They Shall Begin Again

by Giacomo Papi

  When he reached the confessional, the woman stood up and continued reciting her psalm. Don Lucio almost fainted. He recognized her immediately. It was Rosaria. Dirty, in disarray, naked but alive, covered with the tangle of her own hair. Her eyes were ablaze with light and she stared at him with a sadness that didn’t belong to this world. She flung herself at him and the arms of the priest wrapped around her like branches. He had stayed by her side, six months earlier, during her agonizing death at forty years of age; she left behind a husband and two children. He had pronounced the funeral oration and had blessed her coffin just before her husband flung a fistful of dirt and crushed stone on top of it. And just as mourning was beginning to turn into memory, Rosaria had come back to life and was standing there in front of him, in his church.

  Don Lucio was a shrewd man. All his life he had been waiting for a signal from God, but he didn’t trust appearances. He took his cell phone out from under his robe and dialed the number of the village doctor. He decided he would call her family later, if at all.

  Sitting on a bench, Calogero Amatiello devoured a protein bar. It was his third. Ever since he arrived at the police station, he had done nothing but chew, swallow, and weep. He asked to have them phone his wife, but they were unable to find her number or her address. He insisted. A police officer told him that Rita Amatiello did not exist.

  As soon as they left Serafino’s room, Maria stopped talking. She was silent the whole way home. Adriano knew this silence. He knew she had two types of silence: one that calmed him, and one that agitated him. Either way, all he could do was wait it out. They got into the car. The days were getting longer and the large white buildings that surrounded the hospital were now bathed in dusk’s pinkish glow.

  Ten

  Adriano started to cook dinner while Maria went to shower. Chopping vegetables calmed him; there was nothing quite like the act of cutting simple vegetables into tiny pieces, into different shapes and sizes. It reassured him of the permanence of love. Maria came back. She floated inside her striped pajama. She still wasn’t speaking. She could go entire days without uttering a word.

  At the table he watched her hands as they moved from fork to glass, the way she clenched her napkin, how she brought it to her lips. It was a clandestine dance of fingers that followed some unknown grammar rules. He thought of rice and vegetables and how they were the most wonderful foods because of how they clump together and fall apart, and then assemble and explode, leaving behind little traces of grains and stains of color. He was absorbed by her movements when he suddenly realized that her vow of silence was coming to an end.

  “What illness does the old man in the hospital have?”

  “We still don’t know.”

  “Can you tell me, please?”

  “I already told you, I don’t know. We don’t know yet, we’re still running tests. We’ve had him for almost a month, now. He looks healthy but his test results are strange. His vitals are off the charts and yet we can’t seem to figure out what’s wrong with him.”

  “Then why does he remind me of death?”

  Adriano stiffened. Maria stared at him, biting her lower lip. He took a sip in order to gain time.

  “Because he’s dead, Maria. I’m not allowed to tell anyone, but I’m telling you.”

  He told her everything. He told her about the supermarket, about meeting Serafino’s son and about Serafino’s abnormal strength. He told her about the Council meeting with the heads of state and about how if other cases should appear they were going to keep them in the hospital, and that he would have to coordinate everything. Maria listened. Adriano continued, with some agitation.

  “The strange thing is … well, it’s all pretty strange. His heartbeat is as fast as a shot, but his cranium hasn’t calcified yet, it’s like the skull of an infant. He’s also terribly hungry, especially for sweet things, but his glucose levels are normal, he’s just hungry because he likes to eat, not because he needs to eat. Also, I’ve never seen him sleep.”

  “Does he know?”

  “Know what?”

  “That he’s dead?”

  “I have no idea. I don’t think so. He never asks any questions.”

  “Can he die again?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “Shit, Adriano.”

  A sudden gust of wind flung the window wide open. She got up from the table.

  “I don’t want my son to come into a world where people come back to life.”

  “It’s better than a world in which people can only die, Maria.”

  She went to the bedroom, wiping away her tears. He tidied up, and although it wasn’t exactly like cutting vegetables, it calmed him nonetheless. When he finished, he slumped down on the couch. In that precise instant his cellphone rang. He saw Aloni’s name on the display.

  “Good evening, Dottore Karaianni, pardon the hour.”

  “No worries. What’s going on?”

  “We’ve received word about two other cases. A man and a woman. They’re about to be transferred to your ward. They should be there first thing tomorrow.”

  He froze.

  “Same symptoms?”

  “There’s little doubt. We have witnesses who won’t be easy to handle.”

  “What should I do?”

  “Go to the hospital early, it’s going to be a long day. The Prime Minister wants a report from you by early afternoon. You will be running the show. You’ve been nominated chief physician, pro tempore, to facilitate things.”

  Less than forty years old and already chief physician. All thanks to the living dead. It was kind of funny, actually.

  “What did Carniglia say?”

  “He’s aware of the situation. He’s already there.”

  “And Fogliani?”

  “He’ll have better days, don’t worry. The ball is in your court, Dottore Karaianni.”

  Eleven

  Three police vehicles were parked outside the front gates. In front of the security station, armed agents checked anyone entering the building. Adriano arrived at 6:13 a.m. He flashed his badge.

  “We were expecting you, Dottore Karaianni.”

  There were other men lined up at the entrance. An agent walked towards him, and opened the door. Just as he was about to enter the hospital, Adriano turned around and gazed up at the tops of the linden trees. Hundreds of starlings were screeching in the branches. When he left the house Maria was still asleep. Maybe she was pretending to sleep because she didn’t want to deal with him. He looked at the dawn sky beyond the leaves, white and streaked with pink, and he remembered his dream. He was lying on the roof of a house on an island, stargazing. Next to him was his mother, also named Maria. Stars formed geometric shapes on the obscure space that both Adriano and his mother called “the constellations.” His mother pointed up at a rhombus in the sky.

  “Look, that’s Cancer. And that one’s Aldebaran, the eye of the Bull, that gigantic orange one. And can you see that clump way up there? Those are the Pleiads. That trembling red light is Mars. All the stars in the sky will shine tonight.”

  Somewhere at their feet, the sea was moving. A black and immense sea, bearing the infinite force of water and salt of all the world’s oceans on its back, weighing it down, beaching its waves. In the sky, the constellations were the same as always, only this time they were more defined and complete; triangles, parallelepipeds and spirals complete with lines, ringlets and angles. The shapes were constantly changing because of the way the stars lit up one after another, by the thousands, with no order they broke through the darkness. Adriano and his mother, also named Maria, watched as the black sky emptied itself out and night grew into day. The infinity of stars gradually took over the remaining void of darkness. Just before the dream was over, the sky became one single expanse of light sprinkled with tiny stains of darkness. His mother put her hand over his.

  “Don’t be afraid, Adriano, the night sky brightened by stars is gray like a cloudy day.”

  He looked at the M
ilky Way with a newfound serenity and understood that what happens, simply because it happens, exists forever and therefore can’t be frightening for human beings.

  The elevator came. The girl in the advertisement on the wall smiled, undeterred. He read the slogan again: “Life is a wonderful journey.” The hallways were almost deserted, but several rooms, including that of the old man, were being patrolled. As soon as he stepped into the ward, the head nurse scurried over to him and grabbed his arm.

  “Congratulations, Dottore. Here are the test results of the two new patients.”

  She placed two folders in his hand and got onto her tiptoes to whisper something in his ear.

  “Dottore, there’s also a young boy downstairs. When are you going to tell us what’s going on?”

  Adriano didn’t answer. He wanted to wait before opening the envelopes. He had to do things in a certain order. He needed to keep calm. That was the message his mother gave him in the dream. “The night sky brightened by stars is gray like a cloudy day.” He walked into his new office. It was more spacious, the desk was wider, the chairs more comfortable. He set his bag down and put on his lab coat. The shutters were still closed. He opened them to let some light in. He arranged the blood tests of the old man and of the two new patients on the desk, side by side. The similarities were obvious. Serafino Currò, Calogero Amiatello and Rosaria Isimbardi all had the same symptoms. They were three infants with superpowers. That was it, in essence, but he forced himself to look more closely.

  Glycemia, hemoglobins, leukocytes. All perfect counts. Transaminitis, creatinine, uric acid. Everything seemed in the norm. Calcium, potassium, phosphate. Perfect health.

  He walked out of his office and went to meet them. The boy, the last of the patients, hadn’t been escorted to his room yet. Amatiello, the factory worker, was in the first room. Adriano entered, but the man didn’t make any effort to get up. He just lay on his bed, bad-mouthing a police woman.

  “Why did that wicked police woman say that, Dottore, why?”

  “What did she say?”

  “That Rita is dead.”

  “Who is Rita?”

  “My wife. I came back too late.”

  “Came back from where?”

  “I don’t know. The place in front of the factory.”

  “Pardon me, what factory?”

  “We were all factory workers. Now there’s no one.”

  When Adriano waved goodbye, the man didn’t lift a finger. Despite the news, it seemed like a normal day at the ward. The night sky brightened by stars is gray like a cloudy day. He needn’t be scared. He had to be cautious. He had to work. Make things happen. Fix things that were wrong. The report for the Prime Minister would be ready soon.

  He ran into the woman in the hallway. She was joking with a policeman under the surveillance of Don Lucio, the priest who found her. She looked happy, almost euphoric. She had big eyes. Dark. And she kept touching her hair. It was tiring to watch her act so alive. They went back into her room and she sat on the bed, tucking her legs under her. Don Lucio sat across the room.

  “Would you like to know, Dottore, what my real problem is now? I have never felt this free in my life! Even if they cut my hair off.”

  The priest butted in.

  “We must pray, Rosaria, for this is certainly a miracle! I don’t want to hear any of that nonsense about freedom.”

  “I’m sorry Don Lucio, but, have you seen what my husband looks like? You married us, I know! But I just can’t go through with it this time.”

  “What about the children? Think of them, Rosaria.”

  “It’s not that I don’t love my kids, Don Lucio, but when I wasn’t around they survived without me. No one needed me.”

  “But what is a woman without children?”

  “A woman, Don Lucio.”

  Children.

  A sudden spark of intuition. Adriano bid farewell in a hurry, left the two bickering, and rushed out the room.

  Like Serafino, all Rosaria wanted was to live her life, even if it meant giving up her children.

  He placed the medical folders on the first windowsill in the hallway. He examined the numbers. Yes. It was clear. How could he have not seen this earlier? There was a devastating hormonal imbalance: all three individuals lacked FSH, the hormone responsible for the production of sperm and ovules. It could be a coincidence, surely, but the probability that they were sterile was very high.

  He rushed to his office. He turned on his computer, opened a blank document and picked up the telephone. He wanted to know more about the boy. They told him that the first exam results would be ready in a couple of hours. That was too late. He logged into the database to look at the patient’s information: he was checked in as Michelangelo Lopez, age seventeen. They picked him up on the street somewhere in the city, naked, crying outside of the window of a famous law firm.

  He started writing the report. It took him only an hour. They summoned him from downstairs, saying that the boy had been escorted into the ward and was now situated in the last available single room. When he arrived, the patient was resting his head in his arms on the table. Upon hearing him enter he straightened up. Adriano looked at him. He was a living statue made of skin, flesh, and blood, his eyes were almost yellow and a wavy stream of auburn hair framed his face, chin and cheeks. The boy scrutinized him too. He inspected Adriano’s shoes, pants, and shirt that peeped out from under his coat. He looked scared. Then he opened his mouth, revealing his pink gums. He had the scratchy voice of a pubescent teenager. He spoke in a way Adriano had never heard before.

  “My teeth, Sarge, where are they? My gums burn.”

  Adriano was speechless. Where had he come from? Why was he confusing him for a police officer?

  “Are these the new prisons, Sarge? If you locked me up in here because of the money they say I owe, I’ll tell you, I’m innocent. They beat me up.”

  “Where?”

  “In Prato Carbone.”

  “No, I mean, where did they hit you?”

  “All over, Sarge. They left me more dead than alive. The big field isn’t there no more. Only those tall, ugly buildings.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “I went home, I was naked. I called my ma, but the officers came right then and there. Are these the new prisons, Sarge?”

  “No, these aren’t new prisons. This is a hospital.”

  “Does my ma know where I am, Sarge? Am I right? Are you the Sarge?”

  “No, I’m a doctor, a physician. What’s your name?”

  The boy stared at him, bewildered.

  “Lopez, Michelangelo, born on the second of February, 1833. I work at the market.”

  “How old are you?”

  “I’m seventeen. Sarge, what happened to me?”

  “I’ll have the nurse bring you something for your gums.”

  His cellphone started vibrating in his coat pocket. It was Aloni. He left the room to answer the call, motioning that he would be right back.

  “Karaianni, we’ve searched the database, registers, everything.”

  “Searched for what, I beg your pardon?”

  “What do you mean, “for what?” This Lopez kid! You see, it looks like he’s telling the truth. We’ve found record of a Michelangelo Lopez born on February 2, 1833 who died in 1850. He was killed. He was seventeen.”

  “How did you find out?”

  “Have you ever heard of Oration and Death?”

  “No. What is it?”

  “It was a brotherhood. Good Christians who used to pick up unclaimed bodies and bring them to the holy field. They annotated everything. From 1538 to 1896. Almost four hundred years. They buried over ten thousand bodies. Just think of the chaos if all of them come back to life.”

  “And Michelangelo?”

  “Listen. I’ll read it: ‘On June 21, Michelangelo Lopez, of via Anicia, seventeen years of age, fruit seller, killed by stab wounds in a field of the property of Prato Carbone, beyond the farm houses of Marti
gliana, 2 kilometers beyond the gates of San Luca. He was tied to a plank and carried to the Cemetery of Santa Maria del Rosario, known as la Parrocchietta.”

  “That’s right, that’s what he just told me.”

  “This is madness, Karaianni. They’re coming back to life from the 1800s.”

  Twelve

  An egret was perched on a roof across the courtyard. It must have flown over from the river. It pecked at the shingles with its long beak. Its white outline looked like it had been cut and pasted onto the blue afternoon sky. Adriano looked down into the courtyard. An official meeting was scheduled to take place at three o’clock, but no one had shown up yet. They would read his report, and maybe they would ask him to say something. They had come for him at the hospital a little after one o’clock and he hadn’t had time to eat. He had been waiting for half an hour with Aloni and the thin man in the corridor where they had waited the time before, in front of the closed doors of the conference room.

  At 2:28 p.m., a blue vehicle with tinted windows rolled through the gates of the entrance. Officers and bodyguards wearing sunglasses descended from cars and surrounded the vehicle all at once. The Prime Minister stepped out, straightened his jacket, and then walked toward the stairs on the opposite side of the street. An entourage of assistants followed him. More cars drove up, bringing officials, secretaries, more assistants, spokespersons, and bodyguards. The sun made everything blindingly bright.

  A minute later, the cortege poured into the corridor, led by the Prime Minister. When he saw Adriano he stopped short, causing a build up of bodies behind him.

  “Oh, Dottore, there you are. Good morning.”

  He took him by the arm and whispered so that the others wouldn’t hear him.

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you about a pain I’ve had for several days now, after I eat, right here in my esophagus. Antacids aren’t doing anything.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. President, but I really don’t know what to say, it’s not my field and I might give you the wrong diagnosis.”