by Giacomo Papi
Shattered glass glistened on the floor. They had taken everything away, but maybe she could still find something, despite the ransackers. The freezer doors were wide open. She held the knife tightly. She saw a dark splotch on the lower shelf and bent down to grab it. A can. Orange soda. She put the knife down and opened it, her fingers shaking with excitement, causing the liquid to overflow, fizzy. She pursed her lips around the opening of the can, making sure not to let any of it go to waste. It was dark, lukewarm and flowed sweet down her throat, so delectable she could faint. She sucked up every single droplet, her head bent backwards. She heard a muffled sound. Someone crying?
She placed the empty can on the floor, with care. She took the knife and moved wearily in the direction of the sound. Silence. Then she heard the sob once more.
She was in front of the cash registers. She peered out, cautiously. Sitting there with his head in his hands and elbows on his knees was a man in suit and tie, crying. He looked up at her. His eyes were vacant, resigned. He must have been fifty years old. Almost bald. His weak chin was covered by a goatee. He wiped his eyes with his right hand and Maria noticed that his middle finger was missing. He sniffled before beginning to speak.
“You’re not a reborn, are you?”
His tone was harmless, belonging to one who has nothing to lose. Maria touched her neck.
“No. And you?”
The man covered his face with his hands.
“They took everything away from me. They came in swarms, last night, a little before opening hour. There were so many of them that they could hardly fit in.”
The truck revved its engine. He spied from the window as he stood on the sink. There were three of them. One of them went to open the door. The other two pointed their guns.
“Get out, get out! Get out of the truck!”
Dozens of men, women and children got out. They were completely naked.
“Get out, go stand there. Behave, or we’ll shoot you all.”
“Move it, assholes!”
“Hose them down now.”
The two men made them line up in front of the bathroom door, a meter away from where Adriano was hiding. The first man grabbed his rifle, the second man picked up an orange hose from the ground. He couldn’t see the third one, he was out of his line of vision, but he was most certainly close to the wall. The man with the spray hose opened fire and a violent gush of water hit the prisoners as they tried to soak up all the water they could, opening their mouths and raising their hands to the sky. The man who hosed them down pretended he was machine-gunning them, while the other armed man laughed.
“Go ahead, assholes. Soak it up. We can’t sell expired goods. Wash yourselves down, scrub well. Your armpits, your asses, your balls.”
Adriano could hear the voice of the man that he couldn’t see.
“Make sure you wet them down well, otherwise they’ll die on us in half an hour.”
“Are you sure this water is drinkable? It’s from the water tank.”
“At best they’ll purge themselves like snails.”
The man with the hose sprayed water at their heads.
“There, there. Drink up.”
Thirty seconds passed and then they were ordered to stop. It was time to get back on the road. He heard them say that if they were lucky they would get to the city before dusk. Adriano was shocked. He no longer needed to struggle. The city they were headed to was the same one where Maria was. He jumped down using the toilet as a step stool, took off his shoes, pants and underwear and balled them up to his stomach. He opened the door slightly and slipped out.
The herd was moving. He ran to join them.
They ran towards the truck, one after the other, dripping with water and sweat, skin on skin, while the three men shouted orders. Those in front were already at the top of the ramp. Adriano, all the way in the back, saw the black mouth of the truck swallow dozens of fragile beings, too frightened to fight back. Was he making the biggest mistake of his life? Where were they headed? Who were they? Would they be sold as slaves, or as livestock? But it was too late, if he tried to flee they would shoot him in the back. He was inside. They pushed. The floor of the truck was filthy. One door of the truck closed behind him. The light from outside grew dim, and the darkness fell as the second door shut. There were minuscule holes of light in the ceiling. Air fissures. The engine revved, and several seconds later, the truck began to move.
The man was right. There was nothing left. Maria licked her lips. She was still thirsty. There was no light. No power. Ice melted. She ran to the frozen goods section. She opened a freezer door. At the base she found two plastic containers brimming with ice water. She took one up to her mouth, careful not to spill it, and drank, pouring every last drop into her mouth. Her head spun out of pleasure. In order not to faint she rested her hand on the edge of a counter. She was going mad. She felt like ripping off all her clothes, Adriano’s coat, the adhesive bandage, the cotton around her breasts, but she had no way of putting it back on. It must have been late morning by now. Almost noon. The man was gone. She needed to leave too. There was no point in staying. She walked back to the meat counter, the same way she came in. She left the knife on a table and grabbed a smaller, thinner one and slipped it up her sleeve. Then she walked out into the angry light of day.
Outside was an inferno of bodies. There was no more room, but the current flowed just the same, it just wasn’t clear in what direction it was going. She let herself be moved but she kept her eye fixed on the sky. She wandered down an anonymous boulevard, by façades of large buildings, surrounded by strangers coming from every side, demanding their portion of space. A crowd walked out of a church, raging, with packets of hosts in hand. They were trying to feed themselves with an edible god.
She walked for hours. At four o’clock she found herself by the river. People were jumping off bridges. Others climbed onto a docked boat. She needed to find shade. She sat on a bench under a willow tree. A fat, old woman sat on a bench with her eyes closed. She sat down on the edge of the bench and tried to close her eyes, too. When she opened them again, the woman was gone. Like the man who was crying. The one missing a finger. She froze. It came to her like a slap in the face. Of course. How had she not thought of it before? He was the manager, the manager of the supermarket where Adriano had met Serafino for the very first time. Adriano had even told her that he was missing a finger. And the supermarket was right in front of Serafino’s home, what an idiot, they had even gone there after the funeral. She needed to find the house. Serafino would help her. Her heart beat a million beats per minute. Without realizing it she started running, blinded by the light of the sun, now hanging low in the sky.
Inside the truck he could only make out the white of people’s eyes. There was no air and it was suffocatingly hot. With each stop and start, bodies fell over each other. Every so often a fight would break out, but people were too exhausted to keep it up. Adriano was pressed in a corner, between the door and the left side of the truck. At least he was able to lean on something. He held his things in his hand. They had been traveling for hours. Judging by the light that penetrated from the air fissures on the ceiling, the sun was going down. The truck stopped, started again, then stopped.
“We’re stuck in traffic.”
The voice came from somewhere on the right. From someone big and tall. Adriano tried to say something.
“Where did they pick you up?”
“In my office, early this morning.”
“Did they tell you where they are bringing us?”
“No. They laughed at me. Slaves. I think that’s what we’re going to end up being.”
Other voices chimed in.
“If only. There’s nothing left to eat—get it?”
“And so?”
“There’s no shortage of bodies.”
Silence fell. Someone was crying. Adriano raised his voice.
“We need to escape.”
“And where the fuck do we go? Those people
are armed.”
“Yeah, but there are a lot of us.”
Serafino’s house was there, just past the intersection, she wasn’t sure if it was to the left or to the right, but she would recognize it, surely, when she saw it. She went uphill, turned left and then took a right. The road came to a turn. Just as she remembered, the building was there. The gate was open. She crossed a courtyard filled with hydrangeas and a statue of Mary in a niche. Building A had a glass door but it was closed. She walked back to the courtyard, where she picked up the remains of a rusty chair and broke the glass door with it. She put her hand inside and turned the knob. It was dark. The glass cut her feet. She walked up the stairs, holding onto the banister and stepping on grease and dust. She felt no pain. She remembered that his apartment was somewhere on the top floor, she had noticed it on the day of the funeral. She didn’t know what floor for sure, though. She walked all the way up to the last, the sixth floor. There were three doors. Her memory led her to the middle door. She starting pounding on it and muttering loudly.
“Serafino! Are you there?! Tell me you’re there, please. Open up, it’s Maria. Serafino.”
She could hear the bolt being unlatched. She wasn’t sure if she should run. She searched for somewhere to hide. The door opened, first just a crack, then wider. There was some light but everything felt hazy. She was aware that she was fainting.
When she opened her eyes again she was laying down on a double bed and the old man was wiping her face with a damp washcloth. He had brought her inside, picking her up in his arms when she had fainted. He handed her a glass of water. The girl drank it and asked for another one. The bedroom was in semi-darkness, but late afternoon sun filtered though the curtains, drawing tongues of fiery light on the ceiling and walls. Two hours had passed.
“I think it’s time for you to take off those rags you have on.”
He led her into the long and narrow bathroom. The tub was almost full.
“It’s already hot, I think. But I put two more pots on the fire.”
When the old man left the room, Maria took off the shirt and tore off everything else, with the help of the scissors that Serafino left for her to use. She stood there, naked, looking at herself in the mirror.
The touch of warm water on her skin made her realize how tired she was. She floated in the gray tinted water. She felt like she was in the womb again, that her life had yet to begin. She felt safe. She was exhausted. And very sad.
She got out of the tub and dried off. There was a bottle of talcum powder. She put some on. Then she got dressed and went into the kitchen. She drank milk and ate cookies. The old man explained to her that this was condensed milk that had been boiled. His son had collected so many goods that they had enough to eat for years. He walked her to the bed. She asked him to open the curtains. She wanted to take in the last bit of sunlight.
“The heat will come in, though.”
“Let the heat come in.”
Sunlight shone through the room. The furniture was outdated and the wall was covered with photographs of people Maria didn’t know. There was also a floor to ceiling closet with mirrored doors. Serafino sat down.
“Now sleep, Maria.”
“Stay here.”
“Alright. What would you like me to do?”
“Talk to me.”
“What would you like me to tell you?”
“Tell me about the girl.”
“What girl?”
“Your girl. The one you’ve been thinking about ever since you were reborn. The girl who never was, but was.”
In the belly of the truck it was impossible to breathe. The stench was unbearable. It was the smell of shit and fear. They moved on, stopping and starting, for at least half an hour now. No more light came in from up top. The truck stopped, then started up again, it accelerated and slowed down. It was exhausting. Adriano and his neighbor kept talking.
“What does this mean?”
“What?”
“The stopping and starting.”
“It means that we’ve made it to the city. We’re almost there.”
“We need to get ready. Spread the word.”
A wave of whispers invaded the darkness. The information travelled from neighbor to neighbor and in several seconds it took over the entire truck. Another halt, another break, another starting up again, and then they stopped and the engine turned off.
Doors opened and shut. Footsteps and voices. A shout. Laughter. Sounds of the door of the truck creaking open. Someone spoke in a low voice. It wasn’t Adriano.
“Get ready.”
Thirty-one
Maria’s head sunk into the pillow. It was soft, just like when she was a little girl. Her belly ached and she was worried. She hadn’t felt the baby move inside of her in several days. They told her that this was to be expected at the final stages of a pregnancy, because babies had no more space to move around in. Where was Adriano? She needed to sleep. She wanted to fall asleep listening to Serafino’s voice, she didn’t want to think of anything.
“It’s strange that you ask me about her, now, because I saw her just two days ago. Two days ago, you could still walk in the streets. There wasn’t this bloodbath that’s out there now. Crowds have always scared me, even as a young man.”
“Start from the beginning, Serafino.”
“The beginning starts at the end of May, 1915. Men ran into the piazzas to talk about the onset of war. All you could see on that muggy day were hats and sweaty faces. It was anything but radiant. Dust was everywhere. All you could hear was a muffled and continuous shouting. Kind of like what’s going on right now.
I remember my father wearing a red kerchief around his neck. I was seventeen and I had never seen him like that. I was scared, but also excited. He said that by reclaiming lost territories the living conditions of the poor would get better and would bring about the unification of the homeland. He had fought in a war as a youth, but he never spoke about it. While my uncle read the prime minister’s speech on the newspaper out loud, he placed his hand on my shoulder. I think it was the first time he touched me. In Parliament, the head of the government addressed the vital interests of the land and asked his country “without the arrogance of words,” not to disagree or else oblivion would fall over all of them.
And oblivion fell. It fell very soon. All of us were expecting to live through something heroic and terrible, something unimaginable. It was as if the desire to make history was gobbling up the future. We were being governed by the rationality of mice and insects, the intellect of social animals. They formed a frenzied, common brain. At the beginning they said that it would last several months, but this mess lasted four years. It’s been like this every time, every time I’ve experienced a war, at least.
My call to duty came in the Fall of 1917, two and a half years later. I was enrolled in a course for military reserve officers in a small city about four hundred kilometers away. When they gave me my lieutenant’s uniform I did what everyone else did. I ran to look for a photographer. For many people, it became the last photograph of their lives. The Ministry of War was working on an Honorary Album with portraits of soldiers who died in battle. It proved to be useful, in the end, especially when it came to giving a name to the hundreds of thousands of bodies that were picked up in the mountains, trenches, and along river banks.”
“But what about the girl?”
“Hush, and keep your eyes closed.”
Thirty-two
When they opened the back doors of the truck, the prisoners’ eyes widened. After endless hours of darkness, the sudden twilight was blinding. It was easy to be brave when you couldn’t see. The ramp came down and as soon as it touched the ground, Adriano shouted.
“Now! Run!”
They rolled out like marbles down a hill, like a battalion being spit out of a trench, people were pushed down by people in the back, people pushed others in the front, crushing anything that stood in their way. Adriano ran in the front row, clothes balled up in his h
and, expecting the bullet in his back. He was surprised, for when he finally heard shots being fired he was alive and far away. He ran on, the fugitives dispersed and the captors refused to chase them. He hopped a fence and found himself in a great big street in the outskirts of the city, full of factories, warehouses and skyscrapers. He couldn’t believe he was finally free and safe. Some of them had died during the escape, but fleeing was the right thing to do and they had done it. He made his way into the crowd without slowing down. He took deep breaths. He calmed down and his thoughts settled. He tried to understand where he was and how far the hospital was from where he found himself now. He would find Maria.
Thirty-three
“Soldiers in uniform made a line in front of the photographer’s studio that extended to the middle of the piazza. Some carried swords with them, but I was proud of my pistol, a 1906 Brixia 9mm. They smiled as they walked in and were in a daze when they came out ten minutes later. When it was my turn, I understood why.
She must have been fifteen or sixteen. She helped her father in the studio by telling the soldiers how to pose; she showed me how to sit, with my chin cocked at an angle, telling me to be still and to look up, then she put a cigarette between my lips and asked me to hold the pistol. I looked her in the eyes and she didn’t look away. I think she was trembling. I was dumbfounded. I was trembling too.
Her hair was up tied up in a bun, it was so black that it looked almost purple, and her dress was dark as well. It came down to her calves. Maybe she had purchased it the year before, when she was a little bit shorter. I could see her skin between her skirt and her short boots. She tried to look self-confident. I thought she looked pale and that somewhere deep down you could see she was laughing. Her father played around with the machinery. He replaced the plates and fixed the lighting. When she got closer to me, I felt my heart skip a beat.