The Human Body (8 page)

“Salvatore Camporesi.”

“You didn't eat the meat?”

Camporesi shrugs: “You bet I ate it. Two nice big helpings.”

The lieutenant orders him to go to the command center and cover the guards' night shifts.

“But I was on guard duty yesterday,” Camporesi protests.

The lieutenant shrugs in turn. “What can I tell you? It's an emergency.”

“Have a good night, Campo,” a soldier mouths off. “If you see a shooting star make a wish for me, honeybunch.”

Camporesi expresses aloud the wish that his colleague drown in his own excrement, then pulls on his boots and struts to the door while the others target him with balled-up T-shirts, dirty tissues, and plastic spoons.

Egitto prepares the syringes and the guys get in position, lying on their side, undershorts lowered halfway down their butts. A fart escapes, or maybe someone did it on purpose; in any case it's applauded. Complete freedom, almost obscene, reigns among them; for each of them the other soldiers' bodies are no less familiar than their own, even for the only female in the group, who displays her bare hip indifferently.

One of the soldiers is in particularly critical condition. Egitto records the name in the notebook he will refer to later to make a report to the commander, Angelo Torsu, first corporal major. The young man's teeth are chattering inside the sleeping bag, under four layers of blankets. Egitto takes his temperature: 102.

“Earlier it was 104,” René puts in.

Egitto notices the marshal's eyes on him. He's a concerned, caring platoon leader; you can see it in his face. He set up his cot in the middle of the tent so he could keep an eye on them all.

“He can't walk anymore. The last time he had to do his business in here.”

There's no reproach in the way he says it and the others don't comment. That body that's so sick belongs to them as well and they treat it with respect. Egitto thinks about the fact that someone took the trouble to help the soldier with the bag, then sealed it and threw it in the garbage. When it was up to him to do the same for his father, he'd preferred to call a nurse. What kind of doctor feels disgust for a man who's suffering? What child refuses to care for his father's body?

“How many times?” he asks the soldier.

Torsu looks at the lieutenant from behind a veil of confusion and prostration. “Huh?” he murmurs.

“How many times did you empty your bowels?”

“I don't know . . . ten. Or more.” His breath is rancid; his parched lips stick to each other. “What have I got, Doctor?” Egitto measures the pulse at his throat; the beats are weak but not alarmingly so. “It's nothing serious,” he reassures him.

“They're all looking down at me from heaven, Doc,” Torsu says, then rolls his eyes back.

“What?”

“He's delirious,” René says.

Egitto gives the marshal some medication to be administered to the soldier and bottles of milk enzymes to dispense to the others. He directs him to keep Torsu's mouth moist with a wet sponge, to take his temperature every hour, and to notify him if his condition worsens. He promises to return in the morning, the same promise he made to each of the units, though he certainly won't be able to see them all.

“Doc, could I talk to you for a second?” René says.

“Of course.”

“Privately.”

Egitto closes up his medical kit, follows the marshal outside. René lights a cigarette and for half a second his face is illuminated by the lighter's flame. “It's about one of my boys,” he says. “He screwed up.” His voice trembles a little, because of the cold, the cramps, or something else. “With a woman, you know.”

“A disease?” The lieutenant takes a guess.

“No. That other thing.”

“An infection?”

“He got her pregnant. But it's not his fault either.”

“How do you mean, if I may ask?”

“The woman is of a certain age. In theory, it wasn't supposed to happen to her anymore.”

The tip of René's cigarette glows. Egitto follows that one luminous spot because there's nothing else to look at. He thinks that voices in the dark have more character, that he won't easily forget the marshal's. In fact, he won't. “I see,” he says. “There are remedies, as you probably know.”

“That's what I told him myself. That there are remedies. But he wants to know exactly what they do to it. To the baby, that is.”

“You mean when a pregnancy is terminated?”

“An abortion.”

“Normally, the fetus is sucked out through a very thin catheter.”

“And then?”

“And then it's over.”

René takes a long drag. “Where do they put it?”

“It's . . . disposed of, I think. We're talking about something minuscule, which practically doesn't exist.”

“Doesn't exist?”

“It's very tiny. Like a mosquito.” He is telling him only part of the truth.

“Do you think they're aware of it?”

“The mother or the fetus?”

“The baby.”

“I don't think so.”

“You don't think so or you're sure of it?”

Egitto's patience is running out. “I'm sure,” he says, just to cut it short.

“I'm a Catholic, Doc,” René confesses. He doesn't even notice that he's given himself away.

“That can complicate things. Or make them a lot simpler.”

“Not one of those Catholics who go to church. I believe in God, sure, but in my own way. I have my own faith. I mean, priests are people like you and me, right? They can't know everything.”

“No, I don't think they can.”

“Everyone believes in what he feels, if you ask me.”

“Marshal, I'm not the right person to talk to about this. Maybe you'd be better off talking to the chaplain.”

René's cigarette has burned down only halfway, but he crushes it out between his fingers. The ember falls to the ground and lies there smoldering. The glow slowly fades and turns black like everything around it. René throws the butt in the dumpster. He's a man who cares about order, Egitto thinks, a proper soldier.

“How long does it take?”

“For what, Marshal?”

“To suck the baby out through the tube.”

“It's not a baby yet, at that point.”

“But still, how long does it take?”

“Not long. Five minutes. Not even.”

“Anyway, he doesn't suffer.”

“I don't think so.”

Even in the dark Egitto can tell that the marshal would like to ask him again if he's really sure. How do you make certain decisions if you don't know the terms of the operation, the logistical details, the coordinates? A soldier demands clarity, a soldier likes to plan things out.

“What would you do if you were that guy, Doctor?”

“I don't know, Marshal. I'm sorry.”

Later, as he crosses the square by himself, with the flashlight's bluish beam lighting the way, Egitto wonders whether he shouldn't have allowed himself to influence the marshal, to direct him toward the right choice. But how does he know what the right choice is? He's not in the habit of interfering with the course of other people's lives. What Alessandro Egitto does best is stand on the sidelines.

There are people prone to action, inclined to play leading roles—he's just a cautious, meticulous observer: forevermore a second born.

S
he had always been their favorite. I realized it very early on, when I was still little enough for our parents to think that putting on a good act was all it took to disguise their biased feelings. Their gazes instinctively focused on Marianna, and only afterward, as though suddenly remembering they'd passed over me, would they turn to yours truly, making up for it with a broader smile than necessary.

It wasn't blind obedience on their part to the order that nature had imposed when we came into the world, much less apathy or inattention. Nor was it true that they noticed Marianna first because she was
taller
, as I told myself for a time. It was her girlish presence that beguiled them, whether sitting at the table with her hair held back by a headband, or in the tub hidden by foamy bubble bath, or bent over her desk doing homework; it was as though it caught them by surprise, time and time again. Their eyes widened simultaneously and a bright flash of satisfaction and awe exploded in the center of the pupils, the same spark that must have flared when they tremulously witnessed the miracle of her birth. “There she is!” they exclaimed in unison when she appeared, dropping to their knees to offset the matter of height. Then, noticing me, they added: “. . . and Alessandro,” their voices fading on the last syllable. The only thing in store for me, having arrived three years later via an emergency Caesarean section—Nini asleep and Ernesto overseeing his colleague's performance in the operating room—was a stale, halfhearted rerun of the attentions my sister had received.

For instance: I knew that for her my father's car had a name—
La Musona
, “Snout”—and that it spoke to her as it took her to school every morning. In the traffic along the riverside boulevard, as the mottled trunks of the plane trees regularly interrupted the eight a.m. light, La Musona came to life and took on animal features: the side mirrors were transformed into ears, the steering wheel into a navel, the wheels into hefty paws. Ernesto disguised his voice, chirping in falsetto with a distinct nasal twang. He hid his mouth behind the collar of his coat and uttered pompous phrases: “Where may I take you today, signorina?”

“To school, thank you,” Marianna replied with a queenly air.

“What do you say we go to the amusement park instead?”

“No, no, Musona. I have to go to school!”

“Oh, school—how boring!”

Years later, I found myself garnering clues to the radiant past that had preceded me in the episodes often evoked by Ernesto in order to regain, for a moment or two, his daughter's affection, at one time manifest and now latent. The nostalgia that he betrayed on those occasions led me to imagine a brimming, matchless bliss, which mysteriously vanished after my arrival. At other times, I thought it was just one of the countless ways in which our father vaunted his flamboyant imagination: he seemed more concerned, in fact, with commemorating his actions as a parent than with reawakening my sister's dormant joy.

“Let's see if Marianna still remembers the name of the Croma,” he'd say.

“La Musona.” Marianna drew out the vowels and slowly lowered her eyelids, because that game had bored her for some time.

“La Musona!” Ernesto exclaimed contentedly.

“That's right, La Musona.” Nini echoed him softly, smiling innocently.

To become wholly convinced that Marianna held a special place in our parents' hearts, all you'd have to do is take a look in the closet of our old apartment, turn on the dim bulb that Ernesto never got around to fixing (it still dangles unsteadily from the electrical wires), count the cartons with “Marianna” written on the side and right after that the other boxes, marked “Alessandro,” mine. Seven to three. Seven cartons overflowing with my older sister's glorious childhood—notebooks, tempera and watercolor paintings, school exams with astounding grades, collections of nursery rhymes that she could still recite today—and on the bottom shelf just the other three, full of all my junk, stupid talismans and battered toys that I stubbornly refused to throw away when the time came. Seven to three. That was roughly the proportion of affection unwittingly established in the Egitto household.

I didn't complain, though. I learned to accept my parents' biased love as an inevitable, even just, disadvantage. And if at times I gave in to secret bouts of self-pity—inanimate objects had never wanted to talk to me—I soon shrugged off that jealousy, because I too, like my parents, had a special fondness for Marianna and worshiped her above all else.

To begin with, she was beautiful, with narrow shoulders, nose crinkled up in a mischievous grin, blond hair that would later darken a bit, and a host of delightful freckles that peppered her face from May to September. Kneeling in her room in the middle of the carpet, surrounded by outfits for Ballerina Barbie and World Peace Ambassador Barbie and three My Little Ponies with colorful manes—each element positioned exactly where she wanted it—she seemed to be mistress not only of herself, but of everything that belonged to her. Watching her, I learned to care for small objects in a way I wouldn't have otherwise: the way she looked at them, the way she attributed personality and import to one or the other just by touching them, all that intoxicating pink surrounding her, convinced me that the feminine world was more fascinating, luxuriant, and fulfilling than ours. That, for sure, made me burn with envy.

Then, too, Marianna was incredible. She was a slender yet tenacious reed in her ballet classes, before Ernesto insisted that she stop because of the disastrous consequences that dancing en pointe could have on her feet, among them arthritis, seriously debilitating tendonitis, and various other osteopathic conditions; she was a brilliant conversationalist who delighted my parents' cultured friends (Ernesto's chief surgeon complimented her at a communal dinner for using the term
blandishments
properly); but above all, she was a scholastic prodigy. Nini's greatest source of concern in middle school was trying to avoid the compliments that rained down on her from all sides, from teachers, from other envious parents, even from unexpected acquaintances who had heard of her daughter's impressive results. There was no subject in which Marianna did not demonstrate a proclivity, and her approach to each discipline was always the same: compliant, serious, and strictly devoid of passion.

She also played the piano. On Tuesdays and Thursdays at five her instructor Dorothy arrived at our house. An imposing woman, with bulging breasts and belly and an old-fashioned taste in dress, apparently aimed at drawing attention at all costs to her British origins on her father's side. I was required to be in the entrance hall to welcome her, and again to say good-bye to her, an hour and a half later: “Good afternoon, Miss Dorothy.”

“Dorothy is more than enough, sweetheart.”

And later: “Good-bye, Dorothy.”

“See you soon, dear.”

She was the first victim of Marianna's secret wrath. The alliance with my sister, which for a long time (wrongly so) I considered unshakable, was founded on cruel mockery the afternoon when, waiting for the music teacher, Marianna said: “Did you know that Dorothy has a daughter who stutters?”

“What does that mean?”

“It means she t-t-t-t-talks like th-this. And she can't say words that begin with
m
. When she calls my name she says Mmm-mmm-mm-arianna.”

She twisted her little face and began mooing loudly. It was a monstrous and irresistible imitation, hilariously naughty. Nini would find it reprehensible: she spent much of her time worrying about unseen ways in which our behavior could hurt others, and carefully avoided any reference to her children in conversations lest she might give the—wrong, totally wrong—idea that she was bragging or making comparisons. If Marianna, talking about a classmate, said, “She does much worse than me, her grades are all so-so,” she immediately seemed alarmed: “Marianna! We mustn't make comparisons.” Just imagine if she caught her mimicking Dorothy Byrne's stuttering daughter, with her mouth all screwed up and her eyes crossed!

For this reason, since at eight years old my most immediate reactions always emulated those I presumed would be my mother's, I was initially taken aback by Marianna's lowing as she stammered out the consonants. Then, little by little, I felt my lips widening. To my horror, I realized that I was smiling. More accurately, I was now laughing outright, with gusto, as if I had suddenly discovered the kind of thing that was really funny. Marianna let out another bellow,
m-m-moo
, before she too burst out laughing.

“A-a-and then . . . take a look at Dorothy's underarms . . . She has dark stains . . . they stink to high heaven!”

We couldn't stop: the laughter of one of us set off the other. And as soon as she gave signs of stopping, Marianna would twist her mouth to one side and we'd begin all over again.

Before that day we hadn't shared anything. Any possible closeness, or even just complicity, was swept away by the difference in the years that separated us and by the disdainful resignation with which Marianna seemed to tolerate me. The wicked imitation of Dorothy's daughter was our first direct bond, our first secret. At supper, when Ernesto was detained at the hospital and Nini turned her back to give the unappetizing mashed potatoes one last stir, Marianna would distort her face and I'd nearly swallow my food the wrong way. It would become a habit: picking on certain people we knew, discovering absurd aspects of our regimented lives, and laughing until we collapsed, setting each other off in turn until we no longer had any idea of what had been so funny.

That afternoon, when Dorothy appeared at the door in a long, dark teal dress with pleated sleeves, we had tears in our eyes. I immediately noticed the rings under the armpits, and though even then I could display a certain restraint when called for, I could not manage to say “Good afternoon, Dorothy” without laughing and spraying her with spittle.

“It's a pleasure to find you both so cheerful,” the teacher remarked, somewhat annoyed. She dropped her handbag on the couch and walked purposefully toward the piano stool.

At that point I left them alone, as usual. Making sure that a carafe of water and two glasses were available on the glass-topped table, I then closed the door to the hallway and went back to my room. After a few moments of silence, I heard the ticking of the metronome begin.

A good half hour was devoted to warming up: chromaticisms, triplets and quadruplets, sight-reading, Pozzoli exercises and the tendon-breaking ones by Hanon. Then they started on the repertoire. There were a few pieces I particularly liked: Debussy's
Doctor Gradus ad Parnassum
, Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata, a Bach minuet whose ritornello is all I remember, and Chopin's
Prelude Op. 28, No. 4
, whose first part with its soft descending chords filled me with a piercing melancholy. But the one that became my favorite was unquestionably
Un sospiro
by Franz Liszt, with which Marianna reached the height of her virtuosity and the most evident interpretative intensity. She had already turned fourteen and was preparing for a presentation, her first real performance as a musician after an eternity of solitary study. Dorothy had arranged a student recital in a small Baroque church in the city center.

Marianna practiced the étude ad nauseam, since the piece involved several technical intricacies, including crossing the arms in the complicated opening arpeggio: the left hand, after skimming over two octaves, passed rapidly over the right to complete the melody on the high notes. It was a piece that was almost more beautiful to see than to hear and sometimes, while Marianna practiced, I opened the door a crack and watched her fingers moving gracefully, caressing the keyboard, closely monitored by her constantly shifting pupils. The movement was so swift that you couldn't believe she was really touching the keys, her right pinky extended so that it stood out from her palm.

But the critical passage came further on when, approaching the languendo, the score launched into a dizzying descending scale. Marianna stumbled at that point; the tiny muscles of her fingers couldn't sustain the speed and she would stop, letting the sharp clacks of the metronome tick on. Undeterred, she would resume playing from a few bars back and tackle it again, once, twice, ten times, until she thought she had acquired the correct fluidity. Often, however, she'd stumble again the following day and then she'd get angry and slam her hands on the keyboard, leaving behind a mournful rumbling.

Nevertheless, by a week before the recital she had achieved complete mastery, and it was time to worry about what she would wear. Nini took her to a shop under the arcades and together they chose a sleeveless sheath with matching pumps. For me, a pair of navy blue pants and a salmon shirt—a color that dominated my wardrobe before disappearing entirely to avoid inopportune reminders of my psoriasis-inflamed neck and face. Meanwhile, on tiptoe, I tried to see as much as possible of my figure in the bathroom mirror. I was at least as excited as my sister, probably even more, or so I tell myself today.

The church was cold and the audience members, about fifty in all, did not take off their coats, making the event seem somewhat temporary, as though everyone might rush out at any moment. Dorothy was dressed at her most elegant and was greeted by warm applause, despite the fact that as of September she had increased the cost of her private lessons by nearly twenty percent. Her daughter sat in the front row, a little to one side, her deformed mouth tightly sealed.

Marianna was scheduled among the final players, since she was one of the proficient students. I curbed my impatience by focusing on the music. I recognized many of the pieces played by the little girls who preceded her, because Marianna, too, had studied them in the past. None of them seemed to be on her level, or at least as precocious as she had been. Each time a girl took the stage, I held my breath, afraid I might find that she was more talented than Marianna or that she might perform a more impressive piece. But there was no one as gifted as my sister, nor a piece more impressive than Franz Liszt's
Un sospiro
.