head to toe, his eyes wide-open. Adriano grew even more excited.
“He looks like he’s eighty years old, but his metabolism is that of a newborn child. His pulse measures 140 and his blood pressure is 70/110. His irises are getting darker and his teeth are coming in. And then there’s the DNA test: it’s perfectly clear.”
“You’re kidding me, right?”
“Unfortunately, I’m not. It’s the truth.”
The expression on the face of the Director of Health contorted into a sneer of unbearable astonishment. He jumped to his feet, blazing red in the face.
“And why did you wait so long to tell me? Do you want this story to explode? Do you want me to end up in prison for allowing infection to spread?”
He ranted at Fogliani, who kept on playing on the computer. Carniglia was offended and furious. He didn’t care as much about the gravity of the situation as his career. Adriano looked at him, flabbergasted.
“Someone has come back to life and all you can think about is protecting your own ass.”
Fortunately Carniglia didn’t hear him.
“I have to call the man at the Ministry immediately. Aloni … what was his name?”
He darted out of the room with his phone to his ear, shouting jovially.
“Ettore, my friend! It’s me, Ranuccio, remember?”
Soon after four o’clock in the afternoon, a blue police car and an unmarked vehicle pulled up in front of the hospital. Everything that took place from then on happened with the highest secrecy. An official from the Ministry of Health, Dr. Ettore Aloni, a red-haired and unkempt man in his fifties, came in with another man, a tall, thin fellow who didn’t say a word. It was clear who was in command by the way the others addressed him.
The two agents asked to meet the doctor who discovered the “Situation Zero,” and Adriano told the entire story from the beginning for a third time. He had repeated it so many times now that it was becoming even more real. When he finished, they asked that the samples be sent to the police lab for further testing and then asked to see the patient. The encounter lasted only a few minutes. Serafino Currò wasn’t in the mood to talk and he treated them coldly. They departed the building several hours later, leaving behind two officers and announcing that instructions would be forthcoming.
At 8:13 p.m. a black sedan drove up to the rear exit of the hospital. Adriano, Fogliani and Carniglia were asked to step in. Aloni sat next to the driver. He explained that the Council officials had called for an emergency meeting. They were still deciding whether or not to have the doctors intervene. When Aloni spoke he scratched his freckles as if he were trying to erase them from the back of his hands. No one said a word for the entire car ride.
Once they passed through the main entrance they were asked to follow a team of plainclothes police officers. They took the elevator, walked down a few halls, passed into a corridor with extremely high ceilings and ended up at a dark wooden door, in front of which was an Imperial-style table and several armchairs upholstered in green velvet. Aloni invited them to take a seat. The Prime Minister and his closest associates would arrive shortly. Adriano’s gaze drifted towards the pendulum clocks, the heavy curtains and the shiny crystal chandeliers. The baseboard was peeling and the lining of the chairs was worn.
They waited for over an hour. Fogliani looked unperturbed, but he left sweaty palm marks on the table. Carniglia couldn’t keep still, he looked ruddy and kept getting up to check his cell phones. Suddenly, they heard people shouting from far off and the door at the end of the hall opened. The hallway suddenly filled with people: small delegations, each one made up of a head and his closest colleagues. They talked out loud, but spoke of other matters. Adriano recognized the Ministry of Health, the Secretary of State, and lastly, the Prime Minister, arm in arm with the Head of Police. They walked by without stopping, and then the doors closed behind them. No one had even looked at them. Half an hour passed before they were asked to come in.
Government officials and their assistants sat around a large oval table made of dark wood. A second circle of associates lined the walls. Aloni motioned to Adriano, Fogliani and Carniglia to approach the lectern near the entrance as people continued to chatter all around the conference table. The Prime Minister tapped the microphone twice with his index finger, signaling that the coffee break was over, and he leaned forward to face the doctors who had just come in.
“So, if I am not mistaken, at this point in the conference we are to discuss the resurrection of Lazarus, is that correct?”
The entire hall broke out in laughter. Even Carniglia laughed. When the hubbub died down, Aloni approached the stand and summarized the case in brief. Adriano looked at the faces in the crowd. On the right, in front of a window, he recognized the tall, thin man he had seen that afternoon at the hospital. He was nodding and kept his arms crossed over his chest. Adriano looked around at the other officials, undersecretaries and lackeys. They looked like they had been there forever, as if they served no purpose and as if they were incapable of expressing any interest. They looked old. One man, a fat man who looked as if he dyed his hair, brought his hand to his mouth to hide a yawn. Aloni kept talking. The Prime Minister whispered something in the ear of the Head of Police. Aloni finished speaking and the meeting was over. Everyone started to speak at once until the Prime Minister motioned for everyone to quiet down. In that very moment, surprised by his own actions, Adriano took the stand. Everyone stared at him. People were stunned, but he had no choice but to go on.
“Mr. President, honorable secretaries, we might have before us history’s first ever, definitive case of resurrection: now known as ‘Situation Zero.’ The story of Lazarus is a joke compared to what’s going on. This is frightening, but I believe it is also an extraordinary opportunity.”
The hall fell silent. The Prime Minister watched him, intrigued. Adriano continued.
“Serafino Currò was subject to an exhaustive medical visit and his test results all point to an exceptional metabolism heretofore unseen in medical history. The DNA test that I requested, if confirmed by the Ministry’s scientific staff, will prove that Currò’s genetic makeup is identical to that of a man deceased over thirty years ago. This morning I visited the cemetery in which the body was supposedly buried. It is located in a small village circa 50 kilometers from here. The tomb is intact. If, indeed, Serafino Currò is really inside the casket, the DNA of the remains will be identical to that of our patient. A comparison of the two DNA samples will clear up any doubt. We must proceed with exhumation. It goes without saying that the possibility of a positive result will have unimaginable consequences.”
People looked at Adriano and then at the Prime Minister. And then back at Adriano. They didn’t see the gravity of the matter, independently of the consequences it might have on their careers. The Prime Mi
nister was quiet for several seconds, and then with a motion of his hand, spoke.
“Signori, we are all very tired. This is not the time to make decisions. Our government will examine things carefully. We won’t overlook anything. We will follow the advice of our young doctor. Proceed with exhumation. I will, however, be inflexible and ruthless on one thing: discretion, there must be absolute discretion. No games with the press. You all know very well that I have my ways of finding the leaks. Does my colleague and Minister of Health have anything to add?”
The official, a woman with teased hair, shifted slightly in her chair. “If the Prime Minister has nothing to add, by midnight tonight my department will issue a warning to all health institutions, advising that they pay particular attention to possible other patients with similar conditions across the country. By tomorrow morning I expect a full report from the Management of the hospital that is in charge of ‘Situation Zero,’ with details on how they will proceed and what resources they deem necessary to deal with the case.”
The Prime Minister looked at his audience and stood. In synchrony, people got up from their chairs with a chorus of leather on parquet. Shriveled buttocks, shiny shoes, old floors. The state officials hurried towards the exit, all chatting. Carniglia and Fogliani walked calmly toward the doors, avoiding unwanted conversations with the powerful individuals.
Adriano followed the mass. He wandered through corridors and halls, he crossed antechambers and walked down staircases, invisible to others. Humanity had forgotten about him. When he left the building, the moon was bright in the sky. He felt like walking, he felt like hearing his footsteps on the pavement that millions of other human beings had walked on before him. He felt like crossing the entire maze of that city by foot, picking up ideas, chasing them and feeling—thanks to one dead man—like he was finally beginning to serve a purpose.
He crossed boulevards, streets, piazzas and bridges. Everything went on, undeterred, around him. People went to bed, cars sped by, small groups of men and women acted out the final scene of that day before sleep would overcome them all. In a hospital bedroom, Serafino Currò lived his strange, inexplicable life.
He was exhausted when he got home. The keys slipped into the keyhole. He undressed in silence and climbed into Maria’s bed.
Eight
The naked man stood in front of the gates of the old factory. He was stout and bald, except for some long wisps of hair that hung down over his temples. His chest and back were hairy. He looked about seventy. He paced up and down, from the gate to the street, stopping at the curb of the sidewalk and turning back. Cars and trucks drove past without slowing down. He went back to the gate, rang the buzzer once more and pressed his face into the bars. It was a clear May day and the sky was the color of Virgin Mary’s dress. He stood on one of those long roads that leads out of the city, as straight as a smokestack.
A girl in a jogging outfit and ponytail ran by across the street, coming from the direction of the mountains. As soon as he caught sight of her, the man gave chase, oblivious to the oncoming traffic. The girl ran faster, and so did he, all the while shouting something incomprehensible. The traffic was too loud for her to understand what he was saying. He ran barefoot and didn’t get tired. A patrol car driving by in the opposite direction saw what was going on, did a U-turn and stopped in the middle of the road between the two individuals. As soon as she saw the officers, the girl fell to her knees, exhausted, and burst into tears. The man, on the other hand, covered his genitals with his hands and walked up to the officers.
He didn’t put up a fight. He happily took the blanket they handed him. He answered their questions politely. He gave his personal details loud and clear.
“Amatiello Calogero, also known as Giovanni, born on August 15, 1935.”
He spoke softly and looked surprised. He was neither panting nor sweating. He said he was a metalworker, and that he had arrived at the factory gates and had found them closed. But he knew this was the right place, he was sure of it, he had been working here for forty years. It just looked different. None of his workmates were there. He tried to ring the buzzer but no one answered, so he thought of asking the young girl as she was the only person around.
“Is there a strike going on, officer?”
The girl, who had been quiet the whole while, spoke up.
“What are you talking about? Strike? The factory shut down years ago. There are only apartments here now.”
The man collected his thoughts slowly.
“Everybody worked here. There were three shifts, going day and night. Lines of trucks came in and out of the plant. Now they don’t stop here anymore. Who knows where they’re headed. What happened, Officer?”
More than a month had passed since Serafino Currò had appeared. The body was exhumed twenty-four hours after Adriano made his request and a new DNA test confirmed that the kind old man from room 212 had genes that were identical to a pile of bones and dust extracted from a forgotten tomb. At one hundred and sixteen years of age, the patient showed signs of an abnormal, almost hyperactive, but stable metabolism. He was now being studied for answers to some of the most common puzzles related to old age. In the course of several weeks his teeth had grown in like they would have in an eight month old baby. According to the dentist, these baby teeth would eventually fall out to make space for a permanent set of teeth. Adriano, who visited him every day, avoided mentioning his condition and Serafino never asked questions. It was as if the past and future did not matter. To be in the present was enough.
His presence provoked discomfort in some people. Even the Prime Minister, who paid Currò a secret visit at the hospital several days after the meeting, was embarrassed, and he stammered and stuttered when he said something. Ranuccio Carniglia avoided going to visit him. As for Emilio Fogliani, he was busy with his computer games, only waiting for the right moment to turn the tables in his favor. One day in the cafeteria, while Karainni was anxiously trying to talk to him about Currò, he let it slip.
“I’ve thought a great deal about it, Karainni. Your old man might give me the chance to make my grand exit.”
Carlo Medioli, the self-absorbed primary who had been on duty for the CAT scan, was still oblivious to what was going on. He would often talk to Adriano about women. One day, as they were waiting for the elevator, he spoke up.
“You know what hot babes the Etruscan women were, Karainni?”
Adriano didn’t, but he was curious.
“Don’t take me for a madman, but I’m going to confess something to you. The first few times I jerked off, I did it to a statue. There were some in my history textbook. There was this statue of a girl with a long neck, she was a beauty, I mean, it was the bust of an Etruscan girl, but I was breathless. I thought women were all like my mother and her friends, that girls like her didn’t exist.”
“Go on, Medioli, admit it, you’re a grave robber and necrophiliac.”
“Go ahead, tease me. But the love of my life was born over one thousand years ago. There’s nothing more romantic than that. To this day I am convinced that I don’t have a family of my own because of that Etruscan bitch.”
As he finished his last sentence, the elevator doors opened and Adriano turned around. He recognized a perfume in the air. Maria was wearing a white dress. She smiled at him. She was the most beautiful woman in the world. She had come to see him after an appointment with the gynecologist, who worked in the same hospital. He kissed her hello and took her to meet the nurses, who all wanted to meet her, and immediately forgot about Medioli. No one noticed that she was expecting a baby. After several minutes, Adriano touched her elbow and brought her to the old man. He wanted to introduce them. He still hadn’t told her about him, but now he needed her opinion.
They found Serafino sitting on his bed in his pajamas and robe. He heard them come in. He studied Maria from head to toe, slowly, as if he were trying to remember something.
“When she was pregnant, my wife was not happy. It wasn’t natural
for her, it was very violent.”
Adriano and Maria looked at each other.
“Vittoria wanted to choose, she wanted to control what was happening to her. But to make space for a child is not a choice, it’s like being taken over by another being. It’s an invasion.”
At times the old man paused, and then he would started talking again. His sentences got shorter and shorter. They poured out of the past. He used Maria’s presence to reorganize his memory into words, while she slipped into a sensation of numbness and warmth, and became aware of her mutated body with newfound clarity. He finished speaking from the past and common courtesy was regained. He stayed seated. He held out his hand and placed it on her belly. Adriano felt an unnamable threat.
Nine
In a village church 448 kilometers to the south, a woman prayed and shouted with all her might.
“And the Lord set me in the middle of a valley; it was full of bones. He led me back and forth among them, and I saw a great many bones on the floor of the valley, bones that were very dry …”
She knelt on the hard wood of the confessional. Her black hair covered her face when she looked down but when she looked up at the ceiling, her face would reappear. Her voice rang out through the deserted naves.
“This is what the Sovereign Lord says to these bones: ‘I will make breath enter you, and you will come to life. I will attach tendons to you and make flesh come upon you and cover you with skin; I will put breath in you, and you will come to life. Then you will know that I am the Lord.’ So I prophesied as I was commanded. And as I was prophesying, there was a noise, a rattling sound, and the bones came together, bone to bone …”
A rustling sound could be heard among the naves. Out from behind the altar stepped the priest. He walked quickly, despite his old age.
“What’s going on? Who’s there?”