The Human Body (30 page)

Marianna came running at the news of his imminent departure. She's wearing a very long black sweater and heavy makeup that coarsens her pale complexion.

“They
can't
kick you out like this. It's crazy.”

“They're not kicking me out. They're reassigning me. It's pretty normal, you know.”

“Yeah, sure,
too bad
they didn't even give you the chance to choose. Retaliation, plain and simple. To send you to such an abominable place. Belluno, who's ever heard of it? I didn't even remember where it
was
, until today.”

He didn't tell her the real truth. In fact, what he told her is his own rather sketchy version, full of omissions. All the energy he feels charged with isn't enough to make him admit to Marianna that it was he who decided to leave, to give it all up, as she'd said earlier on the phone. “They make excellent knödel up there,” he jokes. “You know what that is?”

Marianna shakes her head. “Who cares.”

She's sitting on the bed, her back against the wall, her shoes disrespectfully resting on the soft white mattress stripped of its sheets. Her chin tucked into her chest makes her look kind of sulky. Egitto isn't really sure why, but his sister still has an adolescent way of curling up into a fetal position. Maybe it's just that in his eyes she will remain eternally young, a little girl, even when she has gray hair and wrinkles. It occurs to him that this is only the second time she's set foot in his room: the day he'd arrived and now, when he's about to leave the barracks.

“I'm telling you that if we put it in the hands of an attorney, for sure—”

“No lawyers. Drop it.”

Marianna toys with her fingers, trying to touch them together one by one. She's capable of supernatural concentration; her motor coordination is as perfect as it used to be. Even after all the battles she's involved him in, the affection that Egitto feels for her remains intact.

“Anyway, it's not fair that you're going so far away. And I don't understand the reason for all the rush, given that at the moment you're
suspended
.”

“I have to look for a place to live. Get myself settled. You can come up as soon as I get squared away.”

She jumps off the bed and casts a cold eye on the stripped mattress. “You
know
I don't drive on the highway. And since he's had back problems, Carlo can't handle long trips. He had an operation, in case you don't remember.”

“That's right. I'd forgotten that.”

All Egitto needs to do now is make yet another promise, fabricate the first nagging thought that will disturb the future that awaits him. “Then I'll come back here,” he says. Though he adds: “As soon as I'm able to.”

Marianna gives him a quick peck on the cheek. They've never been comfortable with effusive shows of affection, and they both remember the few fleeting ones they've exchanged, which marked events of extraordinary import. She starts toward the door. “I really have to go. It's
late
. She rummages absently in her handbag, then turns to look at him, knitting her brows. “Keep in mind, Alessandro, you've never been able to look after yourself very well.”

 • • • 

O
n the contrary, at least judging from the way things start out, that doesn't seem to be the case. In Belluno, Egitto quickly finds an apartment to rent: not much bigger than four hundred square feet, but charming in its own way. It's the best he can afford with his pay cut.

He's surrounded by furnishings that he chose more for functionality than for aesthetics. They don't remind him of anything. In time, perhaps, each piece will acquire some meaning.

Before now he had never considered the idea of setting up house. Living in the barracks made him feel transitory and he took it for granted that it was his optimal state, the only one possible. He struggles to let go of that view of himself, but if he were to judge only by how he feels now—at peace, free, moderately serene, except for certain ups and downs—he'd begin to wonder whether he'd been wrong for a long time. It may be that Alessandro Egitto really is made to exist in the world like other human beings: at ease, buoyant.

Meanwhile, people are starting to know him in the neighborhood. When he reveals a piece of himself—to a guy at the café, the two lone clerks at the local bank, the woman in the laundry with a bandaged wrist following her recent surgery for carpal tunnel—he's repaid with an added grain of trust. It's a slow process, a meticulous labor of reclamation from suspicion: the construction of a security bubble whose only hypothetical perimeter is the white-rimmed circle of the Dolomites.

In his free time after getting the apartment fixed up, he serves as a volunteer with the local blood donor association. The mobile unit is parked in a different place each day, and from the open back door the lieutenant watches various forms of communal life unfold, lives far removed from combat, yet each related to a specific embodiment of the war. Not many people climb the metal steps to offer their arm to his needle; overall, the elderly appear more generous than their grandchildren, but it's only because they're wiser, he thinks—it's just that young people don't yet know how forcefully blood is pumped through the arteries, and how it gushes out when one of them is cut.

Every now and then he goes out to dinner with the male nurses he works with. They are quiet evenings, at least until alcohol loosens them up enough. The men don't feel the need to know about Egitto's past, or why he moved away without having a permanent job. For a short time there's even a girl. Egitto visits her apartment and she his, a couple of nights each. But she's still young, just twenty-one; a river of experience lies between them and they both know it. They stop seeing each other without shedding any tears.

Sometimes he wonders where he'd be now, if what actually happened hadn't happened there in the valley, if on a night like any other an Afghan driver, a man he didn't know, hadn't decided to drive off in a diesel truck, if Angelo Torsu hadn't been pitched out of a blown-up jeep, and if Irene Sammartino hadn't considered him responsible for all that. But they're idle questions, and he quickly decides to put them to rest.

He's drug-free. When he wakes up short of breath in the middle of the night and can't get back to sleep, he takes to pacing through the house, trying to control his breathing. If in the morning he's weak and listless and feels like he's in terra incognita, in another world, he falls back on these measures, waiting for it to pass. It may take days, but eventually it happens. Staying off drugs is neither a struggle nor an achievement. He doesn't rule out the fact that he might use them again, might entrust his well-being to disinterested science—somewhere there's a room with no exit, always waiting for him—but not now.

One weekend in March, without telling anyone, he takes a plane and flies to Cagliari. To get to Angelo Torsu's house he has to rent a car and travel west from the capital city. He goes the long way just to enjoy the coastal route. He drives slowly, drawn by the scenic views and the water roiling against the rocks.

On duty at the housing paid for by the city where Torsu has been living since he was discharged from the various rehab centers, he finds a young man with thick, unkempt black hair and heavy-lidded eyes. “I'm from the parish,” he explains. “I come two afternoons a week, on Thursdays and Saturdays. With Angelo there's not much to do anyhow. I can study almost the whole time.”

Egitto has appeared in civilian clothes and said he was a friend (with the legal case pending with the soldier's family, he suspects his presence around there wouldn't be appreciated). Maybe that's why the volunteer feels at liberty to add, “This shitty war. I'm a pacifist, of course.” He checks the clock, one of the few touches adorning the walls. “It's still not time for his nap to be over, but I can wake him. Angelo will be happy to have company. No one ever comes here.”

“I'm in no hurry. I'll wait.” Egitto pulls a chair out from the table, sits down.

“The same thing happens with the elderly,” the volunteer continues. “Those of us in the parish also go to nursing homes, you know. After the first few months, people lose interest. There's only one girl who keeps coming. Fairly often, I mean. Her name is Elena, do you know her?”

“I'm afraid not.”

“She's a pretty girl. A little chubby.” He waits for Egitto to shake his head no again. “Anyway, she sits with Angelo and reads him books. She doesn't care whether he understands or not, she goes on reading.” He toys with a strand of hair falling over his forehead, leaving it sticking straight up on his head for a second. “How long has it been since you've seen him?”

“More than a year.”

Since October two years ago, to be precise, since Torsu's body, wrapped in a silver thermal blanket, was taken up into the sky and on board a Black Hawk with machine guns on both sides. But he can't bring himself to admit that to the pacifist.

“Then you'll find he's changed a lot, Mr. . . . ?”

“Egitto. Alessandro.”

The young man's face darkens. He studies him for a few seconds, as if he's made a connection. Maybe he knows all about it. Egitto prepares himself for his reaction. “Are you a soldier too?”

“I'm a doctor.”

“And those burns, how did you get them?”

So, a misunderstanding. Egitto smiles at him, anticipating the apologies he imagines will soon be delivered. He touches his face. “No, these have nothing to do with it.”

The young man is visibly curious, but too polite to insist. “Tell me one thing, Doctor,” he asks instead. “How did Angelo manage to disappear like that?”

“Disappear?”

“He . . . went away. As if he had made up his mind to. At least that's what I think. He's hiding away somewhere and doesn't want to come out anymore. How can that be, Doctor?”

All of a sudden Egitto feels tired, exhausted from the trip. “I don't know,” he says.

The volunteer shakes his head. People expect a doctor to provide all the answers. “Anyway, the Lord knows where he is.”

Then they go on waiting, in silence, until the hands of the clock mark four on the dot. The young man snaps his fingers. “It's time. I'll go wake him.”

He returns after a few minutes, holding Angelo Torsu by the elbow, not as if he had to support him, more as if to guide him. Egitto wonders if the slight movement of the soldier's lips is an attempt to welcome him, a smile maybe, but he realizes that he keeps doing it. The lieutenant stands up, straightening his jacket, and takes Torsu's hand to shake it.

“Bring him near the window,” the volunteer suggests. “He likes to look out. Right, Angelo?”

Egitto isn't capable of conversing with someone who doesn't respond; he feels too awkward. The same thing happens to him at gravesides, especially Ernesto's; it also happens with newborns and even with patients groggy from anesthesia. And though no one is observing him with Angelo Torsu now in the bare living room—the volunteer has withdrawn to the kitchen to leave them alone—he's unable to utter a word. So they remain silent. They simply stand there, side by side, in front of the window.

An army badge is pinned to the corporal major's robe. A fellow soldier must have brought it to him who knows how long ago; then no one bothered to take it off. Egitto wonders if he likes it. More likely he's completely indifferent to it. We take it for granted that a person who doesn't say otherwise is grateful for any tie with his past life, and for our attention, that he wants to go over to the window just because we decide to take him there, but we don't really know that. Maybe Torsu just wants to sit in his room in peace, by himself.

He can still see. Or at least his pupils contract when the light grows more intense. It's the overly smooth skin of his cheeks and neck that make his face incongruous. They took a flap of skin from his backside and grafted it onto his face. A miracle of modern surgery—an abomination. Torsu's body functions, but as if it were uninhabited now. He incessantly chews something between his teeth that isn't there, like a piece of tough meat: the words that for months he hasn't been able to pronounce. Other than that he seems tranquil, watching the street where cars rarely pass by.
The Lord knows where he is
. Someone has to know.

Egitto stays for what seems like an appropriate amount of time. He has the impression that his breathing and Torsu's are now in sync. He doesn't know if one of them has followed the other or if they reached that synchronicity together. When the absurdity of being in that house becomes unbearable, Egitto picks up the bag he brought with him. He takes out a wrapped rectangular box and hands it to the soldier. When he doesn't take it, Egitto balances it on the windowsill. “They're jelly beans,” he says. “There was a period when they were all I could eat. I hope you like them too.” He studies Torsu's face, looking for a sign. The soldier ruminates, absent. Maybe he should tear off the paper, take a jelly bean, and make him taste it. Better to let the volunteer do it, though. “I'll take you back to your room. You must be tired.”

He won't come back a second time. What he'll do, for a few years, will be to send the corporal major a box of candy identical to this one for Christmas, along with a brief note of greeting, until they're returned to him with a nondelivery notice from the post office; then he won't attempt to find out the new address. That, along with a portion of his salary, will be the only remaining bond with the man he sentenced to death, the man whose life he saved. He'll let time act on his remorse, slowly wearing it down.

 • • • 

A
fter the four-month suspension the day comes for him to resume service. He's a little nervous as he takes the street leading uphill to the barracks of the Seventh Alpine Regiment. The first day of high school, his thesis defense before graduation, the Hippocratic oath: it's that kind of agitation, which bewilders and revitalizes him.
Emotion
would be a more fitting term than
agitation
, but he still uses that word with restraint.