Giorgio Faletti: I'm God

His jailer didn’t wait for a reply. He knew it wouldn’t come. ‘I’m really sorry your other comrades died.’

‘I don’t believe you,’ he blurted out, and immediately tensed the muscles of his neck, expecting a slap by way of reply.

Instead of which, a smile appeared on the man’s face, a smile made cruel by the sardonic gleam in his eyes. Silently, he lit a cigarette, then replied in a neutral voice that sounded strangely sincere, ‘You’re wrong. I really would have liked to have you alive. All of you.’

The same tone of voice he’d used after the attack when he’d said

‘Don’t worry, corporal. We’re going to take care ofyou … ’

and immediately afterwards had gone up to Sid Margolin, who was lying on the ground complaining of the wound in his shoulder, and blown his brains out.

From somewhere behind him came the caterwauling of a radio. Then another guerrilla, a much younger man, walked up to the commander. The two men exchanged a hasty dialogue, in the incomprehensible language of a country he would never understand.

Then the chief addressed him again.

‘This looks like it’s turning into quite an amusing day.’

He bent his knees and crouched in front of him, so that he could look at him straight in the face.

‘There’s going to be an air raid. There are raids every day. But the next one will be in this area.’

That was when he understood. There were men who went to war because they were forced to go. Others who felt they had to go. The man in the red headband was there because he liked it. When the war was over, he would probably invent another one, maybe just for himself, so he could continue to fight.

And to kill.

That thought put an expression on his face that the other man misunderstood. ‘What’s the matter, soldier? Are you surprised? Didn’t you think the yellow monkeys Charlie, as you call us, were capable of mounting intelligence operations?’

He gave him a pat on the cheek with the palm of his hand, all the more mocking in that it was as light as a caress.

‘Well, we are. And today you’ll get a chance to find out who you’re fighting for.’

He leaped to his feet and gave a signal. Immediately, four men armed with AK-47s and rifles came running and surrounded them, weapons aimed straight at them. A fifth man approached and untied their wrists. With an abrupt gesture he motioned them to stand up.

The commander pointed to the path in front of them. ‘That way. Quickly and silently, please.’

He pushed them unceremoniously in the direction indicated. After a few minutes’ quick march, they emerged onto a vast, sandy clearing, flanked on the right by what looked like a plantation of rubber trees, placed at such regular distances as to seem a perversity of nature amid so much chaotic vegetation.

They were separated and tied to two trunks almost at opposite ends of the clearing, with a line of trees between them. No sooner did he feel the ropes on his wrists than a gag was stretched over his mouth.

The same fate befell his buddy, whose show of resistance was rewarded with a blow with a rifle butt in the small of his back.

The man in the red headband approached with his usual sly air.

‘You people who use napalm so easily ought to know what effect it has. My people have known it for some time now…’

He indicated a vague point in the sky in front of him.

‘The planes will be coming from that direction, American soldier.’

He put the dogtags back around their necks. Then he turned his back on them and left, followed by his men. They were alone now, looking at each other from a distance. Then, from that point beyond the trees, in the sky in front of them, came the noise of an engine. The Cessna L-19 Bird Dog appeared as if by magic over the rim of the vegetation. It was on a reconnaissance mission and was flying low. It had almost passed them when suddenly the pilot made a turn, bringing the plane even lower. So low that they could clearly see the figures of the two men inside the cockpit. Soon afterwards the aircraft returned to the sky from which it had come. Time passed in silence. Then a whirr, and a pair of Phantoms arrived at a speed that in their fear they saw as a series of still images. With them came a roar like thunder. Only after that, by some strange quirk, the lightning flash. He saw that light grow and grow and become a line of fire that advanced on them, like some kind of dance, devouring everything in its path until it reached them and hit…

‘… my buddy full on, Ben. He was incinerated. I was a bit farther away, so I was just hit by a wave of heat that reduced me to this state. I don’t know how I survived. And I don’t know how long I was there before the rescue team arrived. My memories are very confused. I know I woke up in a hospital, covered in bandages and with needles stuck in my veins. And I think most men would take a lifetime to feel the pain I felt in those few months.’

The boy paused. Ben understood that it was to let him absorb what he had just told him. Or to prepare him for what he said next.

‘The Vietcong used us as human shields. And the men on the reconnaissance plane saw us. They knew we were there. And they attacked all the same.’

Ben looked at the tips of his shoes. Anything he said would have been pointless.

He decided to go back to the present, and the suspicion nagging at him. ‘What are you planning to do now?’

Little Boss shrugged nonchalantly. ‘All I need is somewhere to use as a base for a few hours. There’s a couple of people I have to see. Then I’ll come fetch Waltz and leave.’

The cat, as indifferent as all cats, got up from its owner’s knees and arranged its three legs in a more comfortable position on the bed.

Ben moved the chair away from the wall and let it drop to the floor. ‘I get the feeling you’re going to get in trouble.’

The boy shook his head, hiding behind his non-smile. ‘I can’t get in trouble.’

He took off his cotton gloves and held his hands out to Ben. They were covered in scars.

‘See? No fingerprints. Wiped out. Whatever I touch, I don’t leave any trace.’

He seemed to think for a moment, as if he’d finally found the right name for himself.

‘I don’t exist any more. I’m a ghost.’

He looked at him with eyes that asked a lot even though they were ready to concede little.

‘Ben, give me your word you won’t tell anyone I was here.’

‘Not even-?’

He interrupted him curtly, before he’d even had time to finish the sentence. ‘I said nobody. Ever.’

‘Or else?’

A moment’s silence. Then from his tortured mouth there emerged words as cold as those of the dead.

‘I’ll kill you.’

Ben Shepard realized that the world didn’t exist any more for the young man. A shiver went down his spine. Little Boss had left to fight a war against other men he had been ordered to hate and kill. After what had happened, the roles had been reversed.

He had come home, and now he was the enemy.

He was sitting in the dark, waiting.

He had been waiting so long for this moment and now that it had come, he didn’t feel any nervousness, any sense of hurry. It seemed to him that his presence in this place was totally normal, planned, thought through.

Resting on his knees was a Colt M1911, the army’s regulation weapon. Good old Jeff Anderson, who might have lost his legs but hadn’t lost his talent for pulling strings, had got him that pistol, without asking any questions. And, perhaps for the first time in his life, he hadn’t asked him for anything in return. He had kept it in his bag, wrapped in a cloth, throughout the journey.