The Human Body (17 page)

Something is preventing him from stretching out his legs. He feels around with his foot, but the long johns hamper his sense of touch. His first thought is that some dirty article of clothing ended up down there; then the terrifying suspicion occurs to him that his buddies have once again short-sheeted him. So he slides backward to see if he can still get out. Fortunately, he can. Sitting up, he sticks a hand inside the lining to explore the bottom, grabs something. The reptile's skin has become dry, rough, and gives off a stench of rotting meat that hits the corporal an instant before he realizes what he's holding.

“AAAAAIIIIIIIIEEEEEEE!”

He leaps up, nearly overturning the cot. He hops up and down, as if the snake were at his feet. Electric sparks are coursing through his entire body; his arms are trembling.

The soldiers wake up, ask what's going on, lights are turned on, and all this lasts just a few seconds, during which time Mitrano quickly grabs his pistol from a holster hanging on the locker handle, loads, and fires one, two, three, four, five times into the sleeping bag.

“AAAAAIIIIIIIIEEEEEEE!”

He can feel the snake on him, feels it slithering over his shoulder, onto his face, feels bitten all over—the poison, my God, the poison.

“IT BIT ME! THE BASTARD BIT ME!”

His platoon mates shout at him to stop, but Mitrano isn't even aware of them. He fires more shots into the bag, causing an explosion of white feathers. The blasts make the guys' eardrums pop painfully.

René has to stop him—he's almost beside him, but Mitrano's reflexes are accelerated by adrenaline. He turns ninety degrees and aims the gun at him. The marshal halts. The soldiers fall silent.

“Calm down,” René says.

Mitrano can't see his own face. He'd be frightened to see how pale he is. He'd be sure the snake had really bitten him. The blood has drained from his face, it's all rushed down to his hands, purple as they grip the Beretta. It's aimed directly at the center of the marshal's chest. You can say a lot of things about Corporal Mitrano, but not that he can't shoot. Especially at a target four or five feet away.

“Lower your weapon,” René orders, but in a conciliatory tone, more like a big brother than a superior officer.

“There's a snake!” Mitrano sobs. “A snake . . . it bit me, shit!”

“All right. We'll take a look now.”

“It bit me. It bit me!” Tears well up in his eyes.

“Put the gun down. Listen to me.”

Instead of obeying, the corporal switches his target and points the Beretta at Simoncelli, who freezes with one knee still bent on the cot and the other foot on the ground. Then he points it back to René.

Cederna's voice comes from a few yards away, from the shadowy back of the tent: “It's the dead snake, Mitrano.”

The corporal hesitates for a second or two, confused. He takes in the news, digests it slowly. It's obvious: the snake that disappeared from the Wreck. He glances quickly at the sleeping bag to his left, as if not fully convinced. The feathers have landed on the green cover and flutter at the faintest wafts of air. Nothing is moving inside the lining.

“Was it you guys?”

René shakes his head. The others follow him.

“Was it you?
Huh?
”

“It was me, Mitrano. Now put the gun down.” Cederna has stood up and moved cautiously toward his colleague, and he's now almost alongside the marshal.

“You,” Mitrano says, tears still flowing profusely. “It's always you. I'll kill you, Cederna—
I'll kill you!
”

If he were to press his finger on the trigger, the top of Francesco Cederna's skull would be pierced from side to side and the bullet, once out of the tunnel, would end up embedded in Enrico Di Salvo's backpack hanging in the rear of the tent. Every man present is able to gauge the trajectory.

Mitrano is breathing through his mouth, panting. Suddenly he's overcome by a wave of exhaustion, an enormous fatigue, which subdues him and makes him sag for a moment. He lowers the pistol, and it's all René and Simoncelli need to jump him, knock him to the ground, and disarm him. Truthfully—regardless of what will later be put forth about the episode—Mitrano puts up no resistance. He simply lies there on the floor. His hand is limp and powerless when René takes the Beretta from him.

Simoncelli's butt is on his face again. Funny, isn't it? he thinks. Some dish it out and others take it; that's how it works. That's how it's always worked. As the men crowd around him, the corporal closes his eyes. He lets himself be swept away.

 • • • 

T
he gun blasts woke the sleeping soldiers and put those still awake on the alert, all throughout the base. The more zealous ones got fully dressed, then, armed from head to foot, foolishly awaited orders on what to do. The lookouts communicate via radio and can't seem to agree about the origin of the shots; they vaguely pinpoint it in the north sector of the FOB. Since no one calls for help, they soon put their minds at ease: the bursts must surely have been accidental. It happens, it can happen, that a guy may fire a shot by mistake when he's clutching his weapon in his arms at any hour of the day or night.

“What was that?” Irene asks.

“Ssshh.”

The two remain silent, listening, barely loosening their grip on each other's bodies. Egitto waits for the siren to sound.

“It was nothing,” he says finally. “Don't worry about it.”

Thankful, she lets her hair spill over his face, then all at once tumbles down on him.

I
t was January and it was snowing the day I lied to Marianna about her dress. I had asked my sister to sit in the backseat, but she wouldn't hear of it. As we stood arguing beside the door, tiny flakes settled on her fluffy new hairdo.

“The seat belt will crumple it,” I said.

“I'm not sitting in the back like a child. That seat brings to mind bad memories.
Remember
when your father explained to us what would happen to our craniums if there was a head-on collision? Things like
that
.”

Along the way she kept the seat belt loose, away from her chest so as not to crush the neckline. She rubbed her lips together and I knew she would have bitten them frantically, but she didn't want to ruin the lip gloss applied by the makeup woman shortly before. If I had offered her my bare arm at that moment, it's likely she would have sunk her teeth into it.

“A bride is supposed to feel
happy
if it snows on her wedding day.”

“Why, aren't you happy?” I asked, though I immediately regretted it. Addressing Marianna's discontent was exactly what I didn't feel like doing.

She didn't notice the treacherously broad nature of the question. Looking irritatedly at the whitened tree branches, she said: “To me it's just one
more
nuisance to put up with. All those
wet
shoes. And the
mud
.”

The question I'd carelessly uttered aloud, however, was enough to sink me into a bitterness that I'd felt hovering over us for some months, a growing dismay that began after the silent earthquake that had split our family in two and left me in the middle, like a chewed-up apple core. In an hour from now, Marianna would be joined in matrimony to a nice young man. She was marrying him out of gratitude, but mostly to spite our parents. She was marrying him at just twenty-five years of age and dropping everything else. She was marrying him deliberately, and that was that, and I would be the one to take her arm and walk her down the center aisle of the church, stiff and ridiculous in a role that wasn't mine, to give her away.

She flipped down the sun visor and studied her face in the small rectangular mirror. “I didn't get a
wink
of sleep last night. Naturally I was nervous, right?
All
women are, the night before. But
I
wasn't just nervous, I had
terrible
stomach cramps and they had nothing whatsoever to do with tension—they were just cramps. I took two Buscopan tablets, but they had no effect.
Of course
, if your parents hadn't stuffed us full of medicines when we were little, they might still be effective . . . Anyway, at three in the morning I couldn't find anything better to do than try on the dress again,
again
. There I was in the kitchen, in the middle of the night, dressed as a bride, like a
mad
woman. And I had those damned rollers in my hair—I don't even know why I put them in since I
hate
this stupid baby-doll hairdo. It's the same way Nini used to do my hair. Anyway, I saw my reflection in the window and I realized that this dress is horrible, it's all
wrong
.”

She lifted the tulle skirt and let it plop on her thighs, like an old tattered rag. She was so disgusted with it, so unsure about the step she was about to take, that if I had said, “You're right, the dress is abominable and we're pathetic, but listen, listen to me, this whole story is abominable, it's a mistake, and the dress is only an indication of it; you don't want to marry him, you never even intended to get married, so let's turn around and go back now, everything will work out, I promise it will work out,” if I had voiced the truth that loomed so shamefully clear in my head, she would have stared at me gravely for a few seconds, then burst out in that rich laugh of hers and replied, “Okay, let's get out of here, let's do what you say.”

But the situation didn't seem suited to sincerity, so I said, “The dress isn't wrong at all. It looks great on you.”

The white blanket on the pavement was a few inches thick and the wheels spun and froze at any abrupt movements of the steering wheel. The cars inched along slowly, cautiously. I, too, drove slowly, sticking to the tracks made by others. Feigning concentration on the driving allowed me to overlook the silence that had fallen in the car, as if it were something normal. I was aware that Marianna looked at me for several minutes, waiting for me to turn to her as well and recognize the apprehension in her eyes, finally out in the open. I knew that look, I had returned it hundreds of times, and I knew it was there waiting for me.

But I kept my eyes focused on the road, and today, whenever I think of my sister's abrupt desertion, I see swarms of white flakes that fly at us in the dark and I can still feel the enormity of her need, ignored, as she sat beside me.

When I pulled up in front of the church, a group of guests hurried inside. Only then did I look at Marianna, but she no longer expected anything from me. She was remote, absent, in the same state of passive detachment with which she endured our father's digressions.

I turned off the engine. Now I had to embrace her one last time as an unmarried woman. When I hugged her, our bodies so much alike, her chest suddenly drained of energy and she began to tremble. I held her until she calmed down.

“No idiotic jokes at the reception, you have to swear to me,” she said.

“You've told me a hundred times.”

“I don't want anyone yelling ‘Kiss! Kiss!' or ‘Here's to the bride and groom' or any other stupid toasts. I
hate
that.”

“I know.”

“You have to swear to me.”

“I swear.”

“And I don't want to make any speeches, is that clear?
Nothing
—not even a thank you. It would be . . .”

Awkward
, I concluded in silence. “There won't be any speeches.”

“You swore,” Marianna said.

Her breathing had become shallow; she seemed to have forgotten that she could breathe through her nose, too.

“Do you feel up to going in?” I suggested. I had to suppress a note of impatience. By now we'd come this far, everyone had seen us, and a man I didn't know was in the doorway of the church, gesturing for us to enter. I had driven in a blizzard, worn a shirt that was choking me at the neck, swallowed heaps of bitterness and discomfort and spinelessness to be there that day to feign excitement for my sister's wedding: when would we decide to get out of the car and get it over with?

Marianna sighed and leaned over again to examine the intensity of the snowfall, as if that were the thing holding her back. The flakes that had accumulated on the windows since we'd stopped almost prevented us from seeing out; we were locked inside an icebox.

“Do you think they'll come?” she asked in a low voice.

“No. I don't think so. You were very clear.”

“Maybe to the reception.”

“They won't be there either.”

She put a thumb to her mouth. She rubbed her lips innocently, absorbed in thought.

“Want me to call them?” I didn't feel like it at that point, but I asked her just the same. “I think they'd be happy to come.”

Marianna's eyes widened. “I wouldn't
dream
of it. They won't take this special day away too.”

Was it special? Yes, in some strange way it actually was. Marianna puffed out her cheeks like a little girl. “Nothing ever happens the way you thought it would, does it?”

“Almost never, I guess.”

She checked her makeup one last time in the mirror and brushed a clump of mascara off her eyelashes. Then she threw her head back and breathed out. “What do we care? You're here to walk me down the aisle and it's much better this way. Come on, soldier, let's go get married.”

She opened the door, not waiting for me to do it for her.

T
he Military is around, above, below, and within you. If you try to escape it, you're still part of it. If you try to deceive it, it's the one deceiving you.

The Military is faceless. No face represents the Military. Not the Chief of Staff, not the Minister, neither the generals nor their subordinates. Not you.

The Military existed before you and will continue to exist when you are no longer here, forever.

What you're seeking is already there; you just have to train your eyes to recognize it.

The Military has no feelings, but it's more friendly than hostile. If you love the Military, it will love you, in ways you don't know or can't understand.

Don't disgrace the Military, don't offend it, and above all never, ever betray it.

By loving the Military you will love yourself.

It's your duty to safeguard your life, in each and every instance and at all costs, because your life does not belong to you; it belongs to the Military.

The Military does not distinguish between body and soul; it provides for and commands both.

It's always the Military that chooses you, not you who chooses it.

The Military prefers silence to talk, a set jaw to a smile.

The glory you're after is the means the Military employs to fulfill its aims. Don't renounce glory, since it is the doorway through which the Military enters you.

You don't know the Military's aims. If you try to guess them, you'll go crazy.

The true reward of every action resides in the action itself.

Those who believe in the Military are in no danger of failing, either by suffering or by dying, because suffering and death are the ways by which it makes use of you.

So answer me: Do you believe in the Military? Do you believe in it? Then say it now. Say it!

 • • • 

A
sputtering white clunker comes to a stop a few yards from the Afghan truckers' camp. The driver, who has the nerve to show his face uncovered, throws his personal gift to the men sitting in a circle and takes off again, hurtling back in the direction from which he came.

Before anyone gets up the courage to go get it, the truckers take time to observe the severed head of their comrade: the foolhardy soul who left two nights ago to try to reach the Ring Road. The sand-encrusted head returns their look from eyes immobilized by the last horror that it experienced. Judging by the ragged nature of the fibers sticking out of the neck, the head must have been sawed off with a small blade, probably a pocketknife. The warning is all too clear and the postman hadn't felt the need to add anything, except a scornful sneer promising the same treatment to anyone who might dare try to get away: the only fate fit for those who collaborate with the military invaders.

A few hours later the truck drivers march to the FOB in close formation, holding their friend's head high, like a white flag or a macabre safe conduct pass. Earlier, no one would have said that there were so many of them, at least thirty.

Passalacqua and Simoncelli are on guard duty at the main tower and obviously don't know what they should do. If the men marching toward them are wearing explosive charges, they're already close enough to cause quite a bit of carnage.

“I'll shoot,” Simoncelli suggests.

“Shoot in the air, though.”

The shot, fired into space, only rouses the Afghans further. By now they've entered the zigzagging access corridor in front of the entrance. They call out something in their language.

“What should I do? Shoot again?”

“Yeah, come on!”

Another burst, not actually in the air, just a hair away from the turbans. The dirt kicks up in about a dozen spots behind them.

“These guys aren't stopping,” Simoncelli says. “I'll hurl a grenade.”

“Are you nuts? You'll take them all out.”

“I'll throw it a distance away.”

“And if you miss?”

“You throw it, then.”

“The hell I will.”

As they argue, the group reaches the base of the tower. At that point, as if they had agreed beforehand, the truckers stop and politely wait for someone to come and welcome them.

“Shit,” Ballesio mutters ten minutes later, when they wave the decapitated head under his nose. Then he looks at the Afghans with a curious expression of reproach, as if they were the ones who'd come up with the stunt.

The colonel, Captain Masiero, and Irene Sammartino withdraw to the command center for the rest of the morning. They don't even show up in the mess hall for lunch—three soldiers carrying trays parade by in front of Egitto. Room service, he thinks. He's offended at not being invited to the meeting and can't really make up his mind for certain whether his resentment is directed more at Irene or at Ballesio.

At two o'clock he's summoned along with the other officers and platoon commanders. The colonel has a grim look; he's sitting at the center of the long conference table, but as if he weren't involved. He avoids looking at Egitto and lets Masiero speak for him. As usual, the captain explains everything quickly, without deviating from the point or displaying a shred of emotion. The “higher circles”—the captain calls them that, with obvious contempt—believe that the truck drivers' impasse has become critical. Not only is it unacceptable that the Afghans be exposed to barbarisms such as the recent beheading of their fellow driver, but their discontent is likely to damage the company's mission's image and, among other things, constitutes a potential threat. In short, they must be escorted back to where they came from.

The captain unrolls a map where he's marked out a route in felt-tipped pen, along with several notations in his unnerving microscopic handwriting. The plan is as simple as can be: the soldiers will advance in a column along with the truck drivers, cross the valley, and reach the Ring Road just above Delaram, where they will leave the truckers on their own; they will then reverse their course and come back. The distance to be covered is about thirty miles and the estimated time is four days total, two going and two for the return. In all probability there will be IEDs waiting for them along the way and maybe some shooting, but they can count on the enemy's disorganization. The departure is scheduled for tomorrow morning before dawn. Questions?

Lieutenant Egitto has been fidgeting with the side seam of his pants as the captain speaks. He's the only one in the room who's crossed the valley: a few months earlier, in the other direction. It seems like a lifetime has passed since then. They'd found four explosive devices and endured two completely sleepless nights; on arrival his fellow battalion members were ready to drop and some were of no use for days. His earlier resentment suddenly turns into a troubled premonition. He raises his hand.

“Yes, Lieutenant.”

Ballesio glares at him, as if to say he shouldn't be speaking to
him
. Egitto ignores him. “I traveled through the valley once. It's not a safe place. We should find another solution.”

Masiero smoothes the sides of his goatee as his lips widen in a scornful smile. “I don't know about you, Lieutenant. But when I joined up, I had an idea that this wasn't a
safe
job.”

There are some uncertain, nervous laughs, which quickly fade.

Egitto insists: “We could transport the truck drivers back to Herat with helicopters.”

“Thirty truckers? Do you have any idea what that would cost us? And without their trucks. It doesn't seem like a good deal for our Afghan friends.”

Ballesio squirms in his chair, as though having a colic attack.

“The valley is dangerous, Captain,” Egitto says.

The quick glance between Masiero and Irene—who is sitting apart, with her back against the wall—doesn't escape him.

“Lieutenant, with all due respect, you are not being asked to concern yourself with strategies. See to the soldiers' well-being instead. Many of them seem a little run-down lately. Does anyone else have any objections? If not, preparations await us.” Masiero joins his hands together like a teacher in front of his pupils. “Oh, yes, I forgot. The operation is called Mama Bear. Remember that. MB, for short. I hope you like the name—I thought it up.”

Those in attendance scatter; Egitto follows the commander to his tent. Ballesio turns his back. When Egitto takes a step inside, he says: “What do you want from me, Lieutenant? I'm extremely busy.”

“You have to abort the operation, Colonel.”

“Have to? I
have
to? Who the hell are you to tell me what I have to do?”

Egitto is not put off. “It's a rash and risky undertaking. It won't be like the first time; the enemy is waiting for us now.”

Ballesio waves his arms, exasperated. “What do you know about it?”

“The head is clearly an invitation. And besides . . .” He hesitates. “I have a sixth sense.”

“I don't give a shit about your sixth sense, Lieutenant. Wars aren't fought with a sixth sense. The first five are more than enough.”

Egitto takes a deep breath. He's not cut out for insubordination. He's always had a tendency to be contentious, true, a critical spirit as keen as his father's, but his intelligence is more a defensive weapon rather than an offensive one. Not this time, though; this time he's determined to assert himself. He feels light-headed, his pressure must have dropped. “I'm forced to demand that you reconsider your position, Commander.”

“That's enough!” Ballesio thunders. Then, exhausted, he collapses into the chair, his arms limp. He knows endless ways to show he's worn-out. He shakes his head. “Do you seriously think that
I'm
the one who wants to go? Don't I seem to you like someone who's already had enough, Lieutenant? As far as I'm concerned, those truckers can drop dead out there under their lousy Afghan sun; pack it in along with this entire war. I'm fed up with this war, these operations, all this crap.”

Warily, the lieutenant sits down as well. Now he has to adjust his tone to the unexpected shift in the conversation. “I don't understand, Colonel.”

“You don't understand? You don't
understand
? Ask your little girlfriend to explain it to you.”

“You mean Irene Sammartino?”

“That's right, your little kiss-ass.”

Mentally Egitto revises the picture he'd formed about the morning's meeting: while earlier he'd placed Ballesio on one side, with the captain and Irene opposite him, he now puts her in the position of power. The clever girl with whom he'd had a relationship in a previous life and now shares . . .
something
with, that woman gives orders to two submissive officers. “Was it Sammartino's idea?” he asks, a little afraid of the answer.

“That woman has no
ideas
, Lieutenant. She's just a go-between, a conduit for those who rank above poor unfortunates like you and me.”

Egitto can't believe that Irene would want to impose such a death sentence on all of them. He's likely to sound even more disrespectful, but he says it anyway: “I don't think Sammartino would do such a thing.”

All of a sudden Ballesio places his forearms on the table and leans forward, furious. “Is it your
testicular
sixth sense again telling you that, Lieutenant? Give me a break—it's a mistake a raw recruit would make.”

Egitto has no idea whether Ballesio's remarks are just guesses or whether they're certainties—he's not sure what the colonel may or may not know or who may have reported it to him. The way things stand, Irene herself could have been the one to leak it to him. Is there anyone he can trust? The insinuation, founded or not, disorients him; he feels as if he's been exposed. His nerve fails him.

The commander points a finger at him. “Listen to me. Go to confession while there's still time—you never know. You're dismissed.”

 • • • 

T
he officers gather again, the various companies and individual platoons meet, and in the end everyone has a more or less confused idea of what they're supposed to do to start preparing. Morale is high, especially among those who are about to leave: although they're aware of the danger of venturing outside the security bubble in a column, it's also a chance to shake off the cobwebs after a month spent vegetating at the FOB. Besides, who'd want to be a soldier without the opportunity to do some shooting?

Cederna, who in theory at least is an enthusiast of gunfights, is the only one who doesn't share the general optimism. The phone call he has to make scares him to death. He's already put it off for hours and now twice in a row he's let two guys who were behind him go ahead. He's bitten his knuckles to the bone and when he sucks them for the umpteenth time he can taste blood. Agnese won't take it well. His fear of her reaction only makes him more nervous. Why would he, who isn't afraid of anything, be afraid of a woman? Anger generates more fear, in a vicious circle that's driving him crazy. One thing he's sure of, though: he won't tell her anything that vaguely resembles the truth—there's no reason to. He won't tell her that his leave was canceled by that fat slob Colonel Ballesio himself because he played one prank too many and that imbecile Mitrano started shooting up his sleeping bag in the middle of the night. He won't tell her that there's a very high probability that his leave won't be granted even further on and that he's likely to be the only one in the regiment to spend six consecutive months out here. And he won't say he's sorry, never ever.

He grabs the receiver. It's still slick with the sweat of the guys who used the phone before him. Agnese answers, her voice guarded.

“It's me,” Cederna says.

“You?”

“Yeah, me.”