The Fata Morgana Books (16 page)

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When I woke up the sky was just beginning to grow pale. A few muffled noises could still be heard, glass being broken, a melancholy song. I straightened up and tried to light a bedside lamp, but the electricity still wasn’t working. In front of the door, the dark mass of the woman’s body looked like a pile of dirty laundry, thrown there to be carried away by the maids. I got up, lit a few candles, and began searching through the furniture, pocketing the jewelry and currency I found. In the drawer of the night table I found several pieces of photographs. These cut fragments represented a little blond boy; and even more than the arms of a man that showed now and then, it was the expression of the child, now concentrated, now frightened, now bursting with joy, that reflected the presence of the other person eliminated by the scissors, a presence that meant everything to him. I threw them on the floor, finished my search, and, pushing the corpse away with my boot, went out to join my men. Most of them, drunk, were sleeping in armchairs, on rugs or on tables, others were humming as they emptied the last bottles; in front of the main steps, more sober soldiers were already preparing for departure, tying bags of spoils or provisions to their saddles. I ordered four of them to go wake up and collect their comrades; then I had my horse brought out and gave the order for departure to those who were ready. Spears in hand or on our shoulders, we went through the gate, skirting round the corpse of the old man with the lantern, stiff in the snow. Day was dawning, the sky was grey, in front of us stretched out the muted white of snowy fields, scattered with the darker patches of copses. I urged my horse to a trot with my heel, the men followed, cheerful and laughing. In the distance, isolated on the white expanse, I could make out a little black point, and I directed my horse toward it. As I grew closer I could see it was a figure, the figure of a naked, blond little boy staggering in the snow. We quickly caught up with him and he faced us as we surrounded him, pale, shaking with cold, his legs stained with shit he had let flow without realizing it during his flight, and his features deformed by tears, cold and terror. All around him, my cavalrymen formed a wall of spears and closed faces. My horse stepped forward, the kid fell on his ass, moved back, staggered up, floundering in the snow mixed with shit, he was soiling himself again, his face twisted by sobs, I killed him with a swift stab of my spear to his chest, lifted him up a little, then threw him down like a marionette in the snow, to the coarse laughter of my men. Then I set my horse to a gallop through the plain, lifted by an exalted feeling of sovereign freedom, the cold air bit into my cheeks and lungs and I fed on it, I felt myself growing in my saddle until I became equal with the vast plain, the snow, and the sky above me. In the late afternoon we reached a railway station occupied by enemy forces. Most of my troops had joined us and we assaulted it on all sides, in a deluge of gunfire and incoherent shouts; the enemy had positioned a machine gun at the main angle of attack and it held us at bay for a long time, until one of my soldiers, crawling to the foot of the wall, managed to silence it with a grenade. Then there was a mad scramble. The survivors poured out through the doors, hands over their heads, my men pressed them against the station wall and shot them without a pause, I was one of the first to enter the building itself, pistol in hand, an enemy soldier was aiming his rifle at me and I killed him with a single shot, further on a wounded man was crawling and I finished him off as well, all around us resounded gunfire and the screams of the dying. At the end of the main room there was a door, I kicked it in, it opened onto an empty gallery that I crossed while undoing my coat and belt, at the end of the gallery there was another door, I let my pistol fall and took off my jacket, also throwing away my two white gloves, quickly I undid the rest of my clothes, keeping only my tracksuit and pulling on my sneakers, which I had kept in a pocket, already the door was open and as soon as I had crossed the threshold I began to run. It was dark here, I was disoriented and I slammed against the walls several times, finally I found a semblance of balance and was able to move forward regularly, breathing with ease, to the rhythm of my strides. But the hallway was curved, I couldn’t manage to stay in the center and again my shoulder hit a wall, I thought I could make out darker spots, intersections perhaps or just cubbyholes, I avoided them as well as I could until a stronger impact than the others made me stumble, I slowed down but didn’t stop running, finally I ended up in the locker room and quickly changed, adjusting my swim cap and passing through the swinging doors, they opened onto a large space full of the echoes of shouts and sounds of water, all blue and luminous and made even bigger by long mirrors framing it, mirrors in which I could glimpse only fragments of my body, fleeting and with no connection between them, I swayed, almost fell, then I pulled myself together and straightened up, my balance suddenly returned, my body found its center of gravity and, muscles tense, buttocks tight, I dove in straight as a spear, slicing with all my weight through the clear, cool water of the pool.