by Giacomo Papi
“That’s right, I forget that you specialize in the resurrected. If I may be so bold, Dottore, never favor the dead over the living.”
“That’s a matter of point of view, most of the time, Mr. President.”
The man smiled, showing off an immaculate set of teeth, and walked on into the hall. The crowd swarmed after him. Aloni and the official followed suit. Adriano waited outside. The delegation passed him by. He watched them, one by one, observing how self-involved they were, and how they could forget everything else. He caught snippets of their conversation as they walked by.
“Yes, I can confirm that we have received notice of similar incidents in other countries. Several dozen, we’re not talking about a pandemic, but just imagine if …”
“We must do everything possible to keep this under wraps.”
“Well, it seems as though everyone agrees on that point, even the Church …”
“Yes, but are you aware that the number of people who know about this is growing? Now they say that a woman came back to life in a church—imagine that. The miracle is that the press hasn’t gotten to it yet!”
Doors closed, voices vanished, Adriano was alone. Suddenly, the hallway looked extremely long. He fell into one of the green velvet chairs. Inside, people took their seats, the important individuals sat at the big black table, the others next to the windows. Ettore Aloni, standing in front of the lectern, tested the microphone and began reading Adriano’s report. The taciturn thin official stood stiffly next to the door.
“Though our results are not complete as of yet, the clinical conditions of patients Calogero Amiatello, Rosaria Isimbardi and Michelangelo Lopez (full examination pending) lead us to draw comparisons to the medical profile of Serafino Currò, who’s recent rebirth has been confirmed thanks to a DNA examination of the bodily remains collected in his tomb. From a diagnostic standpoint, all patients exhibit outstanding vital statistics. With the exception of their nervous and immune systems, which show traces of processes taking place before the patients’ death, the vital organs have regenerated and are unaffected by time. The patients were reborn without teeth, but the teething process is set to take place within several days. The hormonal system is of particular interest: drawing on a summary examination, we observed that the individuals lack the FSH hormone, the “follicle-stimulating hormone,” which is responsible for the production of gametes, or, in other words, ovules and spermatozoids. Therefore, it is highly likely that, even in the presence of an overactive libido, the individuals are sterile. At the moment, the likelihood of infection seems minimal. We have not identified a recurrent chronological or geographic pattern or similarities of any kind among the patients’ cause of death or lifestyle. Therefore we do not think the rebirths follow any pre-ordained schema or are in any way predictable. Given the scarcity of witnesses at the scene of the reappearances, we support the hypothesis that the rebirths occur in the proximity of the location of death, following an unknown self-generating mechanism.”
Aloni put the papers down. The report was over. Someone coughed. A chair screeched. Something heavy fell on the floor.
When Maria woke up that morning, she had already made up her mind. She knew what was right and if Adriano was going to get mad, too bad for him. She got to the hospital a little after three o’clock. She told the policemen at the entrance that she was Karaianni’s wife and they let her through. She wore a linen dress with a low-neck line, or perhaps it was her pregnancy that was beginning to show, causing her breasts to swell. Her flat sandals brushed quietly across the linoleum flooring; she wanted to be invisible. She walked up to the old man’s room and instead of heading straight to the primary’s office she entered his room. The old man looked as if he were expecting her.
“Good morning, Signor Serafino.”
“Shut the door, Maria. You can’t imagine how many ears there are around. Auricles, eustachian tubes, eardrums, anvils and hammers. And at night, I can assure you, they fly around in pairs, like butterflies.”
“How horrible!”
“You think so? I think it’s funny. What brings you here?”
“You’ll take me for a lunatic. This is difficult. I don’t know how to say this.”
“Try this: just say it.”
“Well, you’re dead.”
The words fell out with a bubbling, uncontrollable laughter.
“Excuse me, what was that?”
Maria tried to contain herself.
“I said, you’re dead, Signor Serafino.”
“And to think that a second ago, you were criticizing my sense of humor. Go on, explain, I’m listening.”
“What I mean is, now you are alive, but before you were dead. Basically, you’re back.”
“What’s the difference?”
“What do you mean, ‘what’s the difference?’ I mean you’ve been reborn. You’re resurrected. Have you ever heard of resurrection? OK, never mind. I knew you would take me for a lunatic.”
The old man stared into her eyes. Maria held on to his gaze.
“Now that you mention it, I’ve been feeling strange for some time now. But excuse me, do you think you’re so normal … with that big belly?”
“What’s so strange about my belly?”
“Another being is living inside you, do you realize that? You’re being inhabited. People get accustomed to everything, even miracles. And now I’m talking about life, not death.”
“I’m sorry I laughed before.”
“Do you know why we call a laugh ‘sardonic’? Because there was a population known as the Sardons that laughed while they were killing others.”
“Doesn’t what I said scare you?”
“If you’re not scared to stand in front of a zombie, why should I be? It’s not like it makes such a difference, in the end. Say, do you happen to know how long I was dead?”
It was four o’clock when the doors re-opened. Aloni came out to tell him that he was free to go. He had read his report and they were not going to ask him in. Crossing the courtyard, he sensed a shadow above. He instinctively turned around to look at the sky. The egret was flying away. He hailed a cab. Fortunately for him, the driver was in no mood for small talk. He needed to get back to the hospital to pick up his briefcase. Then he would go home.
There were no police officers wandering around the ward and the patients were all in their rooms. He was startled to find his office was dark as he remembered having opened the shutters. He turned on the light and almost screamed: the neon light made the man there even paler, his hollow cheekbones and receding hairline emphasized the irregularities of his cranium.
“Good evening, Dottore, I’ve been waiting for you.”
“You could have turned the light on, you might have avoided scaring me.”
“Pardon me. It’s just that darkness helps me think. Have you ever noticed how our sensations and thoughts are stronger at nighttime? That’s why we fuck with the lights off.”
“I’m guessing that you’re not here to discuss your sexual preferences.”
“I’m here to talk about Michelangelo Lopez.”
Adriano grew irritated and alarmed.
“Yes, we brought him in this morning. So far it seems his results are in line with …”
“Excuse me for interrupting, Dottore.”
“Go ahead.”
“I heard your report today.”
“Yes? What did you think of it?”
“Don’t be offended, but the gist of it was missing.”
“Go on.”
“There’s only one basic question we have to ask ourselves: are these zombies immortal or can they be exterminated?”
“Is this the meat you speak of?”
“You do understand that the eventual option of sending them them back to our Lord might be useful, if not indispensable, if the situation should worsen. Fortunately, God willing, we have just the person for the job.”
“Let me get this straight. You show up in my office like a ghost, in the d
ark, without even introducing yourself …”
“Massimo Interminelli.”
“… to ask me if a patient under my supervision can be killed.”
“That’s a harsh way of putting, but you get the gist.”
“And what do you expect me to do?”
“I expect you to act intelligently.”
“And what exactly would an intelligent person do?”
“This I do not know. You’re the doctor. I’m just here to make sure the boy has no family, and that no one mourns his death.”
Thirteen
Maria hadn’t told Adriano that she had gone to visit the old man. She could hear him breathing, fast asleep at her side. He was exhausted.
She felt sorry for those poor Christians, tossed back into this world. She felt sorry for every living being, starting with the being inside her belly. Ultimately, no one was any different, not even she, not even Adriano. Every one was born, everyone lived without reason, like those winter birds on the wires, waiting for death. She watched the birds line up one after the other, forming an endless line. They were too many. How many men had ever lived?
It had come to her as a sort of revelation. She had been in bed, it was summer, nighttime. She was sixteen. She was with her father on one of his business trips. They stopped at a roadside motel for the night. Her bedroom looked out onto the sea and the churning waves made her feel alone. She felt like reading, but there were no books in the bedroom, only a Bible in the dresser drawer. She flipped it open at random. The Gospel according to St. Matthew. She read from the beginning: “The book of the generation of Jesus Christ, the son of David, the son of Abraham. Abraham begat Isaac; and Isaac begat Jacob; and Jacob begat Judas and his brethren; And Judas begat Phares and Zara of Thamar; and Phares begat Esrom; and Esrom begat Aram; And Aram begat Aminadab; and Aminadab begat Naasson; and Naasson begat Salmon; And Salmon begat Booz of Rachab; and Booz begat Obed of Ruth; and Obed begat Jesse; And Jesse begat David the king; and David the king begat Solomon of her that had been the wife of Urias; And Solomon begat Roboam; and Roboam begat Abia; and Abia begat Asa; And Asa begat Josaphat; and Josaphat begat Joram; and Joram begat Ozias; And Ozias begat Joatham; and Joatham begat Achaz; and Achaz begat Ezekias; And Ezekias begat Manasses; and Manasses begat Amon; and Amon begat Josias; and Josias begat Jechonias and his brethren, about the time they were carried away to Babylon: And after they were brought to Babylon, Jechonias begat Salathiel; and Salathiel begat Zorobabel; And Zorobabel begat Abiud; and Abiud begat Eliakim; and Eliakim begat Azor; And Azor begat Sadoc; and Sadoc begat Achim; and Achim begat Eliud; And Eliud begat Eleazar; and Eleazar begat Matthan; and Matthan begat Jacob; And Jacob begat Joseph the husband of Mary, of whom was born Jesus, who is called Christ.”
She had clutched the book to her chest, wide-eyed. She had taken in each name like a distinct twist in plot. She opened it again and reread the list of names, and then she started to count. Forty-four men were named. She hypothesized that, on average, each of them had had a child at age twenty: that five generations made up a century. That meant that the genealogy of Jesus Christ as told by Matthew dated back almost nine hundred years. She tried to calculate how distant Jesus would have been from herself, had he been her ancestor and had he had a child at age thirty-three, and if that child in turn had had another child at thirty-three, and so forth. The result was disturbing. Three individuals per century, thirty per millennium. It took sixty people to cover two thousand years of history, to find their way into that motel room by the ocean and to that tiny bed where she was now sitting at age sixteen. Her heart skipped a beat. Sixty people was nothing: sixty people were three of her high school classes put together, it was the entire restaurant where they had eaten that evening, it was the seconds that made up a minute.
For Maria, that experience ended up becoming the truth of life. It was proof that history is brief, that men (both living and dead) are connected to each other, and that each man will always owe another man something. Even those poor people who were being reborn. Even the baby in her tummy was already swimming in the waters of history. It was so incredibly tiny and fragile inside the vastness of time.
Finally, night fell on both of them. Their bodies, full of dreams and memories, were blanketed by darkness.
Adriano stepped into the shower and unexpectedly burst into tears. He couldn’t remember ever having wept like this. The morning light sifted in from the bathroom window. As soon as he caught sight of the water dripping, a levee broke inside of him, as if by osmosis. Nothing made any sense at all. The tears fell, salty on his lips, and he tensed the muscles in his face to let out as many as he possibly could. He pressed his back against the tiles and slowly fell to the floor. He hugged his knees, and bowed his head forward. The warm water flooded his shoulders, neck and hair. He looked up. Seen from below, it looked like rain.
He hadn’t realized it, but he had been thinking about the boy since the night before. He had died so long ago, and had no one, so it wouldn’t be like killing another human being. Maria would have spit on him simply for thinking such a thought. He imagined the silent crowding of people who had been part of Lopez’s life but who were now no longer alive. He wept without pain. He remembered his own dead. He imagined meeting them: his mother and his father, not just once, but again and forever, and he wasn’t sure if he wanted that.
He wished he could throw a party for them. He would invite everyone. They paraded past him in his mind. His grandparents, even Matteo, his childhood friend who died when he was seven. Everyone would laugh, dance and talk, but in the end they would all have to leave, he would walk them to the door simply because he was alive and because there was no reason to this. It was just fate. Not even that. Fate implies that there is good and evil, it implies that there is a polar difference in the course of events, but instead the world is what happens. He pulled himself to his feet and turned the water off. He felt all of them close by, the living and the others. He stood there, dripping, the glass misty.
He realized he could be silent no more.
He had stopped crying.
Fourteen
The woman in black typed on her keyboard for over an hour. She looked possessed. Before sitting down to work, she asked to be given a ream of A4 size paper and a Lettera 22 typewriter. She wrote, smoked, and drank. The ashtray overflowed with thin cigarette butts, white and mentholated. Every now and then she paused and took another sip of port.
Not far off, sitting on matching chairs, editor and publisher watched her in silence, with feelings of both celebration and horror. They were working on the evening edition. They would take care of the radio, television and Internet later. The woman pulled out the first page from the roller and handed it to the publisher, who yanked it from her hands. The editor came in closer to read. The journalist lit another menthol cigarette and went on typing.
As he walked into the ward, Adriano saw the head nurse. He asked her to gather all the patients and other nurses and bring them into the recreation hall. He would tell them everything he knew. He slipped on his white coat and walked down the hall. The reborn men and women came out of their rooms like animals out of a cage, lost and confused. First he saw the Roman boy, behind him came the woman, followed by the factory worker, walking with his head low and his gown open, showing his stomach. Serafino was last, his eyes darting around from one thing to another, from one face to another, not letting his eyes focus on any one frame or detail.
Adriano watched them file in the room. They looked like the living, but when he looked at them for any length of time he felt like he was going blind. They were made up of a denser, more defined material, and their molecules were more interconnected, glued together by glowing plasma. Nurses arrived, almost all of them stood with their arms crossed across their chest. He was about to speak when he saw Medioli come in and fill the last empty seat. He waited for him to get settled and then cleared his throat.
“Good morning to all. I don’t know how many of you are aware of
the reason why you were admitted to this hospital. I’ve thought about it long and hard, and I believe it’s best to inform you.”
Only one person spoke up. Serafino Currò.
“Go on, Dottore, please explain.”
Adriano waited for a few seconds.
“It’s difficult to accept, and even to understand …”
He didn’t know how to go on.
“… but the reason you’re all here is because you are dead.”
They all looked at him in silence.
“What I mean is, each one of you has already lived his or her life. Now you’re living another one. You’ve been reborn. This is why everything seems new to you. You’ve lived in different times, you’ve died from different causes, but now, for reasons we still can’t explain, you’ve come back to life. You are the age you were when you first stopped living. The exam results show that you are healthy, in top form, but it’s still too early to say whether you will die again—if you’re mortal like the rest of us, or not. This is all I know. I hope I haven’t upset anyone.”
Serafino Currò raised his index finger to ask a question.
“Excuse me, Dottore Karaianni, may I clarify something?”
“Yes, Professor, please.”
“We are not dead.”
“What do you mean?”
“You said: ‘You are dead.’ This is incorrect. We died when we stopped living and we were dead while we weren’t living. But now we are alive. Just like you and all the other folks in this hospital.”
Rosaria nodded her head in agreement. Adriano was shocked. The old man was focusing on a minor detail rather than reacting to the disturbing news that had just been broken to them and Adriano didn’t know how to respond.
“Yes, of course, in a way you are correct. But the fact of the matter doesn’t change.”
“It’s a matter of respect, Dottore, but also of equality. Therefore, it is of essential importance. What rights do the dead have? For example, do the dead have the right to live or not?”