The Human Body (7 page)

“How come?”

“Just because.”

Zampieri strokes his hair and the back of his neck, making him shiver. “Torsu, Torsu . . . what's the matter? Do real women scare you?”

He shoves her hand away forcefully and she bursts out laughing. “Give my regards to your little boyfriend,” she says, then walks away. She'll probably go straight to the others and blurt it all out. Who the hell cares. Torsu opens the computer lid again.

TERSICORE89:
r u still there?

THOR_SARDEGNA:
i'm here. sorry, i lost the connection

Awkwardly they pick up where they'd left off. The conversation quickly degenerates into a rapid exchange of you-do-this-to-me-I-do-this-to-you, but the first corporal major's mood has been ruined. He's constantly turning around to make sure no one is watching him. From time to time the image of a young male adolescent sitting in place of Tersicore89 crosses his mind, disconcerting him. A severe fit of nausea rises up as he writes and reads, and he has stomach cramps. The malady worsens until he can no longer stand it. He's obliged to sign off in a hurry. He promises Tersicore89 he'll be right back.

Walking briskly through the base, he forces himself not to make eye contact with the other soldiers or be distracted by the small hawks wheeling around the watch tower. He wants to keep what's left of his arousal alive until he reaches the latrines.

Halfway there the first wave of wooziness hits him. The unsteadiness quickly passes from his head to his body, a quaking that he feels in the lower part of his abdomen. Within seconds, the pangs intensify to a point that makes him start running.

He reaches the chemical toilets, turns the first handle but the door is locked; he opens the second cubicle and finds a gruesome spectacle there; he enters the third and barely has time to latch it and pull his pants down, then he crouches over the aluminum squat toilet and releases his bowels in a single surge.

Slowly he exhales, his heart pounding in his ears. Another discharge takes him by surprise, coming suddenly and even more violently than the first, accompanied by acute stabbing pains. His digestive tract is in complete revolt. Torsu squeezes his eyes shut and grips the handle; he has the feeling he's being sucked into the hole. He tries not to look at the splatter of liquid shit on his bare thighs and the edge of his pants.

When the sharp pangs subside, he rests his head on his outstretched arm and remains like that another minute, exhausted and appalled by the gravity of what's happened to him. A feeling of relief spreads through his entire body along with a powerful drowsiness. For a few seconds he dozes off in that unnatural position.

Angelo Torsu is the first to show symptoms of food poisoning, maybe because he overdid it, filling his plate with cow meat three times, or because he's never had a strong stomach. Nevertheless, while he's still cowering inside the cramped toilet, two soldiers hole up in the adjoining latrines and he recognizes the sounds of an emergency similar to his own. Within a few hours
Staphylococcus aureus
has invaded the FOB and the base is in chaos. There are eighteen toilets available and at least a hundred men affected, with attacks hitting them twenty minutes apart.

By four in the afternoon the latrine area is overrun by a pack of trembling soldiers with greenish faces. They're gripping rolls of toilet paper and shouting to those inside the stalls to hurry it up, damn it.

There are four people ahead of Corporal Major Enrico Di Salvo, among them Cederna. Di Salvo is considering asking his buddy to switch places with him, because he's afraid he won't make it, but he's sure he'll say no. Cederna is a top-notch soldier, funny when he wants to be, but he's also a real bastard.

Di Salvo tries to remember when he's ever felt this bad in the past. When he was thirteen he was operated on for appendicitis, and in the months prior to that he'd wake up at night with cramps that prevented him from walking upright to his parents' room. His mother was mistrustful of drugs and his father wary of specialists' fees, so they treated him with
limonata
. The pain didn't go away and at some point his mother would return to bed, upset with him: “I told you to drink it while it was hot and you insisted on waiting. So it didn't do any good.” When the ambulance came to take him, the inflammation had worsened into peritonitis. But not even the pain at that time may have been as intense as what he's now feeling. “Cederna, let me go ahead of you,” he says.

“Forget it.”

“Please, I can't hold it anymore.”

“Get a bag and do it in there, then.”

“I don't like shitting in bags. Plus I can't make it to the tent.”

“Your fucking problem. We're all in the same boat.”

Di Salvo doesn't think that's true, though. Cederna isn't at all pale and he has yet to let out a moan or make a grimace. The other guys are gasping with pain. The first in line has started jerking the handle of a toilet that's been closed for too long. He receives an insult in return and kicks the metal door.

No, he's definitely never felt this bad. He has knives planted in his spleen and liver, he's got the chills, and he's dizzy. If he doesn't get to the toilet in a few minutes, he'll have to throw up, or worse. He might even faint. That stuff they ate was poison.

As if that weren't enough, after lunch he'd made a brief visit to Abib's tent and they smoked some hash together, just one gram, crumbled into the tobacco of a cigarette. Abib has a strange way of preparing the mixture; instead of heating it with a lighter, he rubs it between his fingers for a long time and then lets his saliva drip over it. You're disgusting, Di Salvo told him the first time.
What?
You're disgusting. Abib looked at him with that sly smile of his. After months at the base with the Italians he could speak a few words of Italian but instead he always spoke English:
Italians no know smoke,
he'd replied.

Maybe it's because of Abib's saliva that he now feels worse than the others. Who knows what disgusting infection he's passed on to him. He lives in the tent with the other two interpreters, on those carpets that stink of feet. An incredible odor, like sticking your nose in a sweaty sock. At first Di Salvo didn't want to sit down, but now he's gotten used to it. He just tries not to put his head down, even when he feels light-headed.

Now he's disoriented and miserable. He has cold sweats. Shortness of breath. He won't go to Abib anymore. For the whole rest of the mission he won't touch a pipe ever again. He mentally utters a vow to God:
If you let me make it to the toilet, if you save me from this stuff, I swear I won't go to Abib's to smoke anymore
. He's about to go further, to promise that he won't smoke even once he's back home, but then he remembers the pleasure of sitting on the terrace in Ricadi, with his feet on the railing, slowly inhaling a joint as he contemplates the oily sea, and he thinks twice about it. Six months without drugs may be enough of a commitment.

Another violent cramp makes him cough and lean forward. For a moment Di Salvo loses control of his sphincter; he feels it dilate suddenly. He's soiled himself, he's almost certain of it. He taps Cederna on the shoulder. “I'll give you ten euros if you let me go ahead.”

The senior corporal major turns his head slightly. “Fifty.”

“You're a bastard, Cederna! So it's true you're not as bad off.”

“Fifty euros.”

“Up yours. I'll give you twenty.”

“Forty and that's as far as I'll go.”

“Thirty. You're a bastard.”

“I said I won't take less than forty.”

Di Salvo feels the animal in his bowels rebelling. He has rhythmic, involuntary contractions in his anus. There's something alive in there, with its own beating heart. “Okay, I'll give you forty—forty,” he says. “Now get the fuck out of the way.”

Cederna gestures with his arm as if to say, By all means, go ahead. He snickers. He's probably not sick at all; he's just there to annoy the others. The first guy in line has gone in, so now there are only two more ahead of Di Salvo. It won't take much longer. He stares at his wristwatch as three minutes go by, excruciatingly slow, second by second; then the door of a toilet opens for him, like an invitation to paradise.

There are steps on both sides to enter the walkway with the latrines. Di Salvo rushes forward, but before he can get into the toilet an officer from the engineer corps comes up on the other side and beats him to it.

“Get out of there!” Di Salvo yells.

The second lieutenant points to the stripes on his jacket, but Di Salvo has forgotten all about rank. He waited all that time on line and gave forty euros to that scumbag Cederna and no one is going to swipe his place now, not even General Petraeus himself.

“Get out of there!” he repeats. “We're all sick here.”

The second lieutenant doesn't appear threatening; rather he has an imploring look, as if he too has just shit his pants a little. He's a guy with a square head, not very tall but more solidly built than Di Salvo. The name on his insignia says Puglisi. Di Salvo instinctively notices those details. He takes in the parameters that a fighter must consider before confronting an opponent: height, circumference of the biceps, bulk. His brain informs the muscles that he should fight.

“Please,” the engineer begs, pulling the door toward him so he can close it. Di Salvo sticks his foot against the jamb and forces the door open.

“Not on your life. It's my turn.” He drags the second lieutenant out by his jacket collar.

“Hands off me, soldier!”

“Or what?”

“Don't tick me off. I'm from Catania, you know,” the officer says, as if it meant anything.

“Oh, yeah? And I'm from Lamezia and I'm gonna shit all over you!”

Before you know it, Puglisi delivers a not very forceful but well-aimed punch to his jaw, which goes
cra-a-a-ck
. Di Salvo is stunned.

A few seconds later they're scuffling on the walkway, little more than a foot wide, blocking the entrance and access to two of the toilets. Amid the shouts of the guys on line—a line that, at this point, has turned riotous—Di Salvo ends up on the ground with his face pressed against a grate; under it flows a liquid whose origin he doesn't want to know. He's wiped out. He ineffectively knees the second lieutenant's calf; he can't move otherwise because the guy is straddling him and immobilizing his free arm. His other arm is pinned under his own body. Puglisi keeps pummeling his ribs, weak but steadily repeated punches, always in the same spot, like an expert boxer.

As he's being beaten, it slowly dawns on Di Salvo that he's just assaulted an officer. Or was he the one who was assaulted? It's irrelevant. He's fighting with a superior—that's what matters. There are serious consequences for such behavior. Solitary. Expulsion. Court martial. Prison.

A blow to the head, unexpected, makes him spit something out. He's afraid it's a tooth. He's short of breath. That toilet belonged to him. He forked over forty euros to that greedy asshole Cederna, who is now yelling things at him that he can't understand because one ear is squashed against the grate and the other is under Puglisi's hand. The cramps have backed off or else they've merged with the agony of the punches. He absolutely has to get out of that hold. He's wheezing. With a forceful lunge he manages to arch his spine and free his arm from under his back. He lands a blow on the engineer's face. “Now you'll change your tune, you ugly bastard!”

He's all worked up, ready to give it back to him with interest, but the lieutenant stands up and takes his hands off him. He steps back. Di Salvo, stunned, looks up at him. “Coward!” he yells, outraged. He's pleased to see that he's at least managed to give him a bloody nose and cut his eyebrow. “Get back here!”

But his opponent is looking away. In fact, all the soldiers have turned their attention elsewhere. Di Salvo follows their gaze and sees Colonel Ballesio making his way through the crowd, clutching his belly.

“Come on, move—let me through!”

Just before losing consciousness, Di Salvo sees the commander's stubby legs step over him as he closes himself inside the contested toilet. He just has time to hear an animal gasp from inside the cubicle, then nothing.

 • • • 

I
t's in that state of distress that Egitto meets the guys from Third Platoon, Charlie, for the first time. The food poisoning has kept him busy all afternoon, administering Imodium tablets two at a time and massive doses of intestinal antibiotics; supplies are now starting to run low, so he's had to cut the dosage in half. He's repeatedly inspected the condition of the toilets, which minute by minute testified to the worsening of the situation: at the moment, three toilets are unusable for hygienic reasons, one is stopped up by a wad of wet wipes, and another by a flashlight stuck in the waste pipe (miraculously it's remained lit, projecting intermittent flashes of light on the metallic walls and on the washbasin).

Inside the Third Platoon's tent, the air is hot and smelly, but the lieutenant pays no attention, just as he pays no attention to the eerie silence. Going in there is no different from going into any of the tents he's already visited: the camps all look alike, the soldiers too, they're trained to look alike, and now they're suffering from the same spasms and the same dehydration. Nothing suggests to Lieutenant Egitto that his fate will soon be bound to that platoon in a special way. Looking back, later on, he will find that indifference ominous.

“Who's in charge here?” he asks.

A shirtless soldier, drenched in sweat, struggles to a seated position on his cot. “Marshal René. Sir!”

“As you were,” Egitto orders. He asks those who are experiencing the staph symptoms to raise their hands, and counts them. Then he turns to the only man not affected: “Your name?”