The Human Body (3 page)

“I'll be a young unemployed graduate waiting for her husband's return from the front.”

“I'm not your husband.”

“I'm just saying.”

“What was it, some kind of proposal?”

“Could be.”

“The important thing is that the unemployed young lady not console herself with someone else in the meantime.”

“I'll be inconsolable.”

“There, that's better.”

“Inconsolable. I swear.”

 • • • 

I
n a larger apartment, with a sliding glass door overlooking a parking lot, Marshal René is awake, looking out at the night. The storm has released the heat from the asphalt and the city smells like rotten eggs.

When it comes to picking a woman to spend his last night in friendly territory with, the marshal has a wealth of choices, but the truth is he doesn't feel much like any of them. After all, they're clients. He's sure they wouldn't want to listen to his concerns twelve hours before the flight. When he talks too much, women feel the urge to turn their backs and do something, like light a cigarette or get dressed or take a shower. He can't blame them. None of them knows what it means to be in command; nobody knows what it takes to hold the fate of twenty-seven men in your hands. None of them is in love with him.

He takes off his T-shirt and absently runs his fingers over his chest: the line between his pecs, the dog tag with his date of birth and blood type (A-positive), three well-defined abdominal bands. Maybe when he returns from Afghanistan he'll stop taking gigs. Not that he dislikes the activity, and the extra money comes in handy (last month he was able to buy saddlebags for his Honda, which he's now watching proudly from the window, wrapped in its tarpaulin). It's more a moral issue. Though the stripteasing was a necessity when he'd first moved to Belluno, now that he's career military he could afford to give it up, focus on a more mature plan. He doesn't yet know what, however. It's difficult to imagine a new version of yourself.

By midnight indecision has also eliminated the possibility of a proper dinner: he's munched on two packets of crackers and is now no longer hungry. A little miserable as a celebration. He would have been better off letting his parents come from Senigallia to see him. Suddenly he feels sad. The TV is unplugged, covered with a white sheet to keep off dust. He's shut off the central gas valve and collected the garbage in a bag. The house is ready to be deserted.

He lies down on the couch and is already dozing when he gets Rosanna Vitale's message: “Were you going to leave without saying good-bye? Come on over. I need to talk to you.” A few seconds later there's another one: “Bring something to drink.”

René takes his time. In the shower he shaves and masturbates slowly, to make himself immune to pleasure. He picks up some spumante at the Autogrill on the highway. As soon as he steps out the door, he turns around and goes back in to add a bottle of vodka and two bars of chocolate. He feels a certain gratitude to Rosanna for saving him from a monotonous last night and he plans to reward her as she deserves. Usually he goes to bed with younger women, mostly girls who want to create a bold memory before embracing the life of a judicious wife. Rosanna, on the other hand, is over forty, but there's something about her that he likes. She's an expert at sex and is extraordinarily open-minded. Sometimes, after they're done, René stays for dinner or to watch a movie—he on the couch, she in a chair nearby—and maybe they make love again, in which case the second round is on the house. If he wants to leave, though, she doesn't keep him.

“Did you get lost?” Rosanna is standing in the doorway, waiting for him.

René comes up beside her, kisses her on the cheek. He notices a different perfume than usual, or maybe it's a different smell beneath the usual perfume, but he doesn't say anything.

The woman checks out the bottles. She puts the spumante in the refrigerator and opens the other bottle. The glasses are already set out on the table. “Would you like a little music? The silence is getting on my nerves tonight.”

René doesn't mind. Like other distractions, music doesn't matter to him. He sits at the kitchen table. He's been sent off before—Lebanon twice, Kosovo—so he knows how difficult it is for civilians to come to terms with it.

“So you're leaving tomorrow.”

“Yeah.”

“And how long is this mission?”

“Six months. More or less.”

Rosanna nods. She's already finished her first glass. She pours herself another. René, on the other hand, sips slowly, in control of himself.

“And are you glad?”

“It's not a pleasure trip.”

“Sure. But are you glad?”

René drums his fingers on the wood. “Yeah, I think so.”

“Good. That's the important thing.”

The music forces them to speak more loudly than necessary. René is annoyed. If Rosanna would lower the volume, they'd be more comfortable. People don't notice many of the things that he does; this has always disappointed him in a way. Tonight, moreover, Rosanna seems distracted and determined to drink herself into a stupor before they end up in bed. Drunk women are limp, their movements repetitive, and then it's up to him to make an ungodly effort to make them come. Pointing to her glass, he doesn't hesitate to say: “Go easy on that.”

She gives him a furious look. René isn't talking to one of his soldiers. Until proven otherwise, she's the one paying, so she can decide when enough is enough. Afterward, though, she hangs her head as if to apologize. René interprets her nerves as a sign she's worried about him, and this moves him. “I won't be in any danger,” he says.

“I know.”

“It's more a matter of defensive operations.”

“Yes.”

“If you look at the statistics, the death rate in this conflict is ridiculous. It's riskier crossing the street out there. I'm not kidding. For us Italians, at least. There are some who are really fighting and for them it's a different story. The Americans, for example, have—”

“I'm pregnant.”

The room sways slightly around the shimmering liquor bottle. “What did you say?”

“You heard me.”

René runs a hand over his face. He's not perspiring. “No. I don't think I heard you.”

“I'm pregnant.”

“Can you turn the music off, please? I can't focus.”

Rosanna walks quickly to the stereo and turns it off. She comes back and sits down. There are other sounds now: the hum of the water heater, someone trying to play a guitar in the apartment above, vodka being poured into her glass for the third time, against his advice.

“You told me clearly that—” René says, trying hard to control himself.

“I know. It was impossible for it to happen. A chance in a million maybe.”

“You're in menopause—you told me so.” His tone isn't aggressive and he looks calm, just a little pale.

“I
am
in menopause, all right? But I got pregnant. That's what happened.”

“You said it wasn't possible.”

“It wasn't. It was a kind of miracle, okay?”

René wonders if he should make sure the child is really his, but apparently it's beside the point. He considers the word
miracle
and doesn't see the connection.

“The responsibility is mine—let's get that clear right now,” she continues. “One hundred percent mine. So I guess it's up to you to decide. You're the one who's been screwed. I'll respect your decision. There's still time, a month and a half, a little less. You leave now, take your time and think it over, then let me know what you decide. I'll take care of the rest.”

She blurts it all out in one breath, then brings the glass to her lips. Instead of drinking, she holds it there. She rubs her lip on the rim, lost in thought. She has permanent wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, but they don't look bad. In the course of his clandestine career René has learned that mature women bloom one last time before fading altogether and that at that stage they're more beautiful than ever. His own body feels inadequate now, a sensation that provokes a fit of anger: “If you're pregnant you shouldn't drink.”

“A little vodka seems like the least of my worries right now.”

“Still, you shouldn't.”

They fall silent. René mentally retraces the conversation, step by step.
I'll take care of the rest
. He has a hard time seeing clearly beyond those words.

“Do you feel like doing it anyway?”

Rosanna asks him just like that, as if it were something they could do. She's pregnant, yet she's drinking and wants to sleep with him. René is disconcerted. He's about to shout to her face that she's crazy, then realizes that it would be a way of giving the evening a sense of closure: make love and go out the door with the impression of having done what was expected of him and nothing more. “Why shouldn't we?” he says.

They move into the bedroom and undress with their backs turned. They start out slowly, gently, then René allows himself to force Rosanna down on her stomach. To him it's like a small punishment. Rosanna comes liberally, he more discreetly. He pulls out a moment before, as if it makes any difference. She doesn't reproach him.

“You can stay and sleep here,” she says instead. “I'm not working tomorrow morning. I'll take you to get your things and then to the airport.”

“It's not necessary.”

“We can have a few more hours together.”

“I have to go.”

Rosanna gets up and quickly covers herself with a robe. She rummages in her bag for her wallet and hands René the money.

He looks at the hand holding out the bills. He can't accept money from a woman who's pregnant with his child, but Rosanna doesn't move and doesn't say anything. A discount, maybe? No, that would be hypocritical. She's just a client, he thinks, a client like any other. If something unexpected happened, it's not his fault.

He grabs the money and in less than ten minutes he's ready to go.

“So then you'll let me know,” Rosanna says at the door.

“Yeah, I'll let you know.”

 • • • 

I
n the morning the heat is unbearable, the sky covered with a bright gray glaze that triggers a headache. Civilians hang around the airport terminal, drawn by the unusual concentration of soldiers. The ashtrays outside are overflowing with cigarette butts. Ietri and his mother have arrived by bus. He looks around for his buddies and some of them wave to him from across the way. Mitrano has the largest family and the only one in his group who isn't making a racket is his grandmother in her wheelchair: she has her back turned to her grandson and is staring straight ahead, as if seeing something horrible, though in all likelihood—Ietri thinks—she's just senile. Anfossi's parents check the clock repeatedly, Cederna is smooching with his girlfriend, his hands boldly on her ass, Zampieri is holding a child who is having fun yanking her hair and pulling her velcro insignia on and off. She lets him do it for a while, then abruptly puts him down and the child begins to whine. René is sitting down, talking on the phone, his head bowed.

Ietri feels someone grab his right hand. Before he has time to protest, his mother has already squeezed the tube of cream on the back of his hand.

“What are you doing?!”

“Be quiet. Look how chapped they are. And what about these?” She lifts up his fingers for him to see his nails.

“What's wrong with them?”

“Come to the bathroom and I'll cut them for you. Luckily I have my nail scissors with me.”

“Mama!”

“If we don't cut them now, they'll be all black before evening.”

After a lengthy negotiation, Ietri gives in, but at least he gets to do it himself. He goes off to the toilets, browbeaten.

He's just finished the first hand when a loud fart trumpets from one of the stalls.

“Gesundheit!” the corporal says. He's echoed by a grunt.

Shortly thereafter, Colonel Ballesio comes out of the stall. He goes to the mirror, buttoning his fly, followed by a foul stench.

Ietri snaps to attention and the colonel smiles at him complacently. He eyes the nail clippings in the sink and his expression changes. “Certain matters should be taken care of at home, soldier.”

“You're right, Commander. I'm sorry, Commander.”

Ietri turns on the tap. The nail clippings bunch around the drain and clog up there. He lifts the stopper and shoves them down with his finger. Ballesio observes him coldly. “First mission, soldier?”

“Yes, sir.”

“When you get back, these toilets will seem different to you. Spotless as those in a hospital. And the faucet. When you see a faucet like this again, you'll feel like licking it.”

Ietri nods. His heart is pounding like mad.

“But it won't last long. At first it all seems magical when you get back. Then it goes back to being what it is. Crap.”

Ballesio tugs on the towel roll, but the dispenser is stuck. He swears, then rubs his wet palms on his pants. He nods his head toward the corporal. “I can't manage with scissors,” he says. “My wife bought me a nail clipper. Only thing is, it leaves rough edges.”

When Ietri returns to the airport terminal, he's furious. He looked like a fool in front of the colonel and it's all his mother's fault.

She stretches her neck to check his fingernails. “Why did you only cut them on one hand? I told you I should do it. Pigheaded—that's what you are! You can't do it with your left hand. Come on, let's go.”

Ietri pushes her away. “Leave me alone.”

The woman looks at him sternly, shakes her head, then starts rummaging in her handbag. “Here. Eat this—you have bad breath.”

“Will you stop it? Shit!” the corporal hollers. He knocks her hand away. The candy falls to the floor and he stamps on it with his boot. The green sugar shatters. “Happy now?”