The Human Body (10 page)

“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.”

 • • • 

T
he 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 machine-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.”

 • • • 

“
What time is it?”

“Ten past midnight.”

“We should go out and see what's up.”

“Bravo, you go.”

“I'm going.”

But no one moves.

 • • • 

C
ederna hasn't been thinking about Mitrano for some time, but his earlier thoughts have left him in something of a bad mood. He doesn't see any sense in sitting cooped up in here while the enemy intermittently bombards the base. They should get out there and waste them, every one of them, go ferret them out, drop cluster bombs on their stinking hidey-holes—that's what those who fight like cowards deserve. If only he were already in the special forces: awakened in the dead of night, parachuted from nearly ten thousand feet into the middle of a red zone to sift through a village, flush out the terrorists, put hoods on them, and tie their hands and feet. If a shot is fired by mistake and blows one of them away, so much the better.

It's hot in the bunker and his leg muscles are stiff. He thinks about his upcoming leave, about Agnese; he's going to snatch her away right after she graduates and take her to the shore, to San Vito. In October, with a little luck, you can still swim, but even if the weather is bad they'll have a great time just the same, having sex on his aunt's rickety bed, with the curtains open to let the neighbors peer in at them. The house in San Vito smells of his childhood, his vacations as a boy; even sex has a different pleasure when they do it there. The rusty aviary where his aunt kept her two tropical parrots still stands in the courtyard. The cage was too small and the birds constantly tormented each other with their wings and beaks. Cederna had given them names, but he doesn't remember them anymore—for the others in the family they were only “Zia Mariella's parrots.” The birds had disappointed everyone because they never learned a single word; all they did was utter harsh shrieks. They spent their time fighting and littering the cage with excrement, yet he'd been fond of them and had cried when they died within a few days of each other. Cederna closes his eyes. He tries to remember.

 • • • 

T
he siren wails again at four in the morning. Three short bursts, spaced apart, to signal the all clear. At that point, many of the guys in the bunkers are asleep; they've lost touch with hunger and their countless joint pains. Their numbness makes the return to the tents slow and fretful.

For Lieutenant Egitto it's not over yet, however. He's awakened just when he's managed to get to sleep, or so it seems to him (actually he's slept for more than an hour).

“Doc, we need you.”

“Yeah, okay.” But he can't seem to get up and for a moment he drops off to sleep again.

A hand shakes him. “Doc!”

“Yeah.”

“Come with me.”

The soldier shoves him off the cot. Egitto isn't quick enough to make out his features or rank. He rubs his hands vigorously over his face, causing bits of skin to flake off. He grabs his pants from the chair. “What's happened?”

“One of our men doesn't want to leave the bunker, Doc.”

“Is he hurt?”

“No.”

“What's the matter with him?”

The soldier hesitates. “Nothing. But he doesn't want to come out.”

Egitto pulls on a sock. It's full of sand; the gritty particles scratch his foot. “So why did you call me?”

“We didn't know who else to call.”

“Which company are you in?”

“Charlie, sir.”

“Let's go.”

The storm is still going on, but its intensity has decreased; now it's little more than a grimy wind. They press ahead, heads bent forward, protecting their eyes with their hands.

The boy is huddled halfway down the bunker. Around him are a couple of soldiers and it's clear they're trying to talk him into something: when they see Egitto duck into the tunnel, they salute and hastily go out through the other side.

The young man looks like a rather limp rag doll, as if someone has pulled out the stuffing and sewn him back up again, empty. His shoulders are sagging, his head is slumped over his chest. Egitto sits down in front of him. When they left, the soldiers took their flashlights with them, so Egitto has to turn his own on. He leans it against the concrete wall. “What's wrong?”

The soldier remains silent.

“I asked you a question. Answer your superior. What's wrong?”

“Nothing, sir.”

“You don't want to leave?”

The soldier shakes his head. Egitto reads the name on his insignia. “Your name is Mitrano?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Full name?”

“Mitrano, Vincenzo, sir.”

The boy is breathing through his mouth. He must have perspired a lot because his cheeks are flushed. Egitto imagines the bunker crammed full. A strong smell of sweat still lingers, mixed with another, less recognizable odor, the smell produced by lots of bodies pressed against one another. Vagal crisis, he thinks. Panic attack, hypoxemia. He asks the soldier if he's ever experienced anything like this before, but he doesn't say the word
panic
, or
attack
, better to use
claustrophobia—
it sounds more impersonal and doesn't suggest debility. The soldier says no, he doesn't have claustrophobia.

“Do you feel dizzy right now?”

“No.”

“Are you nauseous, light-headed?”

“No.”

A thought occurs to Egitto. “You haven't . . .” He points to the soldier's groin.

The boy stares at him, appalled. “No, sir!”

“There would be nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I know.”

“It can happen to anyone.”

“It didn't happen to me!”

“All right.”

Egitto finds himself in a quandary. He needs symptoms to work with. Medical history, diagnosis, treatment: that's how a doctor does his job; he doesn't know of any other reliable method. Maybe the soldier felt scared, that's all. He tries to reassure him: “They won't fire anymore tonight, Giuseppe.”

“My name is Vincenzo.”

“Vincenzo, sorry.”

“I told you a minute ago. Vincenzo Mitrano.”

“You're right. Vincenzo. Tonight they won't fire anymore.”

“I know.”

“We can go back out. It's safe.”

The soldier hugs his knees to his chest. His pose is that of a child, but not his eyes. The eyes are those of an adult.

“Anyway, there wasn't any real danger,” Egitto persists. “No mortars fell within the base.”

“They came close.”

“No, they didn't.”

“I heard them. They were close.”

Egitto is beginning to grow impatient. Consoling people is unknown territory for him; he lacks the proper words. Mitrano sighs. “They left me outside, Doc.”

“
Who
left you outside?”

The soldier makes a vague gesture with his head, then closes his eyes. Soft murmuring can be heard a few steps from the bunker; his companions are waiting for him. Egitto makes out the words “a bit of a wimp” and is certain the boy heard them too. In fact, he says: “They're still out there.”

“Want me to send them away?”

Mitrano looks toward the exit. He shakes his head. “It doesn't matter.”

“I'm sure it was by accident.”

“No. They left me outside. I was sitting there and they set a trap for me, to kick me out. They did it on purpose.”