Giorgio Faletti - I'm God

Strange. Very strange.

Only he knew of the existence of that spare key.

Curious and cautious in equal measure, he had gone inside, woven in and out of the equipment heaped up there, and kicked the door of the backroom wide open.

Now he was holding his shotgun aimed at the open door.

A man appeared in the doorway with his hands up. He took a couple of steps and stopped. Ben moved accordingly, so that he was still protected by the squat, ungainly mass of the cement mixer. From here, he could keep the man’s legs in his sights, and if he made even one abrupt movement he would shorten his height by ten inches.

‘Are you alone?’

The answer had come immediately. Calm, steady, apparently genuine. ‘Yes.’

‘OK, I’m coming out. If you or any friend you have with you are planning any nasty tricks, I’ll blow a hole in your stomach as big as a railroad tunnel.’

He waited a moment and then came cautiously out into the open. He held the shotgun at his side, firmly aimed at the man’s stomach. He took a couple of steps towards him, until he could see his face clearly.

And what he saw sent a shudder through him. The man’s face and head were completely disfigured by what looked like terrible burn scars. From his face, they continued down his neck and disappeared inside the open collar of his shirt. His right ear was completely missing while all that remained of the other was only a fragment, attached like a joke to the cranium, where coarse healed skin had replaced hair.

Only the area around the eyes was intact. And now those eyes were following him as he approached, more ironic than worried.

‘Who the hell are you?’

The man smiled. If what appeared on his face when he moved his mouth could be called a smile.

‘Thanks, Ben. At least you didn’t ask me what I am.’

Without asking permission, the man lowered his arm. It was only then that Ben realized he was wearing gloves of some light material.

‘I know I’m not easy to recognize. I was hoping at least my voice had stayed the same.’

Ben Shepard opened his eyes wide. Involuntarily, he lowered the barrel of his shotgun, as if his arms had suddenly become too flabby to hold it up. Then the words arrived, as if he hadn’t had the gift of speech before now.

‘Christ almighty, Little Boss. It’s you. We all thought you were…’

The sentence was left hanging.

The other man made a vague gesture with his hand. ‘Dead?’ The next sentence came from his lips like a thought spoken aloud and a long-buried hope. ‘What makes you think I’m not?’

Ben suddenly felt old. And he realized that the person in front of him felt much older than he. Still confused by this unexpected encounter, without really knowing what to do or say, he went to the wall and reached his hand out to a switch. A dim emergency light came on. When he made to switch on another light, Little Boss stopped him with a gesture.

‘Let it be. I guarantee I don’t look any better in the light.’

Ben realized his eyes were moist. He felt useless and stupid. Finally he did the one thing that instinct dictated. He put the Remington down on a pile of crates, approached this soldier and gently embraced him.

‘Hell, Little Boss, it’s good to know you’re alive.’

He felt the boy’s arms go around his shoulders.

‘There is no Little Boss any more, Ben. But it’s good to be here with you.’

They stood there for a moment, out of an affection that was like that between a father and a son. With the absurd hope that when they separated it would be some ordinary day in the past, with everything normal and Ben Shepard, staying late to give instructions to his worker for the next day.

They separated. Ben made a sign with his head. ‘Come this way. There should still be a few beers. If you want one.’

The young man smiled and replied, with some of the old familiarity, ‘Never refuse a beer from Ben Shepard. He might get mad. And that sure ain’t a pleasant sight.’

They moved into the back room. Little Boss went and sat down on the bed. He called out, and Waltz immediately came out from his hiding place and jumped onto his lap.

‘You left everything the way it was. Why?’

Ben walked to the refrigerator, pleased that Little Boss couldn’t see his face as he replied. ‘Call it a premonition, call it an old man’s stubborn hope. Call it what you like.’

He closed the door and turned with two beers in his hand. With the neck of one of the bottles he indicated the cat, which had accepted, with its usual feline sense of entitlement, to be stroked on the head and neck.

‘I had your room cleaned occasionally. And every day I fed that critter you have there.’

He handed the young man his beer. Then he went to a chair and sat down, and for a while they drank in silence. Both knew they were full of questions that were going to be difficult to answer.

Ben realized he had to be the first.

Forcing himself not to look away, he asked, ‘What happened? Who did that to you?’

The boy took his time before replying. ‘It’s a long story, Ben. And it’s an ugly story. Are you sure you want to hear it?’

Ben leaned back in his chair and tilted it until it rested against the wall.

‘I have time. All the time in the world…’

‘… and all the men we need, soldier. Until you and your comrades realize you’re going to be defeated in this country.’

He was sitting on the ground, up against a branchless tree stump whose roots clutched uselessly at the ground, hands tied behind his back. In front of him, dawn was rising. Behind him he felt the presence of his buddy, who was similarly immobilized. He hadn’t spoken or moved for a while now. Maybe he’d managed to fall asleep. Maybe he was dead. Both theories were plausible. They had been in this place for two days. Two days of not much food, of sleep broken by spasms in his wrists and cramps in his ass. Now he was thirsty and hungry and his clothes were stuck to his skin with sweat and dirt. The man in the red headband leaned over him and dangled their dogtags in front of his face, letting them sway from side to side with an almost hypnotic effect. Then he turned them towards himself, as if he wanted to check their names, even though he remembered them perfectly well.

‘Wendell Johnson and Matt Corey. What are two nice American boys doing here in the middle of these paddy fields? Didn’t you have anything better to do at home?’

Of course I did, you fucking piece of shit.

He screamed those words in his head. He had learned the hard way what these people did when you expressed what you felt.

The guerrilla was a skinny guy, of indefinable age, with deep-set small eyes. Slightly above average height. He spoke good English spoiled only by a guttural accent. Time had passed

how much time?

since his platoon had been wiped out by a sudden Vietcong attack. They had all died, except the two of them. And immediately afterwards, their calvary had started: constantly being moved from place to place, harried by mosquitoes, forced to keep marching, forcing themselves to keep going through sheer will, one more step, one more step, one more step…

And getting the crap beaten out of them.

Every now and again they had come across other groups of fighters. Men with identical faces who carried arms and supplies by bicycle along almost invisible paths amid the vegetation.

These had been their only moments of relief

Where are they taking us, Matt?

I don’t know.

Any idea where we are?

No, but we’ll make it, Wen, don’t worry.

and rest.

Water, blessed water, was here a piece of paradise on earth, and their jailers seemed to dispense it with a sadistic pleasure.