"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 p.i.s.sed?"

"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 Rene gets mad?"

"Rene never gets mad. Besides, who gives a s.h.i.t? 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."

The fact that Irene still hasn't mentioned last night's encounter is not rea.s.suring to Lieutenant Egitto. On the contrary, it makes him more and more anxious with each pa.s.sing 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 a.s.sumes 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 s.p.a.ce 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, G.o.dd.a.m.n 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.

Corporal Mitrano has awakened many times with Simoncelli's hairy a.s.s 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 b.u.t.tocks 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 b.u.t.t 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 cla.s.sic 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 "f.u.c.king 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 p.i.s.sed 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 apt.i.tude 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 pa.s.s 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 b.a.l.l.s 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.

Something is preventing him from stretching out his legs. He feels around with his foot, but the long johns hamper his sense of touch. His first thought is that some dirty article of clothing ended up down there; then the terrifying suspicion occurs to him that his buddies have once again short-sheeted him. So he slides backward to see if he can still get out. Fortunately, he can. Sitting up, he sticks a hand inside the lining to explore the bottom, grabs something. The reptile's skin has become dry, rough, and gives off a stench of rotting meat that hits the corporal an instant before he realizes what he's holding.

"AAAAAIIIIIIIIEEEEEEE!"

He leaps up, nearly overturning the cot. He hops up and down, as if the snake were at his feet. Electric sparks are coursing through his entire body; his arms are trembling.

The soldiers wake up, ask what's going on, lights are turned on, and all this lasts just a few seconds, during which time Mitrano quickly grabs his pistol from a holster hanging on the locker handle, loads, and fires one, two, three, four, five times into the sleeping bag.

"AAAAAIIIIIIIIEEEEEEE!"

He can feel the snake on him, feels it slithering over his shoulder, onto his face, feels bitten all over-the poison, my G.o.d, the poison.

"IT BIT ME! THE b.a.s.t.a.r.d BIT ME!"

His platoon mates shout at him to stop, but Mitrano isn't even aware of them. He fires more shots into the bag, causing an explosion of white feathers. The blasts make the guys' eardrums pop painfully.

Rene has to stop him-he's almost beside him, but Mitrano's reflexes are accelerated by adrenaline. He turns ninety degrees and aims the gun at him. The marshal halts. The soldiers fall silent.

"Calm down," Rene says.

Mitrano can't see his own face. He'd be frightened to see how pale he is. He'd be sure the snake had really bitten him. The blood has drained from his face, it's all rushed down to his hands, purple as they grip the Beretta. It's aimed directly at the center of the marshal's chest. You can say a lot of things about Corporal Mitrano, but not that he can't shoot. Especially at a target four or five feet away.

"Lower your weapon," Rene orders, but in a conciliatory tone, more like a big brother than a superior officer.

"There's a snake!" Mitrano sobs. "A snake . . . it bit me, s.h.i.t!"

"All right. We'll take a look now."

"It bit me. It bit me!" Tears well up in his eyes.

"Put the gun down. Listen to me."

Instead of obeying, the corporal switches his target and points the Beretta at Simoncelli, who freezes with one knee still bent on the cot and the other foot on the ground. Then he points it back to Rene.

Cederna's voice comes from a few yards away, from the shadowy back of the tent: "It's the dead snake, Mitrano."

The corporal hesitates for a second or two, confused. He takes in the news, digests it slowly. It's obvious: the snake that disappeared from the Wreck. He glances quickly at the sleeping bag to his left, as if not fully convinced. The feathers have landed on the green cover and flutter at the faintest wafts of air. Nothing is moving inside the lining.

"Was it you guys?"

Rene shakes his head. The others follow him.

"Was it you? Huh?"

"It was me, Mitrano. Now put the gun down." Cederna has stood up and moved cautiously toward his colleague, and he's now almost alongside the marshal.

"You," Mitrano says, tears still flowing profusely. "It's always you. I'll kill you, Cederna-I'll kill you!"

If he were to press his finger on the trigger, the top of Francesco Cederna's skull would be pierced from side to side and the bullet, once out of the tunnel, would end up embedded in Enrico Di Salvo's backpack hanging in the rear of the tent. Every man present is able to gauge the trajectory.

Mitrano is breathing through his mouth, panting. Suddenly he's overcome by a wave of exhaustion, an enormous fatigue, which subdues him and makes him sag for a moment. He lowers the pistol, and it's all Rene and Simoncelli need to jump him, knock him to the ground, and disarm him. Truthfully-regardless of what will later be put forth about the episode-Mitrano puts up no resistance. He simply lies there on the floor. His hand is limp and powerless when Rene takes the Beretta from him.

Simoncelli's b.u.t.t is on his face again. Funny, isn't it? he thinks. Some dish it out and others take it; that's how it works. That's how it's always worked. As the men crowd around him, the corporal closes his eyes. He lets himself be swept away.

The gun blasts woke the sleeping soldiers and put those still awake on the alert, all throughout the base. The more zealous ones got fully dressed, then, armed from head to foot, foolishly awaited orders on what to do. The lookouts communicate via radio and can't seem to agree about the origin of the shots; they vaguely pinpoint it in the north sector of the FOB. Since no one calls for help, they soon put their minds at ease: the bursts must surely have been accidental. It happens, it can happen, that a guy may fire a shot by mistake when he's clutching his weapon in his arms at any hour of the day or night.

"What was that?" Irene asks.

"Ssshh."

The two remain silent, listening, barely loosening their grip on each other's bodies. Egitto waits for the siren to sound.

"It was nothing," he says finally. "Don't worry about it."

Thankful, she lets her hair spill over his face, then all at once tumbles down on him.

Swarms of White Flakes

It was January and it was snowing the day I lied to Marianna about her dress. I had asked my sister to sit in the backseat, but she wouldn't hear of it. As we stood arguing beside the door, tiny flakes settled on her fluffy new hairdo.

"The seat belt will crumple it," I said.

"I'm not sitting in the back like a child. That seat brings to mind bad memories. Remember when your father explained to us what would happen to our craniums if there was a head-on collision? Things like that."

Along the way she kept the seat belt loose, away from her chest so as not to crush the neckline. She rubbed her lips together and I knew she would have bitten them frantically, but she didn't want to ruin the lip gloss applied by the makeup woman shortly before. If I had offered her my bare arm at that moment, it's likely she would have sunk her teeth into it.

"A bride is supposed to feel happy if it snows on her wedding day."

"Why, aren't you happy?" I asked, though I immediately regretted it. Addressing Marianna's discontent was exactly what I didn't feel like doing.

She didn't notice the treacherously broad nature of the question. Looking irritatedly at the whitened tree branches, she said: "To me it's just one more nuisance to put up with. All those wet shoes. And the mud."