They Shall Begin Again

by Giacomo Papi

  He loosened his grip on her nipple. Maria wriggled free and ran to the front door. She could hear Attilio shouting behind her.

  “Whore! Slut!”

  Twenty-two

  Adriano opened his eyes. Maria’s face was very close to his. She smiled at him, her cheek resting on the pillow.

  “Hi.”

  “Hi.”

  He remembered that he was still dressed in yesterday’s clothes. He needed to change, but all of their clothes were still at home, with the old people. What madness.

  “Did you sleep well?”

  “Yeah, I think so. You?”

  He should have gone straight home and kicked them out.

  “Me too, I think.”

  “What should we do now, Adriano?”

  Maria’s voice quivered.

  “Let’s have breakfast. Are you hungry?”

  “Not really.”

  “If you try and eat something, I promise that I’ll kill our landlord.”

  “Fine, but he’ll come back to life anyway.”

  There was a small bathroom with a shower connected to the study. They washed up while the nurses brought breakfast to their room. They were happy to have Maria at the hospital. For them, the pregnancy was a pleasant interruption in the rocky landscape that had surrounded them for months. On the tray, there was some tea with lemon, some crisp bread and small packets of honey and cherry jam. Maria thanked them. It felt nice to be protected. Adriano, sitting at his desk, called the landlord. From the tone of his voice at the other end of the line, Adriano could tell that he was aware of the situation.

  “I’m sorry, but I honestly don’t know what to say, Dottore Karaianni.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t know what to say? We signed a contract, we’re always on time with rent.”

  “I know, and I’m sorry. It’s nothing personal, believe me.”

  “Let me get this straight, my pregnant wife comes home and is attacked and threatened on your property, by your parents, in the apartment that you rented out to us. And you don’t know what to say?”

  “This comes as a shock to me, too, believe me. Don’t you think I like getting your rent? But what am I supposed to do—my parents came back to the house that belonged to them!”

  “No, it’s our home now.”

  “Look, in legal terms, the matter is controversial.”

  “The fuck if I care about legal terms, Counselor. I expect you to respect the contract.”

  “What do you want me to do? Tell me, Dottore. Should I kick my mother and father out on the street? Is that what you would do?”

  “Take them into your own home!”

  “Yeah, right! Has your wife told you what they’re like? I’m willing to reimburse you, but frankly I can’t do much more than that …”

  Adriano hung up the phone, cursing in anger. Maria always smiled when he was angry.

  They needed to go to the police station to file the complaint, but he had an online appointment with Ari Gastel. It would last for half an hour. Maria stepped out to take a walk but by the time she got to the end of the street she was already tired. She felt like a turtle on its back, unable to turn itself over. She decided to go back, but stopped to catch her breath on a chair in front of Serafino’s old room. She tipped her head back, breathing in deeply through her nostrils. The door opened. It was Rufina, the Latin girl whom Adriano had mentioned to her. She was beautiful indeed, despite her height. But she was dressed rather scantily. It hadn’t taken her long to get with the times, maybe because back in her day, she also had dressed according to the fashion, choosing her own tunic and sandals, getting her hair and makeup done. Now she was wearing a white sheath dress that stopped above her knees with summer ankle boots, open at the front. The girl pointed to her stomach. Her fingers were manly and her nails painted. She leaned forward and put her ear to Maria’s belly.

  “In illo tempore etiam gravida fui.”

  Maria was about to answer, but before she could the girl ran off.

  At the front gates the scene was the same as ever. A hundred or so people stared at the names of the reborn individuals on the display. There were a dozen or so names, enough to catch the attention of passersby. Police officers safeguarded the area, annoyed. The moon hung high in the daytime sky like an open parenthesis that no one wanted to close.

  When they reached the police station they were invited into a barely furnished office. The pieces of furniture were random additions layered over the course of different generations. Seated behind a gray desk, an officer with chiseled sideburns and half waxed eyebrows listened to their story with an air of understanding.

  “You aren’t the first. Two days ago we received news from the Ministry. This has already happened, I can’t remember where exactly, but I’m sure of it.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

  “You aren’t the only folks to find dead people in their homes.”

  “What difference does that make?”

  “Nothing. We’ll file your complaint, but if I were you I’d try and find another solution.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s complicated.”

  “You mean to say you can’t do anything about this?”

  “There’s no law against this, Dottore. This is an entirely new phenomenon. And you understand that we’re dealing with older folks here so it’s even more of a delicate situation. Put yourself in their shoes. Tossing them out onto the streets would be inhuman.”

  “Meanwhile throwing a pregnant woman on the street is acceptable.”

  “I don’t know what to tell you, Dottore. Tenants do have rights. Can’t you ask your parents? Don’t you have family members you can stay with?”

  “No, officer, we don’t have any family.”

  As they made their way back to the hospital, they listened to the car radio. There was a story about a Chinese emperor who asked his most famous inventor to devise a game for him. One month later the inventor came forward. He had invented checkers. The king was so enthusiastic about the game that he asked him how he would like to be rewarded. The inventor replied: you are most generous, your Majesty. All I ask of you is that you place two grains of rice in the first square, four in the second and sixteen in the third, and so on until the last slot is filled.” The emperor agreed, pleased by his subject’s humble request. When his servants began filling the squares on the board with grains of rice, they quickly realized that all the rice in China would never be enough to complete the task.

  Adriano found it pathetic and tried to crack a joke.

  “And so the emperor ordered that his head be cut off.”

  Maria didn’t laugh. She stared straight in front of herself, beyond the windshield.

  “Do you think everyone will come back?”

  He changed the station. Someone was talking about the conference. Four days of seminars and debates hosted by the United Nations. There would be thousands of researchers of every nationality, politicians, officials and journalists. Only the living would be allowed entrance, not the reborn. There would be tight security on the only bridge that leads to the city on the island where the conference would be held. Air and naval traffic would patrol the skies and waters. The city would be shut off to vehicles other than cars. No trains, no ships. No buses. Adriano would go on his own. He would rent a car so that he could return at any time. His report was ready. He had a meeting scheduled for four in the afternoon the following day at the Ministry, where Aloni would introduce him to the Undersecretary who would explain the final details. Maria’s voice captured him from his thoughts.

  “You don’t need to worry about me, Adriano. I’m going to stay at the hospital, they make an excellent breakfast.”

  They drove along the river. Branches of a willow tree touched the water. She smiled.

  “Would you like to be reborn?”

  Adriano shook his head.

  “No. Just the idea of it makes me feel tired.”

  “If I died, would
you like it if I came back?”

  They looked at each other and then immediately looked away. “Yes,” Adriano whispered.

  But that moment, too, passed, consumed in nothingness the same way it had sprung from nothingness. And no one would know how to translate its length into the ordinary time of men.

  Twenty-three

  Ettore Aloni greeted him at the elevator. The Undersecretary was waiting for them. They crossed a spacious hall of mirrors, the glass of the windows vibrating with each step they took, and Adriano took advantage of the situation to tell him about the old couple. Maria was still upset, he said, and he didn’t like the thought of leaving her by alone for the duration of the conference. Aloni stopped to listen to him, but didn’t look at him. He was pinching his freckles on his hand. He then threw his arms up in the air in a gesture of surrender. He couldn’t do anything about it. He motioned for them to start walking again.

  They were received immediately, without a wait. The Undersecretary approached him, trying to come across as cordial and approachable, but his tone was arrogant. He had the habit of beginning every sentence with the words, “As you know.”

  “As you know, we’re expecting a lot from you, Dottore.”

  “I hope to measure up to your expectations.”

  “As you know, this is an opportunity for our country to make a good impression in an international playing field. Beyond the honor and duty of hospitality, we have faith in our lecturers, and it is my pleasure to include you.”

  Questions popped up in Adriano’s mind that had nothing to do with what the man was saying. What title does one use with an Undersecretary? Should he call him Your Excellency, Honorable, or Dottore? It was clear that the meeting had no real purpose. It was a play, without meaning. Maybe everything was.

  “As you know, we are at the eve of a pivotal decision-making moment, and the groundwork for the change will be addressed during the course of the symposia …”

  He went on and on. He liked hearing himself talk. He was going to spend the rest of his life listening to the sound of his own words, pebbles rattling around inside his mouth. Aloni stood silently by, trying to peel off his freckles. No one knew what was going on; certain, only, of the way time dries up oceans and levels mountains, they had decided to entrust themselves to the conference as if it were a decisive factor. It would last four days and would involve thousands of speakers from eighty-one different countries. There would be tens of thousands of technocrats, guests of honor and journalists. It would most likely be useless, but he had to go. It wasn’t that far, in the end, just five hundred and thirty kilometers, a five-hour car ride, and things at the hospital were under control. And then, who knows, maybe someone would have a brilliant idea.

  “As you know, these are serious times, dear Dottore. It is evident that we cannot exclude draconian measures. We must be on the alert. The number of rebirths is certainly not alarming: three hundred thousand people is really a small number.”

  Adriano grew distracted. His gaze, though directed at the man speaking, passed straight through him and went to a painting on the wall. It depicted a cardinal or something of the sort, seated in profile on what seemed to be a throne. He had a white beard and was gripping the armrests. His left eye looked out from the canvas to meet the gaze of whomever was watching him with defeated melancholy. He had an exhausted expression, as if he was being accused. The strange thing was the way the painting was divided in half by a veil that hung over it. Above the figure, the artist had painted a transparent gauze that divided the composition into two parts, it liquified the cardinal’s gaze, made the red of the tunic fade and deformed the figure’s fingers, transforming them into claws of flesh that gripped the wooden armrests, that looked about to melt.

  “I see you’re admiring the painting, Dottore.”

  Adriano came back to his senses. The Undersecretary looked pleasantly moved. The only thing that mattered to him was his voice.

  “It’s a Titian. I believe it’s a copy but done while the artist was still alive, or just after his death.”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “It’s strange, don’t you think, that a painting like this one isn’t better known? It shows Cardinal Filippo Archinto at the moment of defeat. According to experts, the artist wanted to represent the man’s disappointment in not becoming the archbishop of Milan.”

  “When was it painted?”

  “I see you ask the right questions, Dottore. The most probable date is 1559. But by then the cardinal was already dead. He died in Bergamo in exile the year before. So it cannot actually be a portrait. That veil is a premonition of an imminent death, a hint buried within the folds of our most secret ambitions. You do understand me, Dottore, don’t you?”

  Adriano wasn’t sure that he did but he nodded anyway. The Undersecretary was satisfied. Slowly he brought his palms together in a single, muffled clap in front of his face. That was his signal indicating that the meeting was over. Aloni stood up and soon they were standing at the door. Aloni excused himself as he had another meeting to attend. Adriano was alone. He made his way back through the hall of mirrors to the hallway, and if he remembered correctly, at the end of that he would find the elevators. He pressed the call button. Silence surrounded him.

  “How are you, Dottore?”

  The voice came out of nowhere and made him jump. He must have looked frightened, because Massimo Interminelli laughed, revealing long incisors. He looked even more skeletal than usual.

  “Don’t be frightened, Dottore. I didn’t mean to scare you. I, too, need to take the elevator down.”

  “How are you?”

  “Busy as always. More than usual. Preparations are in the works … as you well know.”

  Adriano smiled and entered the elevator. It was one of those narrow elevators with a velvet lining and a mirror. Given the narrow space, they were forced to almost touch. Interminelli hovered over him. He gave off the rancid odor of wet dog. To overcome his embarrassment and to speed up the journey, Adriano kept talking.

  “Preparations for what?”

  “What do you mean, for what, Dottore? For the conference!”

  “Will you be coming as well?”

  “Certainly. Oh, I’m guessing they haven’t told you yet.”

  “Told me what?”

  They passed an entire floor before Interminelli replied.

  “We are going to be together at the conference, Dottore. You have been entrusted to my supervision.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “We will be going to the conference together. Aren’t you happy? By car, naturally. Don’t worry, I will drive. They decided to suspend all trains, planes, and ships. One people with cars will be able to access the conference. It’s safer that way. Every vehicle will need to approved. Yours isn’t. Mine is. I hope this is not inconvenient for you.”

  “No, absolutely not.”

  The elevator reached the ground floor. Adriano unlatched the iron gate and stepped back to make space for the official, who, with one long stride, stepped out of the elevator. At the main entrance, he waved goodbye with the back of his hand. Adriano could see the curvature of Interminelli’s spine underneath his jacket. Closing the elevator door behind him, Adriano heard Interminelli’s final words.

  “Don’t worry, Dottore, I will find you.”

  Twenty-four

  Adriano could find Ari Gastel online at any hour of day or night. He sent him a draft of his report that afternoon and wanted his opinion before making the final corrections. He logged on at 2:00 in the morning. Maria was sleeping three meters away. The window was open. It was extremely hot, the air was still, and yet the leaves of the trees looked agitated. A storm was coming.

  Adriano Karaianni: Hello, did you read the doc?

  Ari Gastel: It’s excellent. You are right about the infertility. And about its relationship with sleep. You nail it, basically.

  Adriano Karaianni: I find it convincing, too. Any news?

  Ari Gastel
: A Palestinian boy came into the hospital today, he must have been no older than fourteen, he was in a frenzied state, it took four of us to hold him down.

  Adriano Karaianni: Ha ha.

  Ari Gastel: He did not want to be examined. He was scared. He kicked. He even bit a nurse’s hand and made her bleed. The nurse lost her cool, punched him and shouted “Fuck you, dead asshole.”

  Adriano Karaianni: Okay, go on.

  Ari Gastel: We explained to him that he is reborn. There was no reaction. He started to laugh.

  Adriano Karaianni: Why was he laughing?

  Ari Gastel: My nurse looked grim. She muttered something. She says: “Doc, I think that’s the guy who blew himself up in the pizza joint six months ago.” The kid nodded and laughed. I got pissed off and asked what was so funny. He replies, “I can do it again, doc, I can do it as many times as I want. I can slaughter you to infinity.”

  Adriano Karaianni: Shit!

  Ari Gastel: I swear to you, my blood froze.

  Adriano Karaianni: I believe you.

  Ari Gastel: Now even suicide bombers are reborn. There’s no religion, anymore.

  Adriano Karaianni: Sooner or later it will have to stop.

  Ari Gastel: Actually, I have my doubts. It might be crap, but I redid my calculations.

  Adriano Karaianni: What do you mean?

  Ari Gastel: OK, let’s pretend that the rebirths take place every forty days or so.

  Adriano Karaianni: OK, and so?

  Ari Gastel: So, the progression would no longer be double, but exponential.

  Adriano Karaianni: Meaning what?

  Ari Gastel: 5 times 5 makes 25, 25 times 25 makes 625, and 625 times 625 …

  Adriano Karaianni: What the fuck are you saying? This can’t be.

  Ari Gastel: Yes, but the data we have collected is weak. Full of holes. Maybe it was recorded late. What do we know? We’re not talking about exact numbers. They’re guesstimates.

  Adriano Karaianni: Are you saying that if the first one came back in March like Serafino …