by Giacomo Papi
By the time the man finished his sentence, Adriano was already walking off in the direction of the river. If there was really a river behind those trees, then it was the same river that also ran by the hospital. He had to find a boat, something. His heels sunk into the ground and the stampeded grass, he went past the bushes and down the sandy bank towards the dull, black water that flowed lazily in the direction of the sea. Adriano raced against the current, his feet hitting the ground, until he reached a metal fence that blocked his path. He looked through it. It was a private sporting center. He was going to have to climb over the fence, but it was so high. The guards might still be around, or maybe a watchdog.
He managed to get to the other side and landed in the sagging grass. An English style lawn. Someone had left the hose on to water it. He couldn’t see very well. Suddenly he tripped on something, a beach chair. He noticed several lying on the ground. When the tide rose, everyone fled and abandoned things as they were. He was on his knees, looking for it. He found the hose, a plastic valve that came out of the ground. He put his mouth on it and sucked, greedily. The water revived him. He felt strong again. He stood and walked towards the pier. There was a canoe on the shore and the paddle wasn’t far off. He pushed the boat down the sand and hopped inside.
The current was gentle. His strokes drew dark swirls in the water while shadows of trees and housing projects swooshed by on shore, accompanying him on his journey like bored spectators. The canoe slipped into the darkness, but the paddles kept hitting something soft that floated on the surface. He looked closely at the black water, illuminated by the moonlight. It was scattered with moving things. Rats. Thousands of rats driven away by the return of the dead had abandoned the mainland and sought refuge in the river.
He turned to look at the shore. The city slinked by. The bridges were getting closer and he could see the smaller buildings and the city-like constructions approaching. As he neared the center, human density on the shoreline increased. Not too far off, he spotted blocks of cement. He was almost there. He recognized the shore. He saw the willow tree with the very long branches. He pulled in close to a barge. If he had calculated correctly, he was less than two kilometers from the hospital. The pier was filled with mice, who squeaked by as he made his way though. He walked up a stone staircase.
Serafino tried to evaluate the disaster around him. There were no more flowers on the beds, no more grass. The stampede had destroyed them the night before. There were still a lot of people out and not only the reborn. He could tell who they were by looking into their eyes. He could see the dark half moons of their deep eye sockets. Some were alive but so broken down by fear and lack of sleep that they sought refuge in the first pit they found. He looked for indications to the obstetrics ward. He needed to find a gynecologist. He would focus on Adriano later. An uprooted tree lay on the ground in front of the entrance. Someone had used it to break through the glass door. He walked through it and made his way to the entrance hall. He stepped on a bed of glass shards, reaching the staircase in the dark. The soles of his shoes stuck to the floor. He pushed open the door of the ward. No one was there.
There was a ribbon on one of the doorknobs, but he couldn’t tell if it was pink or blue. It was even darker inside, and he heard the sound of running water. Where was it coming from? He walked on, blindly. He stepped into a puddle and stretched his arm out so that he wouldn’t fall, grabbing onto the wall with his open hand. He walked to the window and felt the shutters. He was about to open them when he felt something soft and heavy with his foot. He looked down. It was a body. He crouched and got closer. The little bit of light that penetrated from the outside illuminated the body of a woman in a nightgown, sprawled out between the bed and the wall, her long hair strewn across the flooded floor. Her eyes were open and her light colored gown had a large black stain across the abdomen. Serafino pulled his hand away, horrified, and stood up again. He wanted to run, but water from the bathroom was flooding the floor. He stepped back. The tiny body of a newborn was floating belly down in the sink.
He found himself in the hallway. He ran towards the exit when he perceived something moving on his right, but it was only his reflection in the nursery window. He got closer. It looked like a normal night in the nursery. He walked in. Maybe they left one of them alive. Dozens of little babies looked like they had been waiting for him, asleep in their beds, bracelets still on their wrists, nametags on the bassinets, their weight and time of birth recorded on the clipboard. They were frozen and white, without voice or breath. He felt like throwing up. He shouted. He was running down the stairs now, his shoes sticking to the blood, still wet from the massacre of the night before. Nothing was alive there. He crossed the entrance hall one more time, jumped over the dead tree, and quickly came to terms with the fact that Maria’s little girl would be born in the dark. After all, people have been coming into this world since the beginning of time, babies can be born in the dark, even without a gynecologist—being born and dying are easy things to do. Even without a father. And who knew, maybe they had already killed Adriano.
They crossed paths without noticing each other and missed each other by a few seconds. Serafino went through the fence and headed home. Adriano walked past the now destroyed reception desk. The elevator doors were wide open, scattered with broken parts. He climbed the stairs three steps at a time, in the direction of his room. He saw people in the halls but they were new, he had never seen these faces before, these ghosts. As soon as he saw his office door his heart started to beat so fast that he felt it bounce in his rib cage. Maybe Maria was in there, maybe she was hiding, maybe she had saved herself.
Sitting on the bed with her legs spread wide over the wet sheets, Maria started to cry and at the same time felt a furious rage grow inside of her. What the hell was Adriano thinking, leaving her alone like that? If he really cared about her he should have refused to take part in the conference. Where was that asshole now? Why hadn’t he arrived? He must have gotten himself killed, like those other idiots. He had abandoned her, that’s what mattered, and now she didn’t know how to have a baby, nothing was moving inside of her, her stomach was still, she wasn’t having contractions and if water had stopped trickling it meant that the baby had no more water, and how many hours could the baby last without water? Was she alive or had she already died? Fuck you, Adriano. Fuck you.
Adriano shouted her name and started punching the door.
“Maria, open up. Open up, please, I beg you. Tell me you’re in there. Tell me you’re in there, it’s me!”
He heard the sound of the door being unlocked. He took a deep breath, almost certain that he had found her. He stretched his long fingers and pushed open the door to save time, but when it opened he came face to face with Carlo Medioli.
“Adriano, you’re back.”
He spoke to him like he was from another planet. Adriano pushed him away and walked into the room.
“I came to get Maria. Where is she?”
“I don’t know. I’m sorry.”
“Where the fuck is she? Tell me!”
“I saw her get in line with all those other people last night, she was running away from this place.”
“Why didn’t you stop her?”
“Because I couldn’t. I couldn’t do anything. They came in swarms. All the people who died in the hospital, as well as people from outside.”
Medioli was shaking. He looked awkward. Pathetic. When he started talking again, his cries distorted his face and voice.
“They were killing pregnant women, Adriano. They used the delivery room. When I last saw Maria, she was alive. Believe me, I couldn’t do anything. If I had said anything to her, they would have gutted her.”
Trying to wrap his mind around what he heard, Adriano walked to the sink and started to wash himself. His chest, his back, his armpits, washing off all the scum that had accumulated on him from the last few hours: sweat, fatigue, the stench of humanity in which he had been immersed. He dried himself with a roll
of paper towels, opened the dresser and found his clothes still inside.
Serafino ran down the street. Families wandered around, both terrorized and aggressive, herds of men and women who didn’t know if there was anything left in this world to look for or hope for. A light cloud glided across the moon and then slipped away. Serafino looked up but kept running and repeating to himself the same question: were the reborn evil?
Adriano buttoned up his shirt. Medioli stared at him absently. He put on his shoes and walked to the door.
“I’m going to look for her.”
“Even Rufina left, Adriano.”
“What are you despairing about, Medioli? She was hungry. That’s why she acted the way she did with you. Did you really think she loved you?”
“You’re an asshole.”
Before walking out Adriano grabbed his money and cell phone, but felt something at the bottom of his pocket, a small piece of folded paper. What was it? He pulled it out and walked over to the window for more light. On the piece of paper were the words “Prof. Serafino Currò,” along with his address and telephone number. It was the old piece of paper that Serafino had given to Adriano for Maria when he left the hospital. Of course, Maria knew where he lived, she knew him and trusted him. What a fucking idiot. How had he not thought of it earlier?
He ran down the street, dodging those beings who were reclaiming possession of earth, without feeling fatigue or sweat, without feeling the blisters on his hands or feet, or the shortage of oxygen that polluted his blood and lungs, without feeling his racing heart because he had both a destination and hope. The sky was charged with electricity, the wind started to blow excessively, lifting trash up high and forcing trees and people to bend over. On the horizon the sky grew bright and then dark again, like a large eye blinking open and then shut. There was the roll of thunder. A storm was coming to wash away the earth.
Thirty-five
A beastly gurgle resounded from her throat. The pain came all at once, a new and violent kind of pain, different from the pain she had experienced up to this point: it was like a sting, a precipice and a wave that radiated outward from her center, flooding every cell of her body. It was her first contraction. She recognized it immediately. It felt more like being subjected to something overwhelming and foreign instead of her making it happen: to give birth should actually be a passive verb. Labor had begun. She was alone. She looked at the time on the alarm clock on the dresser. They had instructed her to time her contractions. It was ten to ten. But she couldn’t remember whether at the very beginning her intervals should last one hour or half an hour. Waiting made her nervous. She had never been very patient.
She was cold. Outside, the weather had changed. Somewhere, maybe in the kitchen, a window flung open with a bang. Even the bedroom window started slamming. She struggled to put her feet on the ground and sit up. It was very dark and a strong wind was howling. Yet everything looked still, like it was waiting for something. Drops fell from the sky, like swollen frogs that splattered on the pavement, on red tiled roofs, on metal roofs, on parked cars, on the leaves of trees, on the skin of people. A cascade of rain came down on the entire universe. People cheered, flung their heads backwards and opened their mouths to drink and extended their arms for their bodies to be cleansed. Hands grabbed hold of anything that resembled a container—garbage cans, tossed bottles, even the shoes on their feet. Even the ground drank, the roads were transformed into streams. There was Adriano, running. How many faces had he seen in those days, how many eyes, cheekbones, lips? His wet hair was dripping with water, his feet sank into puddles and hundreds of thoughts filled his brain—would he find Maria? His words were confused as they raced to define the moment—it was a downpour, a deluge, a cloudburst, a shower, a torrent, a tempest, a thunderstorm, a hurricane—as if the truth of what was happening depended on him finding the right word to define the situation. He recognized the traffic light. He was almost at the supermarket, where everything had begun but the wall of rain thickened and the raindrops on his eyes obstructed his vision.
Maria struggled to place her feet on the ground. Water flooded the floor and she had goose bumps. She needed to close the window. She held herself up, leaning her right hand on the mattress, but soon she realized that the second contraction was on its way. She touched her belly. It felt more rigid, hard, like it was being squeezed by a sadist’s fingers. She couldn’t even breathe it hurt so badly. The wave was growing, she tried counting the seconds—one, two, three, four, five—but the seconds never ended, the wave was so slow, high and invincible, that it slowed as it grew in size. She fell to the bed, for she had never felt this kind of pain before. She couldn’t bear it but she had no other option, she couldn’t flee, something within her was splitting her in two. She closed her eyes and opened them again, she couldn’t think of anything but pain, a pain so strong that it knocked the living daylights out of her and possessed her from the inside outwards. It was subsiding now, and while her bite slackened, it left her bitter towards those who had abandoned her. Towards Adriano, wherever the hell he was. Towards Serafino, who was running up the stairs, even if she didn’t know it, and was putting his key in the keyhole quietly so as not to wake her.
Maria sensed a rustling. It came from nearby. Was Serafino back? If so, why was he moving about like a thief? Her pain was gone but her heart had stopped beating. She knew there was someone else in the house. Now she was terrified. She slipped onto the flooded floor and slithered under the bed, but it was too low for her belly. She cried out feebly, forcing herself not to make a sound.
The old man entered the house. It was silent so he thought that she was still asleep. He, on the other hand, couldn’t remember what it felt like to sleep. He hadn’t slept since he came back to life. He lit a candle. Maria, huddled against the night table, heard a sound of the kiss of a match being lit and footsteps, and saw a flickering light on the ceiling.
“Where are you, Maria? What happened?”
She lifted her head slightly above the mattress and saw a dark silhouette behind the flickering flame. She wasn’t even able to answer and he had shut the window and carried her in his arms to the bed.
“What are you doing there, Maria?”
“I’m giving birth.”
“What should I do?”
“I’m not sure, Serafino, it’s my first time.”
The old man disappeared into the other room. Maria listened to him moving around. Soon, inside of her, a new wave of pain would come, but she felt stronger now, she knew what to do, she would let herself be overcome without putting up a fight, she would carry it through, the pain, she would conquer it. To be born. To give birth. It’s all the same, in the end. To go through the motions. To make things happen.
“I put on some water to boil, like in the pictures, and I brought more candles. Is it OK with you if I light them?”
“Yes, but I need some dry sheets and a blanket. It’s all wet and I’m freezing.”
The room brightened. The man walked over to the linen closet and pulled out some sheets and an army blanket. He went back to her and thought that he she had never looked so beautiful. Her lips and cheeks were reddened by the candlelight, and a marvelous inner glow filtered through her skin. He took her in his arms like an expert nurse and sat her down on the chair. He tore off the old sheets and put on new ones.
“You’re good at making beds.”
“I was in the war, young lady. Does it hurt very badly?”
“You can’t even imagine.”
“What do you think the hot water is for?”
“I have no clue, but don’t make me laugh, Serafino, it hurts.”
The old man laughed. The tireless sound of humanity penetrated in the room, through the closed window. Laughing, they looked at each other in the eyes and in so doing, fell silent. In the midst of that silence, someone knocked.
“Who is it?”
He carried her back to the bed, covered her, motioned to her to keep quiet, and went to the do
or. The knocking was energetic, fast, and aggressive.
“Open up!”
He was so close. Someone was growing impatient out on the landing. He pounded the door, paced up and down and knocked again.
“It’s me, Adriano. Maria is in there, right? She came here?”
Serafino swooped to unlock the bolt and the door fell open to a frenzied Adriano. He stood in front of Serafino, who could barely recognize him.
“Maria’s here, right?”
The old man motioned towards the back bedroom and the young man ran, almost slipping on the wet tile floor. Calmly, Serafino turned all the locks and went into the kitchen, checked on the boiling water, removed the bigger pot from the fire, and walked towards their bedroom, pausing at the threshold.
He saw Maria hitting Adriano and throwing desperate punches at his chest and his face.
“Asshole, bastard—why did you make me wait so long?”
They laughed and cried, Adriano fell to his knees, and didn’t even try defending himself from her punches.
“You son of a bitch! Bastard asshole.”
“If you need me just call,” Serafino said from the doorway.
Adriano was quiet. Maria collapsed, exhausted, onto the pillows. From the innermost part of her body she could feel another contraction coming. Serafino came in with the pot of boiling water.
Maria’s expression changed again. She was wan, her lips parted in an expression of wait. Adriano gave her his hand and she grabbed his wrist, digging her nails into his veins until she left a mark on his skin, and squeezed the sheets with her other hand, like it was the mast of a ship during a storm. This contraction was longer and more intense than the others. Others followed, more and more intense each time, more frequently, more vicious, minutes blended into hours, and time and space melted into what went on around them. The old man brought out a bucket big enough to hold a newborn. He filled it with lukewarm water, neither hot nor cold. Adriano instructed him to boil a pair of scissors, to wash his hands very well and to bring other clean towels.