The Human Body (16 page)

The soldiers debate whether or not they should alert the commander, then decide it's not a serious enough reason to disturb an officer. They can just as well report the good news in the morning.

“They've decided to leave,” says one.

“Yeah. About time.”

From: flavia_c_magnasco@*****.it

To: salvatorecamporesi1976@*****.it

Subject: Great news!!!

Tuesday, September 28, 2010, 15:19

Great news! Remember the miniature greenhouse you gave to Gabriele? Well, yesterday a little seedling sprouted! I think it's a bean plant, or maybe it's tomato, I'm not sure, we got the seeds mixed up. You should've seen Gabriele's face! He wouldn't stop jumping up and down, he was so excited. He insisted I put the little greenhouse on the floor, he stretched out on his stomach and stayed there staring at it for half an hour at least, his chin resting on his hands. He was expecting it to grow before his very eyes, I think.

He's getting big, you know? At times some of his expressions remind me of you, he seems like an adult. You always tell me not to send you any photos because the connection isn't fast enough, but one of these days I'll send you a picture anyway. I don't give a damn about your connection. And I want you to send me one too, I want to smother it with kisses and see how handsome you are all tanned like that.

I love you enormously.

F.

P.S. I looked in the plant guide and I actually think the seedling is a bean plant. Wow, how tall it got! And in just a few hours.

From: salvatorecamporesi1976@*****.it

To: flavia_c_magnasco@*****.it

Subject: Re: Great news!!!

Tuesday, September 28, 2010, 23:02

Sweetheart, when I read your e-mail I started crying. The guys were around and afterwards they teased me all evening. But who cares. I can't think of anything but that seedling. You have to take care of it, teach Gabriele how to. I think there was a little hose in the kit to water it with. Or you can use a spoon. When I get back we'll plant it outside. We'll make a nice vegetable garden for the summer.

There's not much going on here. We mainly patrol the area around the base, nothing dangerous, no one comes to give us any trouble. I'm almost bored. You know, I think you'd like the desert. It gives me a strange feeling, if I stare at it too long my head starts to spin. The air seems lighter than it does elsewhere and the sky is dramatic, so blue during the day and black at night. It would be a magnificent place, if it weren't for the Taliban and all. Maybe the war will end one day and we'll be able to come here on vacation. Can you imagine? The three of us together in Gulistan. I bet Gabriele would be knocked out by the camels.

S.

From: flavia_c_magnasco@*****.it

To: salvatorecamporesi1976@*****.it

Subject: Re: Re: Great news!!!

Saturday, October 2, 2010, 19:03

I can't stand sleeping alone anymore. I'm going to get sick, Salvo, I swear. I'll get sick and you won't be able to cure me. How many more nights yet? More than a hundred. I counted them, Salvo. More than a hundred! I can't even say it. It seems impossible to me. I'd like to strangle you, really. It's starting to get cold, today there wasn't even a ray of sunshine. This weather is affecting me. I don't think I can hold up until you get your leave. Gabriele misses you too, but in his own way. I mean it, sometimes I don't understand him. Some days it seems he's almost forgotten about you and that scares me and I feel like yelling at him. I show him your photo, the one when you signed up. “Who is this gentleman?” I ask him.
“Do you remember him?” He looks at me with a blank stare, as if he's never seen you. It gives me the shivers. I start talking to him about you and after a second he's distracted.

Then, just like that, the other night at dinner he points to your place. I don't get it, so he takes his plate and puts it where you usually sit. “Daddy's dish
.
” As if you were about to come home at any moment. I ask him, “Do you know where Daddy is?” He laughs as if I'm kidding, and points to the floor. “He's downstairs?” I ask him. He shakes his head. Finally I realize that he's trying to tell me you're in the cellar. Can you believe it? I don't think I was the one who put such an idea into his head—he must have made it up. Or maybe it really was me. In the early days, after you left, I was out of my mind and said a lot of crazy things.

Anyway, now I always set a place at the table for you too in the evening. It makes us feel less alone, the two of us. I pour a bit of wine in your glass, and after I put Gabriele to bed I drink it. That's right: I DRINK YOUR WINE AT NIGHT! What's wrong with that? You have some objection? Anyway you can't do anything about it. At least by the time I get to bed I'm stupefied and I don't have to think about the fact that you're not there. Who knows how many unspeakable things you'll do down there without me. I'm losing my mind, I swear.

I love you, you silly soldier.

F.

From: salvatorecamporesi1976@*****.it

To: flavia_c_magnasco@*****.it

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Great news!!!

Sunday, October 3, 2010, 21:14

I'm feeling low today too. Last night we had a little disturbance. Nothing serious, but I didn't get any sleep. And when I got up, there was no water in the showers. It's the third time in a few days. I sponged off as best I could, but even here it's starting to get bitter cold in the early morning. I know, it seems like nothing, but it was enough to dampen my spirits. I started thinking about how rotten things are here, how everything sucks, and so on. I was so edgy that at one point I almost decked Cederna. He never knows when it's time to shut that stupid mouth of his.

I spent nearly all afternoon on the cot. I tried to rest, but I couldn't. I tried to read that book you gave me, but there was no way. Eventually I just started thinking. Especially about you and Gabriele. About all the things we could do together on a day off. Now that I'm here and can't do them, I realize that I'm often too lazy. We're both too lazy. When I get back, things will change though. We won't waste a single minute.

I should have written to you sooner. I see it makes me feel better. You're my medicine. I feel so stupid when you're not around. I'm almost ashamed to say it, but sometimes it's as if I just don't know what to do with myself if you're not with me. I thought about it lying there on the cot and I got even more worked up. Is that what you've done to me, Mrs. Camporesi? What witchcraft did you use to make me so dependent on you? You're going to pay dearly, you know . . .

S.

From: flavia_c_magnasco@*****.it

To: salvatorecamporesi1976@*****.it

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Great news!!!

Tuesday, October 5, 2010, 11:38

Okay, I might as well tell you. In the end I can't hide the truth from you even if I can't see you and have to write to a stupid computer. Actually things are not going well at all with Gabriele. Yesterday they called me to the nursery because he hit a playmate. All he did was punch him actually, but it was a good solid punch and he knocked him down. The teacher was furious, she said Gabriele is manic, out of control. She used those exact words: out of control. She says that in her opinion there's no congenital problem—he simply refuses to speak, his way of manipulating us all. She said it as if he were a criminal, a monster. How dare she! She also said that if the situation doesn't improve we should consider taking him to a neuropsychiatrist. A neuropsychiatrist—you know what that means? I feel so lost, Salvo.

You want to know the whole truth? I think it's your fault. That he won't speak and that he always looks angry and that he hit that kid (though he's a snotty brat and a bully and if you ask me he deserved it). I think it's your fault, you and your damn mission. Because you should be here. It's also your fault that I feel so exhausted. And ugly. In fact, I cut my hair short. Yes, that's right! I cut off my beautiful curly hair, which you liked so much. And if you don't come back soon, I'll cut off what's left of it too. Or I'll dye it red or orange or purple. I swear. I'm so tired, Salvo. I can't take any more. Anything or anyone.

From: salvatorecamporesi1976@*****.it

To: flavia_c_magnasco@*****.it

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Great news!!!

Wednesday, October 6, 2010, 01:13

Sweetheart, you're always worrying about Gabriele too much. He's just a child. Don't listen to everything they tell you. The pediatrician was clear, wasn't he? He'll speak when he feels the need to. For now he's probably fine the way he is. You know what I say? Good thing he's learning to defend himself. He's always been a little fearful and too gentle. The world out there is ruthless. I would have loved to see the face of the kid he decked! When I get back I'll teach him one or two moves. And I have a few interesting ones to try out with you too . . .

You know Torsu found a snake? It was right near our tent. You'd die of fright if you saw it. That brainless Sardinian squashed its head to a pulp with a rock. He hung it up like a salami and we all started dancing around it like idiots, like some kind of tribe. It was fun. Remember that snake we found on the trail in Val Canzoi? Of course you remember. You did the rest of the walk clinging to my arm. You were terrified. You're very sexy when you're terrified, Mrs. Camporesi. As soon as I get back I'll fill our room with snakes, spiders, cockroaches, and mice—that way you'll stick to me all the time.

It's very late. I'm going to sleep. Do me a favor, call my mother and tell her everything is okay. I haven't been able to talk to her for the last several days and I wouldn't want her to worry.

S.

P.S. You can wear your hair blue, short, straight, however the hell you want. I'll still go nuts over you.

“I
'm thinking of a prank,” Cederna announces to Ietri as they're shaving early in the morning.

“What prank?”

“First tell me if you'll go along, then I'll tell you about it.”

They rinse their razors in the same basin of warm water resting on the ground. The shaving lather floats like cream on the surface. Cederna shaves carefully, because a few pimples have broken out and he has to pay attention. He can't explain the frenzy that seizes him on certain days like today. All he knows is that he wakes up with a wild urge to do something, to pick a fight, smash things, knock people around, wreak havoc. He's been that way since he was a kid and his memories of every one of those days are partly appalling and partly glorious. If there were someone he could beat up, it would be perfect, but the enemy doesn't show its face, so he has to improvise.

“How can I tell you I'm in if I don't know what it involves?” Ietri objects.

“Don't you trust me,
verginella
?”

Ietri thinks it over. Cederna knows very well he has him in the palm of his hand. Ietri is his disciple. If he asked him to run naked toward a group of Taliban, he'd probably do it.

“Sure, I trust you,” Ietri says.

“Then tell me you'll go along.”

“It's not dangerous, is it?”

“Nope. You just have to keep watch.”

“Okay, then. I'm in.”

Cederna moves closer. He stops Ietri's hand that's holding the razor. He slides his own blade over his buddy's cheek. Ietri's eyes widen; he stiffens.

“What are you doing?”

“Ssshh . . .”

Ietri holds his breath as his eyes follow the razor's path.

“Listen,” Cederna says. “Tonight, when the others are in the mess hall, we'll take the snake out of the Wreck.”

“I'm not touching that thing.”

“I'll do it. I told you, you're the lookout—you just have to make sure no one approaches.”

“What are you going to do with the snake?”

“Put it in Mitrano's sleeping bag.”

“Holy shit.”

“Dead right. Wait till you see how he jumps when he finds it.”

“But didn't you see how scared he was last night? He couldn't even look at it.”

“Exactly.”

Cederna draws the blade along his friend's jaw, carefully following the curve of the bone. Their mouths are so close that if they each pursed their lips, they'd touch. Never in a million years would Cederna ever think about kissing a man on the lips.

“What if he gets really pissed?”

“Who? Mitrano? That's just the beauty of it.”

The beauty of it also has to do with getting back at Mitrano once and for all for how he made Cederna feel the night of the attack, sniveling like a woman to try to get his place back inside the bunker—but Cederna doesn't say that.

“And what if René gets mad?”

“René never gets mad. Besides, who gives a shit? If we followed his lead, we'd all commit suicide out of boredom. It'll be fun—take my word.”

“I don't know. I don't think it's a good idea.”

“You promised you'd do it. If you back out now you're a sleazebag. Stick out your chin.”

“Okay,” Ietri mutters, barely opening his mouth. “I'm in.”

“The important thing is not to let anyone see us, otherwise the prank won't work. When they don't find the snake, they'll go nuts.”

“Torsu is always in the tent.”

“That guy's brain is fried from the computer. He won't even notice.”

Cederna now focuses on his buddy's mustache, as Ietri obediently draws in his lips to stretch the skin tighter. Cederna wipes off the residual foam with his fingers. His older brother used to do that for him when he grew his first facial hair. For
him
Cederna wouldn't hesitate to run naked toward a group of Taliban and let himself be shot—you can count on that! It was his brother who taught him how easy it is to be adored by someone younger.

“Cederna?” Ietri asks.

“Shoot.”

“Can you make my sideburns pointy like yours? I can't do it.”

Cederna smiles at him. He's a good kid, his Ietri. He moves him. “Keep your head still,
verginella
. It's a job that requires precision.”

 • • • 

T
he fact that Irene still hasn't mentioned last night's encounter is not reassuring to Lieutenant Egitto. On the contrary, it makes him more and more anxious with each passing hour. When he woke up this morning, she'd already left. He heard from the colonel that she'd gone out on patrol with the men, that she'd wanted to see the bazaar and confer with certain informants
about her own concerns
. She reappeared at lunch time, and they were sitting at the same table in the mess hall. He watched her entertain the officers with the story of a fellow soldier who, not having appreciated the report she'd made about him to command staff, had tailed her to her house and then attacked her, cracking two ribs with his fist. Everyone was amused and shocked by the story: a military man beating a woman colleague—unheard of, imagine that! That's some kind of lily-livered coward. Egitto pretended to smile. Was the episode to be believed? And why had Irene chosen that particular one? Is she perhaps trying to send him a message, let him know that he shouldn't joke around with her? After last night's accident—that's what he's calling it now, an
accident—
he perceives a certain sense of danger. He even considers the possibility of blackmail: if he won't go along with her, Irene will blow up his career simply by snapping her fingers. That's what she's telling him: from now on he'll have to obey her, become her lover, a much more elaborate strategy than a fake pregnancy. Nauseated, Egitto has left almost everything on his tray untouched, only picking at the roasted potatoes.

Ballesio invites him back to his tent for their usual afternoon talk. Actually, he doesn't even invite him—he assumes the lieutenant will follow him—but Egitto offers some muddled excuses. He goes back to the infirmary, but Irene isn't there. The lieutenant goes around the canvas divider, contemplates the portion of the space that's been usurped from him. Irene's bag is resting on the ground, unattended, a rather small backpack, appropriate for someone who needs to travel light. He looks behind him, all clear. He squats down and opens the zipper.

He sifts through the clothes, taking care not to crumple or move them around. Nearly all black tops and pants, but also a fleece sweatshirt—so she had one, then. His hands dig deeper, and he recognizes a different fabric by its feel. He takes out a nightgown, or a slip, it's not clear—a flimsy garment in any case, maybe silk, the shoulder straps trimmed with lace.

“You should see it on me. It looks spectacular.”

Egitto stiffens. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “I was just . . .” He doesn't have the nerve to turn around.

Irene gently removes the garment from his hands, folds it back up. Then she picks up the backpack and puts the item back inside. “You never know what might come up.”

Egitto gets to his feet.

“I'm dead tired,” she says. “Do you mind if I rest a while?”

“No. Of course not. Go right ahead.”

But the lieutenant doesn't move. Now that they're there face-to-face, he caught in the act, they should clarify the matter left hanging between them.

“What?” Irene asks.

“Look,” Egitto says. He pauses, takes a deep breath, then starts again: “About what happened last night . . .”

She looks at him, curious. “Well?”

“It happened, that's just it. But it was giving in. It can't happen again.”

Irene thinks about it a moment. Then she says: “That's the worst thing a man has ever said to me.”

“I'm sorry.” For some reason he really does feel sorry.

“Oh, will you stop apologizing, goddamn it?” Irene's tone has suddenly changed. “You don't apologize for something like that, Alessandro. Take it as a sport, a game, a gift from an old friend, whatever you want. But
do me a favor
—don't apologize. Let's try to handle the situation like adults, okay?”

“I just wanted to make sure that—”

Irene closes her eyes. “Right. I understand perfectly. Now go. I'm tired.”

Egitto beats a hasty retreat, humiliated. Everything he's done in the last forty-eight hours has turned out to be wrong. Maybe he's lost all ability to manage in life.

 • • • 

C
orporal Mitrano has awakened many times with Simoncelli's hairy ass on his face, keeping him from breathing. It's not a good feeling. For one thing, because a two-hundred-pound brute sitting on you causes something very similar to suffocation. Then, too, it's not the type of intimacy you'd like to have with anyone, least of all with a kind of chimpanzee who has the ability to fart on demand. But worst of all is the laughter you hear all around you while you can't move—someone has handcuffed your wrists to the bars of the cot and you can't see a thing because of the buttocks pressed against your eyelids—laughter coming from your platoon mates, your fellow soldiers, your buddies. The laughing hurts even more than the sticks some of them keep lashing your bare thighs and the little toe of your left foot with.

There are endless variations on the butt joke and Mitrano has endured them all. Mouth gagged and ankles bound with packing tape. Ice down your skivvies (while you're still immobilized). Arm waxing, the classic short-sheeting, hair smeared with toothpaste, which there's no way of removing once it dries, except with scissors. The toothpaste video, in particular, made the rounds of the regiment and is now available on YouTube tagged with the keywords
wake-up call
,
barracks
,
odd shampoo
,
loser
. The first part is shot in the dark and the half-naked guys have green eyes like ghouls. You can clearly see Camporesi squeezing the tube and someone—probably Mattioli—egging him on:
More, more
. At that time Mitrano still bore the unfortunate nickname “Fucking Curly Locks”; the guys eagerly tore strands from his head and put them on a table, under the light, to show that they looked just like pubic hair. Thanks to the toothpaste, the matter of the nickname at least was resolved, in a certain sense: Mitrano did not let his hair grow again after he was forced to shave it all off.

None of this is important to him by now. He's gotten used to it. When he was first called up it was even worse. There they hurt him for real—they used belts, lead plates from the bulletproof vests, toilet brushes; they pissed in his backpack and on his head. That's life, of course: there are always those who dish it out and those who take it. Mitrano is one of those on the receiving end—like his father, moreover, who even catches it from his mother because he's short and puny. That's how it should be. Above all a good soldier is one who can take it.

In general, however, he prefers animals to people. Dogs especially. He likes them husky, strong and aggressive. It's not that they're kinder than men—they too live in a world of abuse, just watch them when they meet, the way they sniff each other's backsides and growl and go head-to-head—but they're more honest; they go by instinct and that's it. Mitrano knows all about dogs and he respects them. He spends much of his free time in the FOB at the engineer corps' canine unit camp with Maya, a Belgian shepherd with moist black eyes, trained to sniff out explosives. Her master, Lieutenant Sanna, lets him be with her, because Mitrano at least keeps the dog occupied and Sanna can concentrate on his own stuff, which mainly involves the meticulous scrutiny of certain auto magazines. Mitrano would give his right arm to enter Sanna's regiment, but he failed the aptitude tests miserably. School was always his weak point.

He stays and plays with Maya until supper time. He sets up an agility course in a corner of the square, with some obstacles, a tunnel made of tires and a ball. It takes him almost an hour to get her to understand the exercises, but she's an intelligent animal and eventually she learns them. The soldiers who pass by stop to watch admiringly and applaud them. Mitrano is pleased with himself. He may not be a genius—having been told that by everyone, his mother, his teachers, his trainers, and his buddies, he's accepted it—but he's truly unbeatable when it comes to training dogs. Feeling cheerful, he dishes out Maya's chow and then goes straight to the mess for his own.

In the evening he goes to the Wreck with the others, but he keeps to himself, playing on a portable game console. His companions are all worked up because the snake has disappeared. Mitrano couldn't care less—in fact he's glad, because even just seeing it from a distance gave him the creeps. He loves animals, all except reptiles. Those he really can't stand. Mattioli accuses him of having gotten rid of the snake—naturally they'd take it out on him—but he must look so incredulous that when he says, “What do you want from me? I didn't even touch it,” they're satisfied and leave him in peace.

At midnight he goes back to the tent; his head is somewhat muddled and his eyes burn from the hours spent staring at the Nintendo's tiny display. Many of the guys have already gone to bed and others are undressing. Mitrano takes off his pants and jacket and pushes his foot into his thermal long johns.

“Hey, Rovere,” he says to his neighbor in the adjacent cot.

Rovere is covered nearly up to his nose. He opens his eyes, squints at him hostilely. “What do you want?”

“What do you think the Taliban are doing now?”

“What do you think they're doing? Sleeping.”

“If you ask me, they're watching us.”

“Knock it off, why don't you.” He turns away.

Mitrano crawls into the sleeping bag. He balls up the small pillow to make it thicker and tries to find a comfortable position on his side. Sometimes his father would show up at breakfast with a black eye, or wouldn't be able to raise his coffee cup because his arm was so sore. He would keep his mouth shut. He learned that the best you can do in certain families is not ask any questions, ever, and his family is one of those.