This is the translation of a novel I have written in my language. Though there are some love and sex scenes (not in this chapter), I guess it would be improper to call it an "erotic story with a broader scope", so it does not fall in the field of "novels and novellas". There is some love line, so it can be a "romance", but don't expect any "chick lit" stuff. There is a mad world of death, blood and fire, in a word, there is war. So let's call it "a hard-boiled romance", and that's all.
*****
Homeward Bound,
I wish I was homeward bound.
Home,
Where my though's escaping,
Home,
Where my music's playing,
Home,
Where my love is waiting,
Silently for me...
("Homeward Bound", Simon and Garfunkel)
Let them go, let them go,
Let them go to their dances of the dead.
("Drive all night", Bruce Springsteen)
Prologue: northern Italy, summer 2001.
"Hello!"
The man with the book raised his head and looked at the two newcomers in the compartment. A couple: he and she. They seemed normal people, polite, even a bit afraid to bother him. Yes, he was alone, till then, but he did not reserve the whole compartment (he loved the old trains which had the compartments yet), so they had the right to get in and sit, of course. So he smiled and answered their greeting.
"Hello!"
"May we?"
"Of course!"
"Thanks..."
They put the luggage in the proper places, above the seats, took of their coats and sat in front of him. The woman seemed excited, looked at the window smiling, as if she was in a dream come true. She kissed her man on a check. He smiled at the man, quite awkward, as to apologize. The man with the book, smiled.
"Just married?"
"Not really, "Just"," the other man said. "We are coming back from our wedding trip. we have gone around throughout Europe by train. My wife doesn't like to fly... "
The man with the book, nodded smiling. The best moment in the life of a man. The woman you have chosen, and who has chosen you. And with a bit of luck, the whole live ahead, together. Or at least, you want to believe it, and you have the right to do it... A reason to live, to work, to fight... And to Hell with all the rest...
"Excuse my curiosity, sir... Your wife... it looks like she is not Italian, right?"
"Russian!" said the woman, pointing an index finger at herself, and smiling. His man smiled with a bit of embarrassment, again. As if there was something wrong to marry a Russian woman... Of course, she can be the wrong woman, as any other one: all is possible, nothing is granted... But maybe he too was in a dream come true. And he felt himself so happy that he was ashamed for it. Not all the people are so lucky... A sensible person...
The man with the book, smiled. He figured that couple in some hotel room the night before. Some kisses... How said Isaak Babel, to describe the strength of a young man? "You could spend the night with a Russian woman, and the Russian woman would be satisfied if you"... Yes, he knew about it... And not only from the books...
"Eh... I too have known a Russian lady, once upon a time..."
"Where?" the other man asked. "In Moscow?"
"In Leningrad?" the Russian lady asked. "That is, in Saint Petersburg?"
"No... " the man with the book said, smiling and shaking his head no. "You would never guess... "
Chapter 1: springtime 1988. Somewhere north of Kyber.
The man had to wait till his eyes adjusted to the darkness, after the midday sun out of the house. Then he saw well his bag packed already, close to the rope he used to tie the wounded men to the table, since when the supplies of anesthetic were exhausted. He sat on the ground, with the light from the window on his right hand side, took the notebook from the pocket of the backpack, opened it and read the last thing he had written.
"The most unpleasant thing in this war is, that we had to blame some European guys."
He snorted, took his pen from the pocket of his shirt and added:
"And to agree with people who believe that a war can be holy."
He thought a bit, then he cancelled the last phrase. The sense was clear, all the same. The genius is to know how to limit yourself.
The most unpleasant thing. If not, it would have been a war as any other. With the difference that he was inside of it.
Some time before, he would have never written such things, besides the strictly medical notes. But some time before, Francoise was still there. And she would have not left the next morning, with him. She had left and gone away already. And the "European guys" were not to blame at all, about it. Hell no...
Yes, he had remained there, then. He had even come back the next year. And they had sent him another assistant. And she too had died. And that time, the "European guys" messed with. But please, don't add apples and oranges! She had had what she was looking for! Fools die!
She was American. Blond, beautiful and beyond recognition stupid. A crusader with the wrong chromosomes. There were a lot of crusaders like her, in Peshawar, lately. And with them, things had only got worse. In 1986 there were serious persons there, doctors, real doctors, but then, they came... They were not there to help people, they were there to see the war in the front row. But sometimes, in the front row, some stray bullets come too...
And Jesus Christ, if you INSIST to go and see an ambush, then you WANT a stray bullet for you, really! Francoise would have NEVER asked it, but that crusader DEMANDED it! And the chief of the "aul", of the village, had surrendered: "inshallah", come, as you please. She wanted to see the "shuravi" die. But for once, the "shuravi" had had their lucky day. And she didn't. They shot first, and better. And she was there. That's all.
Fools die, all as it takes. If only they could be the only ones to die, then the wars would be good for something. He had gained a good reputation in the "aul", a reputation of stern, strong man, because he did not cry when he saw her dead. But why in the hell should have he cried? She was nothing, for him. He was very sorry because even the chief of the aul was dead: he was not a bad person. And the new chief was mediocre, compared to him. But not "mediocre" as her...
No, he was not an anti-American. He loved American movies, American songs. Before to meet her, he liked to speak with the American people, when he met them at home. But she was another deal, definitely. He was there for the third time, he got used to the lay of the land. She was a Jenny-come-lately, she didn't understand a damn. He was the veteran, she was the rookie. And SHE wanted to teach HIM how the things went on!
He shook his head. Think "here", think "now", no vain efforts. Next day, he would have gone home, farewell to all that jazz. To the dead, to the wounded men that cried as damned souls, to the girls, as beautiful as untouchable, on pain of death. Yes, he had thought to come back, after the war, because people don't die only by bullets, especially down there. But now, no more. Enough to the mountains, he had seen too much in those mountains. Give me a hill, a plain, a lake, an Ocean, and I will die in peace...
To die. The foolish, horribly easy way the people died. He went there to avoid it, or at least, to limit that easiness. Blow it. Rule number one, in a war, people die a lot. Rule number two, the doctors cannot abrogate the rule number one.
It was really SO easy. Someone raised his head too early, and go. Another one remained with his mag empty at the wrong moment, and go. Another one put his feet where it was better not to, and go. And before the Stingers, when the helicopters ruled the ball, it was even easier. And before the Stingers, when the helicopters ruled the dance, it was even easier. A blast of 12,7 bullets, a salvo of rockets, a rain of shrapnel grenades hung to small parachutes, and go, go, go...
But after all, who cared? The mothers for their kids, yes. And the kids died more with starvation than with napalm, more with diseases than with bombs, more with infections than with mines. If they did not get any "green parrots", those anti-personnel mines who could look like toys, built for wounding rather than killing, and it was even worse...
But the men... "Insh Allah", and this was it. They REALLY believed that to get killed in battle gave you the entry ticket for a garden of earthly delight. And they seemed to think that to get it living properly and dying with age was not the same.
It was better than doping, and it had been invented a thousand and a half of years before. From a genius. What can be the desires of a man who lives in the desert, or thereabouts? Water, shadow, trees, music, women. Just get him to think that he can have them all, forever, if he just follows you, and he will follow you, wherever. Should he die to get there? Not too bad. To die in battle? Sorry, where the front is?
