Dear Rosanna,
I think you should have an abortion
and clicks the send button. The storm has slowed down the connection, however, and René has time to discard the e-mail before it’s sent into cyberspace.
A small, smelly pile of cigarette butts and ashes has formed at his feet, the smoke hangs in the air in velvety layers, but René lights another cigarette. A child would ruin his life—at the very least it would mess it up considerably. Besides, what sense does it make to have one with a woman he barely knows, or rather whom he doesn’t know at all, a woman fifteen years older than him who pays him for the pleasure of his body? A child is a serious matter, it’s no joke, it requires certain conditions, it should be planned. The doc said it just takes a minute to get rid of it, that neither the mother nor the baby is aware of it . . . He has to stop using that word, baby, stop it! It’s little more than a mosquito, that’s what it is, it’s sucked out through a tube and that’s that. There’s only one way to get out of this bad situation: Rosanna has to have an abortion, period. Unfortunately he can’t be with her because he’s tied up on the mission, and he’s sorry about that, but when the time comes he’ll have flowers sent to her in the hospital, or directly to her house. What kind of flowers are suitable for an abortion?
When he reaches this point, a doubt creeps into the marshal’s thoughts: the suspicion that he’s being selfish. What if he’s wrong? What if what he’s about to do is one of those crimes for which there is no forgiveness? Rosanna said it was her fault, one hundred percent hers, but what does René know about how the Almighty will assign blame when the time comes? He’s riveted again, his vacant stare turned toward the window that’s being buffeted by gusts of sand. René is unfamiliar with the treacherous spirals human reasoning can run up against; his brain is used to following a linear chain of logical steps. All of these back-and-forths, objections and counterobjections, are the most exhausting thing he’s ever experienced.
“WAKE UP, MARSHAL!”
Passalacqua claps his hands under his nose. René flinches. Angry, he gives him a shove. Zampieri, from another table, comes to his defense: “Hey, leave him alone. Can’t you see the marshal is writing a love letter?” She winks at him. René doesn’t respond.
He shuts down the e-mail program and double clicks on the WarCraft II icon. Distraction, he needs a little distraction.
A few yards away, at a table kept from wobbling by half a roll of toilet paper flattened and wedged under one of its legs, Ietri, Camporesi, Cederna, and Mattioli are challenging one another at Risk. It’s a typical game, showing Cederna to be the bullying braggart he is. He chose the black army and was defeated in multiple territories after less than an hour. Left with an army spottily deployed, he’s decided to concentrate all his remaining forces in Brazil, doggedly taking aim at Ietri’s soldiers entrenched in Venezuela. Each time it’s his turn he renews the attack with maximum strength and Ietri is beginning to feel exasperated. He’s sure his buddy’s objective has nothing to do with the destruction of his army, nor with the conquest of the South American continent. Cederna’s goal is pure and simple arrogance: he wants to irritate him, spoil his fun in the game because he’s losing and can’t stand the fact that things are going well for Ietri, who after conquering the North American continent is moving slowly southward.
“Brazil attacks Venezuela with three dice,” Cederna crows. “You can kiss your tanks good-bye, verginella.”
“I don’t know why you’re always picking on me,” Ietri whines, but he’s immediately sorry. In fact, Mattioli smiles sarcastically.
Cederna mimics him: “I don’t know why you’re always picking on me . . . Because Venezuelans are shitty communists and have to be punished. That’s why.”
He rolls the dice on the board and clearly does it on purpose to scatter Ietri’s troops, after he’s taken the time to align them carefully. A five, a six, and a deuce. “Booom!”
Ietri reluctantly picks up the blue dice. His army, though great in number, now appears weak, caught up in a disorderly retreat. He throws the dice and scores lower with two out of three. Cederna is quick to remove the corresponding tanks, simulating the same number of explosions.
“Get your hands off. I’ll do it.”
Ietri has had enough. If he were in Cederna’s shoes, he wouldn’t act like that. He would team up instead, probably against Mattioli, who has that greedy, silent way of playing, like someone who isn’t enjoying it because he takes the competition too seriously. There are twenty euros in the kitty—it’s not much, but it’s still something. Ietri’s desire to win it is so heated, it scares him. At times, more and more often, his thoughts are swept by forces that he can’t control.
“Another attack! On Venezuela. Death to the communists!”
“Hey! That’s enough!” Ietri blurts out.
“I’ll decide when it’s enough, verginella.”
Camporesi laughs. No one has the foggiest idea of how great Ietri’s humiliation is at this point. He grips the dice in his fist.
This time he scores lower with all three—he’s lost the territory. He doesn’t get ruffled; he has many others left. He removes the tanks and puts them back in the box. If Cederna wants to act like a jerk, that’s his problem. He certainly won’t give him the satisfaction of getting upset.
It’s Mattioli’s turn now, and he’s getting ready to apply one of the insidious strategies he’s been hatching at length in silence, when they hear the first explosion. An ominous, reverberating thud, like an anvil striking the ground. The guys’ hearing is trained to distinguish artillery sounds. But of them all, Marshal René is the first to utter the word mortar.
He says it quietly, to himself. Then he immediately yells: “Bunker!”
• • •
The boys spring to their feet and head for the door, swift and orderly. They know the evacuation plan—they’ve run through it a hundred times at least. For Senior Corporal Major Francesco Cederna, it’s the first mortar strike he’s heard outside of a training drill. He’s amazed at how the sound is identical to the one he’s familiar with, but, obviously, of course it is. He almost feels like thanking the enemy for interrupting his losing game of Risk.
Camporesi and Mattioli have lined up to go out. Cederna is left across from Ietri’s suddenly pale face. He sweeps the tanks off the board with his forearm: “What a shame, verginella. You were doing so well.” He grabs the euros and shoves them in his pocket. Ietri doesn’t breathe a word. There’s another explosion and this time they unmistakably feel the ground shudder under their feet. “Let’s go. After you.”
Cederna is the last to plunge into the sandstorm. He wants to appear offhand and give the impression that he has everything under control. Another shell explodes somewhere to his left. Closer this time. It may have landed inside the base, but visibility is reduced to a few yards—it’s impossible to know for sure. The shrill wail of the siren and the collective shouts of the men produce a deafening cacophony in stereophonic sound. Commands intended for soldiers on duty mingle with instructions urging the others to take shelter. Cederna regrets the fact that his platoon is off duty today; they’ll have to stay in the kennel like dogs frightened by fireworks. Fucking shitty.
He hears the engines of the armored vehicles start up. Where do they think they’re going? With a storm like this they’re likely to cause more damage than a hail of shrapnel. He opens his mouth to shout to his companions to get a move on, but a spray of sand smacks him right in the throat; he’s forced to slow down, stop, and spit it out on the ground, swallowing the urge to retch. The detonations are closer together now, pumping adrenaline into his bloodstream. It’s not unpleasant; it makes him feel jacked up. They’re on a rampage, the bastards!
He reaches the bunker. His eyes burn, especially the right one, which has a grain of sand stuck in it; as he pictures it, it feels as big as a rock. The concrete tunnel is crammed w
ith soldiers. “Make some room for me,” he says.
The men try to shift, but the shelter is so packed and they’re so jammed in that they don’t free up even an inch. Cederna swears. “Squeeze in, damn it!”
René orders him to cut it out, to stay where he is; he can see for himself there’s no room in the bunker.
“I’ll go to the other bunker, then.”
“Don’t talk bullshit. Stay there—you’re covered.”
“I said I’m going to the other one. I’m not staying out here.”
“Stay there. That’s an order.”
A HESCO Bastion wall made of sand protects his back, but the dirt-filled air filters into the passageway and lashes his face. Cederna’s bravado dissolves and he starts feeling nervous. He begins shaking. If only he had his helmet and vest with him he could withdraw like a turtle, but he’s exposed. His hair is caked with sand; it’s seeped in everywhere—the collar of his jacket, inside his socks, in his nostrils. If a shell were to land close enough, a fragment could easily pierce his shoulder or, worse yet, his neck. He has no intention of taking a fragment—he’s going on leave in a few days and he wants to get there all in one piece. Even that asshole Mitrano managed to make it into the bunker, at least halfway in; he’s scraping the dried mud off the tip of his boot with his thumbnail.
Cederna has an idea. “Hey, Mitrano.”
“What do you want?”
“I think I see something out there. It could be a man on the ground. Come and look.”
Everyone turns around, suddenly tense. Cederna reassures them with a crafty look.
Mitrano remains on the defensive, however. “I don’t believe it,” he says. He’s learned the hard way that Cederna is not to be trusted. It’s his fault that he’s become the laughingstock of the FOB, especially after Cederna welcomed a helicopter full of visiting officers with a sign reading “Take Mitrano Back.” He teases him constantly; he steals food from his plate in the mess hall, chews it, and then spits it back in the dish, mashed to a pulp; he calls him a retard and a jerk-off. Just yesterday he took Mitrano’s shaving foam, smeared it all over his waxed chest, and started running around the base half naked, raving deliriously.
“I’m telling you I see something, a dark shape. He might need help. Come on—take a look.”
“Stop it, Cederna,” Simoncelli speaks up. “You’re not funny.”
“Yeah, it’s another one of your little tricks,” Mitrano says.
“Forget it, then, chickenshit. I’ll go by myself.” He starts to get up.
“Are you serious?”
“Of course.”
Mitrano hesitates a second; then he disentangles himself from Ruffinatti’s legs, there in front of him, and crawls out of the bunker. Cederna points to a spot.
“I don’t see a thing.”
“Take a closer look.”
As they’d all expected—all except Mitrano—Cederna elbows him aside and takes his place in the shelter. “Gotcha!”
“Hey, get out of there! I was sitting there.”
“Oh, yeah? I don’t see your name anywhere.”
“It’s not fair.”
“It’s not fair it’s not fair it’s not fair—what the hell are you, a girl?”
Cederna hunkers down, making room for his back against the concrete. The others don’t take it well, though. They give him dirty looks. “What a shitty thing to do,” Camporesi says. Zampieri roughly shifts her calf out from under his leg.
He doesn’t understand why they’re acting that way; they always enjoy it when he teases Mitrano and now all of a sudden they’re quick to defend him. They’re just a bunch of hypocrites, that’s all, and he says so. But saying it doesn’t make him feel much better and doesn’t stop the shame that’s spreading inside him, a slimy feeling that he’s not used to. Even Ietri avoids looking at him, as if he were embarrassed by him. “You’re a bunch of hypocrites,” he repeats, softly.
Mitrano tugs at his sleeve. “I was sitting there,” he whimpers.
Cederna grabs his arm and squeezes it until the corporal begs for mercy.
• • •
“Do you know how to play rummy, Lieutenant?”
“No, sir.”
“Trump?”
“Not that either.”
“You must at least know Three Sevens!”
“Colonel, do you really want to play cards . . . now?”
“You have a better idea? Don’t suggest Queen of Hearts, though. It’s a game for idiots.” He cuts the deck in half, looks at the card that’s revealed: a jack of hearts. “How boring, Lieutenant. Believe me. That’s how we’ll lose this war in the end. Those bastards will kill us with boredom.”
• • •
The only things moving in the bunker are little hairy spiders with quivering legs, which also sought shelter from the sandstorm and from the bombs. They creep upside down along the only space the men have left free, the ceiling, which is crawling with them. The soldiers’ eyes follow them, because there isn’t much else to stare at. Mattioli reaches up, picks one off between his thumb and forefinger, watches it thrash about, then crushes it.
Marshal René is the first to break the silence—silence so to speak, since the mortars continue to drop. He says the words no one wants to hear in such a situation: “Where’s Torsu?”
He did a head count of his men and realized that the Sardinian corporal was missing. It took him only a moment to know who wasn’t there; over the years roll call has become instinctive. It wouldn’t take him any longer to realize which finger of his hand was missing if one of them were cut off.
The soldiers remain silent, apprehensive. Then Allais says: “He’s still in the tent.” As a collective justification, he adds: “He’s too sick. He can’t get up.”
In the past few days Torsu’s fever has fluctuated wildly up and down, often approaching 104. In his worst moments he mumbles senseless gibberish that leaves his buddies in stitches. He can’t manage to swallow anything solid, even his face is gaunt, his cheekbones protrude beneath his eyes, and despite not eating, the diarrhea hasn’t subsided. At night René hears his teeth chattering from the cold and a couple of times he’s had to resort to wax earplugs.
“We have to go get him,” Zampieri urges, but her anxiety is somewhat too hysterical to convince them.
Some of the guys get to their knees, undecided, waiting for the marshal’s go-ahead. When it doesn’t come, they settle in again. René questions Cederna with his eyes: he’s his most reliable man, the only one whose advice he feels the need to ask for.
“We can’t bring him here,” Cederna says. “He can’t even sit up and there’s no room to lay him out on the ground.”
“You’re being an asshole as usual.” Zampieri jumps up.
“And you’re being an idiot, as usual.”
“Are you afraid Torsu will steal your place, by any chance?”
“No. I’m afraid someone will get killed.”
“Since when did you become so altruistic? I thought the only thing that mattered was for you not to get killed.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Zampa.”
“Oh, no? So how come Mitrano is out there now while you’re here glued to my ass?”
“The only things glued to your ass are ticks.”
“Stop it!” René breaks in. He needs silence, he has to think. Aside from the effort involved in carrying Torsu in those conditions, there’s the problem of space. They could go to the command center, but it would mean crossing the square, unquestionably the most exposed area of the FOB. Should he seriously risk four or five men by being overly concerned about just one. Does it make sense?
Cederna is staring him in the eye, as if able to read his thoughts. He shakes his head.
There’s another burst of explosions, followed by the return of machin
e-gun fire, wasting round after round. The marshal thinks he sees a purple flash, incoming fire, but maybe it’s just an impression. Two spiders meet on the ceiling, they stop and study each other for a while, brush each other with their legs, then go off in different directions. Concentrate! René tells himself. One of his men has been left behind in the tent. He makes an effort to erase Torsu’s pale, clammy face from his mind, along with the sound of his voice and the memory of their last climb together, when they came close to a deer, just the two of them. Depersonalize every man, every buddy, that’s the trick, delete his features and tone of voice, even his smell, until you’re able to treat him as a mere component. Maybe that’s the course he should adopt to resolve that other issue as well. This is not the time to think about that. Mortars are exploding, now. Don’t get distracted, Antonio. Don’t listen to Zampieri’s labored breathing. Keep the fear under control. Consider the facts, only the facts. There’s a soldier in danger, but close enough to the outer fortification to have the benefit of some protection. On the other hand, think about five men on the move, exposed to enemy fire for at least three minutes, though most likely longer. Being a leader means considering the possibilities and René is a good leader; he’s the right person for this role. When he communicates his decision, he’s perfectly confident. “We stay here,” he says. “We wait.”
The Human Body Page 9
