The Human Body Part 3

"Will take me to Herat. Right, I got it."

"Exactly, sir. The day after tomorrow."

"Thank you."

The soldier lingers in the doorway.

"Anything else?"

"Congratulations, Lieutenant."

"For what?"

"You're going home."

He disappears; the tent's flap swings back and forth a few seconds, alternately exposing and obscuring the harsh light outside. Egitto leans his forehead on his folded arms and tries to go back to sleep. Before the week is over, if all goes as it should, he'll be in Torino. Thinking about it, he experiences a sudden sense of suffocation.

His nap ruined, he decides to get up and go out. He walks along the east fence and across the fortified area of the corps of engineers, where the tents are placed so close together you have to hunch your shoulders to get through them. He climbs a ladder leaning against the fortification. The man stationed on guard duty salutes, then steps aside to make room for him.

"Are you the doc?"

"Yep, that's me."

Egitto puts a hand to his forehead to shade his eyes from the light.

"Want my binoculars?"

"No, that's okay."

"No, here-take my binoculars. You can see better." The soldier slips the gla.s.ses off his neck. He's very young and eager to be of service. "They have a manual focus. You have to turn the little wheel. Here, I'll do it."

Egitto lets him focus them; then he slowly explores the flat, open expanse that lies exposed to the early afternoon sun. In the distance the light creates mirages of small s.h.i.+mmering pools. The mountain is scorching hot and seems determined to display its innocence at all costs: hard to believe that it harbors a myriad of caves and ravines from which the enemy constantly watches the FOB, even at this very moment. But Egitto knows it too well to let himself be fooled or to forget.

He aims the binoculars in the direction of the Afghan truck drivers' encampment. He spots them sitting in the shade of the tarpaulins they've carelessly hung between the vehicles, crouched with their backs against the wheels, knees to their chests. They're capable of staying in that position for hours, sipping hot tea. They transported materiel from Herat to the FOB and now they don't dare head back for fear of reprisals. They're confined to that one area they consider safe: they can't leave but they can't stay there forever either. As far as the lieutenant knows, they've never washed. They survive on a few jerry cans of water a day, enough to quench their thirst. They accept the food offered to them from the mess hall without saying thanks, but not seeming to demand it either.

"Not much to see, huh, Doc?"

"A little boring," Egitto says, but he doesn't think so. The mountain changes shape every second; there are infinite nuances of the same yellow, but you have to be able to recognize them. It's a hostile landscape to which it was easy for him to grow attached.

"I didn't think it would be like this," the soldier says. He seems forlorn.

When Egitto climbs down from the fortification, he heads for the phones, even though there aren't many people he can call, no one he has-or wants-to tell about his return. He calls Marianna. He enters the code on the prepaid card; a recorded message informs him of the remaining credit and asks him to please hold.

"h.e.l.lo?"

Marianna always sounds abrupt when answering the phone, as if she's been interrupted doing something that requires her utmost concentration. As soon as she recognizes his voice, though, she softens.

"It's Alessandro."

"Finally."

"How are you?"

"I have a headache that just won't quit. And you? Did they leave you all by yourself in the end?"

"The new regiment arrived. It's strange-they treat me like an old wise man."

"They don't know how wrong they are."

"Yeah. They'll soon find out."

There's a pause. Egitto listens to his sister's slightly labored breathing.

"I went back to the house yesterday."

The last time they were there they'd gone together. Ernesto had been dead a few days and they were already wandering through the rooms, their eyes choosing which pieces of furniture to keep. In front of the mirror in the foyer, his sister had said, Could I take this? Take whatever you want, he'd replied; I'm not interested. But Marianna had been furious: Why do you do it, huh? Why do you try to make me feel guilty by saying, Take whatever you want, as if I were a selfish pig?

"How was it?" he asks.

"How do you think? Empty, dusty. Sad. I can't believe I lived in such a place. Just think, I found the was.h.i.+ng machine with a load of wash in it. They hadn't even looked. The clothes were pasted together. I got a trash bag and threw them out. Then I opened the wardrobe and threw out the rest as well. Everything I happened to get my hands on."

"You shouldn't have."

"Why shouldn't I have?"

Egitto doesn't know why. He knows it's something that shouldn't have been done, not yet. "They might have been useful," he says.

"Useful to whom? To you? That stuff is awful. And besides, I happen to be on my own here. You could at least have the decency not to tell me what I should or shouldn't do."

"You're right. I'm sorry."

"I contacted a couple of real estate agents. They say the house needs to be fixed up, we won't get much for it. The important thing is for us to get rid of it as soon as possible."

Egitto would like to tell Marianna that the sale can wait, but he remains silent.

She presses him: "So when are you coming back?"

"Soon. I think."

"Did they give you a date?"

"No. Not yet."

"Maybe I really should make that phone call. I'm sure someone would take an interest in the matter."

Marianna always shows a certain impetuosity toward his affairs, as if she claimed the right to preempt his decisions. Recently she's threatened several times to lodge a complaint with the Defense Administration no less. So far Egitto has managed to talk her out of it. "They'll get back at me. I've already explained it to you," he says.

"I don't know how you can live like that, not knowing where you'll be in a week, or a month. Always at the mercy of other people's whims."

"It's part of my job."

"It's a stupid job and you know it."

"Could be."

"Getting involved in a place that has nothing to do with you. Zilch. Hiding among a bunch of fanatics. And don't try to tell me they're not, because I know exactly how they are."

"Marianna . . ."

"There's a certain amount of stupidity in that."

"Marianna, I have to go now."

"Oh, of course. I thought so. Look, Alessandro, it's really urgent that we sell the house. The way prices are going in the area is appalling. Only they could have made the place seem idyllic. Ernesto was convinced he was an expert when it came to investments, remember? He was convinced he was an expert in everything. In fact, the apartment isn't worth anything anymore. I'm really worried."

"I'll take care of it, I told you."

"You have to do it quickly, Alessandro."

"All right. Ciao, Marianna."

Egitto isn't sure how much intelligence lies hidden behind Colonel Ballesio's meditative stance. Not much, he'd guess. What's certain is that the colonel harbors several idiosyncrasies. For example, he's hung a disproportionate number of tree-shaped air fresheners in the tent, which fill the s.p.a.ce with the scent of bubble gum.

"Lieutenant Morocco! Come in."

"Egitto, Colonel, sir."

Ballesio leans forward to read the name on his jacket. "Oh, well, not much difference, right? At ease, Lieutenant, at ease. Have a seat over there. As you can see, this tent doesn't have many amenities. Caracciolo is a spartan type. Only because he's young, mind you. I, however, am beginning to appreciate comfort." He caresses his belly indulgently. "By the way, I'd like to get a refrigerator to keep a few beers here. I noticed you have one in your infirmary. Do you really need it?"

"The vaccines are in it. And the adrenaline."

"The adrenaline, right. That's important. I could keep it here, though. That way I'll have room for some beers. After all, my tent is open-everyone is welcome at any hour of the day or night. I don't have any secrets to hide. Besides, you're leaving soon, right?"

Egitto lowers his eyes.

"Anyway, think about it. Maybe it's not a good idea. I don't know about you, but I've always liked beer, even warm." The colonel squeezes his lips between his thumb and forefinger, nodding his head vacantly. "Well, okay, then," he murmurs. And again: "Okay, then."

On the desk there's a copy of The Little Prince. The two soldiers turn their eyes to the slim little boy drawn on the cover.

"My wife," Ballesio says, as if to justify himself. "She gave it to me. She says I need to get in touch with our kids. I'm not sure what she means. Have you read it?"

"A long time ago."

"If you ask me, it's for h.o.m.os. I fell asleep twice."

Egitto nods, uncomfortable. He's not sure why he came to the colonel's tent. The Little Prince seems more out of his element than usual under the greenish light filtering through the canvas.

"Was there something in particular you wanted to tell me, Lieutenant?"

"I'd like to extend my stay, Colonel." The meaning of the phrase isn't fully clear to him until he's uttered it in its entirety.

Ballesio raises his eyebrows. "Are you serious?"

"Yes, sir."

"Here in Afghanistan or here in this Gulistan s.h.i.+thole?"

"At the FOB, Colonel."

"And to think, I'd already like to leave. Ski season starts in three months. Don't you want to go home and ski, Lieutenant? Don't tell me you're one of those southerners who've never put on a pair of skis."

"No. I ski."

"Good for you. Of course, I have nothing against southerners. Some of them are good people. But naturally, to call them Alpines is a different story. They're suited to these rotten deserts. They're used to it. Me, on the other hand, I'd give my right arm to go back to the mountains and ski all winter long. Ahhh! I tell myself each time, This year I'm devoting all my time to skiing, but then something always gets in the way. Last year my wife tripped on a curb and I found myself having to be her nurse. A depressing experience. From the windows I gazed at the Tofane Mountains with their white blanket of snow, and I would have climbed them on foot just to be able to ski back down. I would have come down on my a.s.s. This year I won't even see the snow. A waste of time, a waste of life. Especially at your age. Anyway. Are you really sure you want to stay?"

"I'm sure, Colonel."

"I hope it's not because of some kind of missionary spirit. They told me about that kid you saved, you know. The opium smoker. Congratulations. A touching story." He mulls it over. "But we aren't missionaries, remember that. We're commandos. We like to play with guns, and preferably use them."

"It's for the money," Egitto lies.

The colonel rubs his jaw thoughtfully. "Money is always a good reason."

The Little Trees fresheners flutter crazily in front of the air conditioner's jet, giving off a cloying aroma. Egitto is beginning to feel nauseated.

Ballesio points to him. "That thing on your face. Will it go away?"

Egitto sits up straighter in his chair. He pictures the pattern of blotches on his face. It changes every day, like an atmospheric disturbance, and he keeps an eye on it as if he were a meteorologist. By now he knows how each area will behave: the cheeks heal quickly, the skin around the lips is painful, the scaly eyebrows disturb people, the ears are a disaster. "Sometimes it improves. A little. With the sun, for instance."

"It doesn't seem like it. It makes you look like a mess. No offense."

Egitto grabs onto his belt. All of a sudden he feels very hot.

"I have a problem too," Ballesio says. He loosens the collar of his uniform. "Here. Look at this. There are spots, right? They itch like h.e.l.l. Does your stuff itch?"

Egitto goes around the desk to examine the colonel's neck. A slight rash follows the edge of the uniform. Red pustules, tiny as pencil marks. "It's just a rash. I have some calendula cream."

"Calendula? What the f.u.c.k is that? Don't you have any cortisone?"

"You don't need cortisone."

"It makes me feel better right away. Bring me the cortisone. You should try it up there as well, Lieutenant."

"Thanks for the advice, Colonel."

He returns to his seat, puts his hands on his knees. The colonel straightens his jacket.