THOR_SARDEGNA: can’t we talk about it?
TERSICORE89:
THOR_SARDEGNA: i already wrote and said i’m sorry. many times. what more do i have to do? i was sick, it’s normal to say the wrong things when you’re sick, it happens to everyone
TERSICORE89:
THOR_SARDEGNA: please write something. even an insult. let me know you’re there
TERSICORE89:
THOR_SARDEGNA: i’m afraid of what’s going to happen tomorrow. i want to talk to you
TERSICORE89:
THOR_SARDEGNA: you’re so selfish!
The monologue takes up two screens, a seesaw of apologies, pleas, and raging tirades. Torsu has about run out of imagination and hasn’t added anything in the last ten minutes; he rests his chin on his fists and strikes the keyboard angrily every time the monitor goes dark. The usual nighttime fever is burning up his forehead and muddling his thoughts—by now he no longer notices.
A soldier suddenly emerges from the darkness, startling him. “Who’s there?”
“Ietri.”
“Why are you wandering around like that in the dark, you idiot?”
Ietri is chilled; he rubs his bare arms with his hands. “I was taking a little walk.”
“Without a flashlight? That’s really dumb.”
His comrade shrugs. “I’m going to sleep,” he says. “The party was awful.”
“You can’t go in the tent.”
“Why not?”
“Cederna told me not to let anyone in,” Torsu says. “He’s in there with Zampa.”
“With Zampa? Doing what?”
Torsu raises his eyes from the screen and looks at his buddy’s dark silhouette. “What do you think?”
Ietri doesn’t move.
“What’s with you?” Torsu asks.
“Nothing.”
Then, after a while, he disappears again into the night. What an idiot! Torsu goes back to staring at the deserted monitor.
THOR_SARDEGNA: i’ll wait all night if i have to
TERSICORE89:
THOR_SARDEGNA: i’m not moving from here until you answer me
TERSICORE89:
The progress bar on the computer screen runs to the end, leaving everything sadly as it was.
“No,” the soldier murmurs. No one can hear him, but he repeats it: “No no no no . . . no. Please, I beg you, no.”
First Corporal Major Angelo Torsu doesn’t manage to stay up all night as promised, but he does hold out another half hour, enough time for Cederna and Zampieri to finish their business in the tent and about the time it takes Ietri to get lost in the FOB, in danger of nearly tripping and breaking his neck more than once. He tried to cry a little, but he couldn’t even do that. He’s not even capable of expressing his despair as he should. And now he’s lost his sense of direction and is afraid he won’t be able to find his way back to Charlie’s sector; he seems to be in an area he’s never been before. He lets himself be guided along by light filtering out of a tent. Approaching it, he moves the flap aside and sticks his head in.
“Ietri, my brother. Come in. Come in.” Di Salvo is sprawled on a pile of colorful pillows, shirtless and barefoot. The incandescent grille of an electric heater is radiating hot air directly onto his face; he’s especially purple on one side. The tent is saturated with dense smoke, hanging suspended in stagnant layers.
“Abib, this is Roberto,” Di Salvo says in English. “My friend. My dear friend.”
He talks like he’s stoned out of his mind. Abib welcomes Ietri with a nod, then closes his eyes again. The other two interpreters don’t even move.
Ietri walks forward timidly. He avoids the items scattered on the ground, sits next to Di Salvo. He automatically accepts the joint his buddy offers him, brings it to his lips.
“A nice deep breath. Good. Hold it as long as you can. You’ll see how it relaxes you. Can you feel it already? This stuff is special.”
The corporal inhales a second time, then again. At first nothing happens to him, except a fit of coughing. Not even the drug wants anything to do with someone like him, a little kid. Then an overpowering drowsiness hits him. He resists it. He wants to fill his lungs with smoke until there’s no room for more. He takes a long, burning mouthful.
“Yesss,” Di Salvo hisses, close to his ear.
The statue he talked about is resting on a three-legged table, along with some gutted cigarettes, tobacco remnants, and a stick of burning incense that does nothing to improve the odor. Ietri looks at the statue. It’s just a piece of roughly carved wood, the hair made of dry straw. He inhales again and holds the smoke in his lungs as long as possible. In high school they competed to see who could hold it the longest; they called it the Death Round. You weren’t supposed to exhale before the joint was back in your hand. Sometimes when there were ten or twelve of them, someone would deliberately slow things up and faces turned red, purple, blue. Ietri spits out air, coughs. In a flash he sees Cederna burying his face between Zampieri’s legs; she spreads them for him, moans with pleasure. He inhales again, holds his breath. She’s coming. Marijuana always makes his throat dry, it was like that even at school; it tastes disgusting. He used to drink gallons of iced tea to get the taste out of his mouth. Abib’s statue stares at him with yellow eyes. It’s just a piece of rotten wood; at the market in Torremaggiore the Moroccans sell a ton of crap like that. When his mother took him to the market, she let him buy whatever he wanted, anything, in exchange for his smiles. He’d figured it out and took advantage of it. What a marvel he was when he was eight. “What a marvel!” Cederna says and now he wants more, all of it. Shitty bastards, traitors. Ietri sticks his tongue out at Abib’s statue, sticks his tongue out at death. Let him come for him; he doesn’t give a damn. Di Salvo bursts into a gasping laugh, and he too sticks out his tongue.
“Owooooo . . . Grrrrrrrrrr! Owooooo . . .”
They’re two animals and they make animal sounds. They taunt death; they split their sides laughing.
“Baaaaaaaa . . . Uh-uh uh-uh uh-uh . . . Aroooooo . . .”
Di Salvo told him that when you smoke this stuff, you feel things, everything. That was crap. All Ietri feels is increasingly depressed, increasingly sad. The tent closes in on him from all sides; the mountain outside looms over him, as does the night, all in concert—they want to squash him like a lizard. His pupils roll backward and his head sinks into the welcoming layer of cushions.
“Good boy, that’s it. You see? It’s special.”
Part Two
THE VALLEY OF ROSES
At dawn the convoy slowly winds out, its head over a mile away from the tail. Loading operations in the square were quick, despite some last-minute snags and the somewhat obstinate Afghan truckers: all of a sudden they were uncooperative about dismantling the pitiable camp in which they’d spent the last few months. After all the hullabaloo they caused, it almost seemed like they didn’t really want to abandon that pile of tents and filth. Colonel Ballesio gave a dithering speech full of hemming and hawing, which ended with his urging the soldiers to bring their hairy asses back in one piece. The men were still drowsy, but put on a bold front. They listened to the final instructions in rigorous silence, then broke ranks and set off. About fifty conveyances in all, counting both military vehicles and civilian trucks. Irene Sammartino watches them move off from the FOB.
The armored ambulance on which Egitto is traveling is recognizable by the red cross painted on the back door. Irene keeps an eye on it as long as she can as it proceeds toward the tremulous air at the horizon. She feels some longing and a strange dismay at the thought of not seeing the lieutenant again. In a couple of days she too will be leaving the outpost and there’s no reason why they should meet again; circumstances have already been far too generous with them.
Last night she slipped out of her sleeping bag and went to Alessandro’s cot,
but before she could reach out to him, he stopped her in her tracks: “It was you, wasn’t it?”
She stood stock-still in the center of the tent, in the no-man’s-land between the two beds. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You’re sending people to die, Irene. I want you to realize that before it happens, because afterward there can be no excuses for you.”
Coming from Alessandro, the recriminations were almost more painful than she could bear. She forced herself not to let it show. “I’m just doing my job. I’m just staff, like all the others. I’ve already explained it to you.”
“Next you’ll tell me the decision had nothing to do with you. That you only follow orders. But I know you well enough, Irene. You’re a born manipulator.”
“I’ve never manipulated anyone.”
“Oh, no? Really? Odd, because I remember it differently.”
“What do you remember?”
“What do I remember? What, Irene?”
“I did it to you, you mean?”
“When you showed up with that way of yours, months after we’d left each other—months—don’t you remember that? You buzzed around me like a fly—you were obsessed. You popped up everywhere. Not to mention when you— Forget it. But this time it’s much worse. You’ve outdone yourself.”
Irene’s feet in contact with the floor were icy; the chill rose to her ankles, her knees, and spread to the rest of her body. “I’m sorry you feel that way,” she whispered. She tried to reach out toward Alessandro’s head, to the spot where she imagined his head was, but his reaction was so violent that she quickly withdrew her hand. She went back to her sleeping bag and lay awake a long time.
Irene Sammartino has regrets. She should have kissed him that morning, grabbed his chin and pressed her mouth to his. She’s sure that in the end he would have returned it and would be grateful to her later.
The soldiers on guard duty wave good-bye, but the men in the convoy don’t look back; from this moment on all they think about is the road.
“Do you think they’ll be in any danger?” Irene asks the commander.
The colonel runs his tongue along the inside of his cheeks. Irene watches that concealed worm move across his face. With his right hand Ballesio grabs his genitals and jiggles them. “Forgive the superstitious gesture,” he says, “but God help them.”
• • •
It’s almost daytime and Lieutenant Egitto is waiting for the temperature to rise so he can remove a layer of clothing. They assigned him Senior Corporal Major Salvatore Camporesi as driver and so far the two haven’t exchanged many words. Egitto has merely studied the soldier from the passenger seat, trying to deduce the salient features of his character from his physical appearance: a deeply receding hairline, well-trimmed beard, long feminine eyelashes, and bulging biceps that stick out like a couple of potatoes under his skin. A nice guy whose build makes him seem younger than he really is, a soldier like any other. Egitto knows that Camporesi would feel better being with his own men, on board one of the armored vehicles that precede and follow them, but he can’t do anything about it: orders are orders, assignments are assignments, rank is rank.
Abib, the interpreter, is sitting behind them, in the compartment carrying stretchers, first aid equipment, and several bags of blood of different types that Egitto hopes he won’t have to use. He doesn’t feel much like talking with him either, so the silence in the vehicle is broken only by the deep rumble of the engine and the studded tires chewing up the rocks.
They proceed at a crawl, literally, because the ACRT at the head of the convoy is on foot, probing the ground inch by inch. The moment the ambulance crosses the invisible border of the security bubble—a line he’s never crossed—Egitto notices a physical change, like the awakening of a myriad of nerve endings he’d thought were dead for some time. “This is where the red zone begins,” he says to himself.
Camporesi smacks his lips. “I wonder if they know it too, Doc.”
The map, printed on glossy paper, is resting on the dashboard; the lieutenant picks it up mainly to eliminate the sun’s glare in his eyes. He studies the intricate contour lines as his gaze travels over the road on a scale of 1:50,000. They are about to cross a long uninhabited stretch with groups of structures broadly indicated as ruins. Farther on, when the valley’s course becomes more tortuous, similar to the twists and turns of an intestine, there’s a succession of other villages, a short distance from one another. From Boghal to Ghoziney there’s a whole cluster of black dots. “Right there; if they’re going to kick our ass, that’s where they’ll do it,” Ballesio had said last night during their final talk, as he kept gobbling down cashews bought at the bazaar, spitting the brown skins in his fist. He’d jabbed a finger right next to Ghalarway. Under a certain slant of light, Egitto can still make out the oily mark of the colonel’s fingertip.
He was wrong, though. The column makes it past the last dwelling in Ghoziney without encountering a living soul. A new expanse, wide open, appears before them. Egitto doesn’t recognize any of these places. When he came through the valley in the opposite direction he must have been very unfocused, or very nervous.
At noon the convoy makes a ninety-degree turn, allowing the lieutenant to admire its extensive length. A cloud of yellow dust surrounds it, giving it a spectral look. A migration of bison, he thinks, an orderly migration. The stench of diesel is enough to make you vomit; he can still smell it but he knows that his receptors will soon decide to eliminate the perception of that odor. It won’t mean that it’s gone.
They advance along the dry riverbed, the river that carved the valley millennia ago and then vanished into its womb. The track follows a slight descent between two escarpments that rise higher and steeper. Since the area appears secure, they pick up speed. Camporesi does his best, but every time he touches the brake the ambulance jolts. The vehicle is weighty with its antimine chassis and doesn’t have good shock absorbers. The rocking, lulling motion, the predawn wake-up, and the sudden lessening of tension cause Egitto’s head to slump forward. He dozes off with his mouth open.
• • •
When he wakes up, they’re stopped. A few soldiers are walking around the vehicles, within a very restricted radius. On either side, ahead, and in the rearview mirror Egitto sees nothing but velvety, reddish mountains. The map has slipped off his legs and under the seat; to retrieve it he’d have to unhook his seat belt and stick his hands down there. For the moment he decides to let it go.
He doesn’t need to ask Camporesi why they’ve stopped. He can guess the reason, and in any case the crackling utterances transmitted by the radio quickly spell the picture out for him. The bomb techs have discovered an IED and are struggling to remove it. In and of itself, the news is not shocking—Afghanistan is mined like a pumpkin field after sowing season—but one particular detail is worrying: the explosive device was visible to the naked eye. The soil had recently been disturbed and didn’t entirely cover the plate. This might mean any number of things, but among the subliminal messages the enemy may have wanted to convey, three jump out at the lieutenant: 1) we know where you’ve come from and where you’re going; 2) this is a warning, we’re offering you one last chance to turn back and let us deal with the truckers; 3) from here on out, you’re in for it.
Looking back, much later, Egitto will be certain that finding the first IED was the pivotal moment when the soldiers saw the illusion of a smooth, obstacle-free mission evaporate and realized that they were in hot water. Of course, now that they’ve ended up there, each one keeps the thought to himself. It’s one thing to suddenly lose your optimism, to realize that the operation didn’t make sense from the beginning, quite another to share that foreboding. Misgivings can spread like a virus; no military contingent can afford it.
The tension, discouraged from being expressed in words, finds other avenues of release. Camporesi drums his fingers on the ste
ering wheel in a way that irritates the lieutenant. He tries to compose complicated rhythms that he’s incapable of pulling off. Listening to him, especially unwillingly, is frustrating. Egitto, for his part, is seized by a sudden hunger attack. It’s strange: for months his appetite has languished—the crappy food and excess of serotonin have made him lose more than thirteen pounds since the beginning of his tour—but now there’s a nitrate charge planted in the dust that was waiting just for them, waiting just for him, and his digestive system has issued a warning to his brain, as if his body has to prepare itself for what might follow, to store up strength to use in case of an emergency.
He looks around in search of provisions and finds the remains of a K ration on one of the stretchers, a snack belonging to one of his traveling companions.
“Is that yours?” he asks Abib. The interpreter gestures, offering it to him.
Egitto fishes out whatever is left to eat in the package: crackers, canned mackerel, condensed milk. He doesn’t even spurn a leftover piece of Dutch cheese on which Abib’s tooth marks are clearly visible. Not satisfied, he opens a can of meat ravioli that should be heated. He wolfs it down as is, cold and disgusting. As he’s busy stuffing himself, he observes two soldiers arguing heatedly. He knows the one standing on the turret; it’s Angelo Torsu, the young man who had acute intestinal flu (a few days ago Egitto had almost had him transported to Herat to make sure he hadn’t caught brucellosis, or something worse). The other one is clinging to the door of the Lince up ahead; he’s seen him many times, but he can’t remember his name. “Who’s that?” he asks Camporesi, pointing.
The Human Body Page 19
