Limbo (2 page)

But she isn't fine at all. She still walks uncertainly, leaning on her metal crutches, hopping on her good foot, as if she's scared to put weight on the other one. Seeing her hobble like that shocks and silences them all, and all their celebrations, all their questions and congratulations stick in their throats. None of them had realized that her injuries were so serious, or that her rehab wasn't over. If the young reporter hadn't mentioned it in the story that will air tomorrow at lunchtime, no one would even know that Manuela has undergone four operations on her foot and knee, three on the vertebrae in her neck, and two on her skull. It's more comforting to think that her convalescence is over and that she is coming to spend the Christmas holidays with her family, like everyone else.

Manuela starts dragging herself up the stairs. There's never been an elevator in their building and there never will be, because the stairwell is too narrow. Her crutches tic-tic mournfully on the stairs, and her mother can't keep from crying. She weeps silently, sniffling and wiping her eyes on her coat sleeve. Cinzia had never resigned herself to the idea that her daughter could get herself killed one day, and for such lousy pay, when she could have become a lawyer or a notary or an astrophysicist. Yet she was the one who, ever since Manuela was little, always told her that independence is everything, that a woman needs to think about herself, choose the profession she wants, and never depend on a man. So if Manuela grew up with those ideas in her head, her mother is partly to blame.

Manuela stops on the second floor because the stabbing pains in her ruined leg are piercing her head and she needs to rest. Vanessa wants to help and offers her arm. Manuela pushes her away, brandishing her crutch like a rifle. “I can do it myself,” she grumbles stubbornly, “I can do it.” Vanessa thinks that, despite everything, maybe her sister really is better.

*   *   *

At dinner Manuela is seated at the head of the table. They have given her the seat of honor, facing the balcony windows. In the evening darkness, the sea is a sheet of lead that the waves splinter into a thousand slivers of light. The neon sign for the Bellavista Hotel is on, but the shutters are lowered in all the rooms, and the place seems closed. The restaurant is dark. After all, why would anyone come spend Christmas Eve at the Bellavista? Manuela has never seen anyone there in winter. Off season, there are only weekend guests. Clandestine couples usually, married professionals and their young female friends. Manuela tries all the appetizers—the wild salmon, the mushrooms in olive oil, the baby artichokes, the Russian salad, the anchovy and caper rolls, the duck liver pâté, the eel—because the unusual abundance tells her that her mother has spent the entire day in the kitchen, and Manuela is the only person in the world she'd do that for. It's all delicious, but it leaves a bitter taste in her mouth: of salt and waste. She only picks at the linguine with clams, the grouper with capers, the artichokes; she resigns herself to the ritual slice of
panettone
. While Vanessa gets up and, hips swaying thanks to her stiltlike heels, heads toward the kitchen, followed by the bovine stares of the three Colella men, Manuela notices with surprise that a light has come on in the window across the way, on the third floor, behind half-lowered shutters. Someone's there. In the Bellavista Hotel, on Christmas Eve.

Her uncle, cousins, and mother are all shouting, or at least that's what it feels like to her, because she's no longer used to this much noise. In the hospital, footsteps are soft, voices low, sounds muted. You can almost hear silence screak, time breathe. For months all she did was stare at the rectangle of her window, which framed a magnolia tree, and listen to the rustle of leaves and the chirping of birds hidden in its branches. That bright green tree and those chirpy, chattering birds were so unreal, so ridiculous, that at times she would ask herself if she were really alive. The leaves were green in the fall and green in the winter: it was as if time had stopped.

“You should come see me at the store,” her cousin Claudio is saying. “I'll let you pick out a dog. It'll keep you company till you're back to regular duty. Toy Russians are really in now—they're tiny, affectionate, totally fearless. I've got one that's perfect, a real purebred, barely six pounds, you can put it in your purse. And I won't let you pay either, it's a gift.” Manuela bites into a piece of white nougat, hard as a rock, and stares at him in bewilderment. She wasn't listening. She's wishing she were somewhere else. She had known she wouldn't feel like seeing anyone, and had begged her mother to keep her homecoming a secret, but her mother didn't hold to their agreement, and now she's trapped at this noisy family dinner, as exhausting as a march with a full pack. She doesn't feel like making small talk; listening to other people's conversations interests her even less. People talk merely to air their tongues, and she doesn't want to waste time with that nonsense anymore. It's as if she'd done a kind of detox therapy, ridding herself of everything superfluous. As the months passed, the things that really mattered turned out to be fewer and fewer. In the end all that was left were health, freedom, and life.

“Leave her alone,” Vanessa whispers in her cousin's ear, “she's tired.” Vanessa has kept an eye on Manuela all evening, and her listless expression puts her on edge—and that's made her eat too much, stuffing herself to ease her anxiety, and now her stomach burns, as if she's swallowed a sea urchin, spines and all. She has missed her sister, tremendously. She doesn't know how to tell her, though, and she also doesn't know if the closeness that once existed between them can ever be rekindled, or if it's gone forever, or if it even still means anything to Manuela. The girl with the shaved hair at the head of the table, huddled in a chair too big for her, looks first at them and then around the room, as if she were lost, as if she were a complete stranger who ended up here by chance on Christmas Eve.

Vanessa uses her nails to rip off the silver wrapping on a bottle of Asti Spumante, shakes it, and pops the cork. The louder the bang, the better the luck it brings. It simply doesn't occur to her. Manuela starts to her feet and goes white as a sheet. Blinded by a flash of light, deafened by a piercing roar, her heart starts pounding like crazy, her forehead is covered in sweat, her legs tremble and give way. She staggers forward, flailing her arms to keep from falling, and a crystal vase goes flying. It crashes to the floor and shatters, flinging water, leaves, and flowers all over her jeans and shirt. A nice vase, one she'd never seen before, the only thing new in a room otherwise exactly the same as when she'd left it, all those years ago. Exactly the same, but aged somehow. She manages to sit down.

“Idiot,” her mother hisses in Vanessa's ear. “The doctor told you, no explosions, no sudden noises, Manuela's brain is sensitive.” This is what Cinzia says, but in truth she really doesn't know what's wrong with her daughter. She only knows that in practical terms they have to avoid reminding her about what happened. Every time Cinzia went to the hospital to see her, Manuela told her it was too soon, she didn't want to talk about it. But more than six months have gone by since she was repatriated, and not only does Manuela not want to talk about it, but she still loses it when someone pops a bottle of spumante.

“Hey, honey, everything's okay,” Vanessa whispers, her hand on her shoulder. “Hey? Are you there? It was just a fucking cork, I'm sorry.” She gathers up the shards of crystal from the floor and deposits them carelessly on the soaking wet tablecloth. It's too bad about the vase. It was really pretty and probably cost a lot. Could it be a sign? Youssef had given it to her mother last Christmas. Last Christmas, Manuela was in Afghanistan, and Vanessa's boyfriend had come to wish Cinzia a merry Christmas. Not knowing what to give a woman he had never even seen and whose hostility he sensed, he had bought that Swarovski vase because sparkling crystal makes a good impression. Vanessa is sorry Manuela won't get to meet Youssef. Manuela's a better judge of character than she is, she's good at sizing people up, sees deep inside them, as if X-raying their hearts, and Vanessa wants to know what she'd make of him. If he seems right for her, if their relationship will last, because last Christmas she was convinced it would—if not, she never would have introduced him to her mother—but by New Year's they were already fighting over every little thing, and now she's not so sure that Youssef is the love of her life. If one even exists, and if there's only one. But Youssef won't be back from Morocco until February, and Manuela will already be gone by then.

“Maybe we'd better get going,” Uncle Vincenzo murmurs, glancing sympathetically at his sister. Cinzia mumbles something about the fact that Manuela hasn't fully recovered yet, it takes time, the trauma was severe, these things leave deep scars, it's not just the broken bones … but she doesn't insist they stay. The Christmas spirit has evaporated. Embarrassed, the cousins and their wives get up, say goodbye to Grandma Leda, but avoid looking at Manuela or drawing attention to themselves, as if they were ashamed of their cumbersome bodies, of their shoes squeaking on the waxed floor. Except for the television, forgotten but still on in the background, a forbidding silence has fallen over the living room, as if someone had died. The flat ring of a phone makes everyone jump. It's music from
Psycho
, the shower scene, and it gets louder with every ring. Very disturbing. Vanessa fishes her cell out from under the cushions on the couch, glances at the display, and decides not to answer. “Is it Youssef?” Alessia teases. “No, sweetie,” Vanessa says, surprised. “It's not Youssef.”

“Thanks for everything, terrific dinner, I always said you should open a restaurant, Merry Christmas,” Aunt Pia whispers to her sister-in-law, while Pietro's wife gets her purse, their daughter, Carlotta, puts on her coat, and little Jonathan stares at the strange girl, white as a ghost, who is panting, mouth and eyes open wide. A rose hangs by a thorn from the sleeve of her blouse, which is soaking wet and completely transparent. Cousin Manuela isn't wearing a bra. She doesn't need one, she's flat as a board, but her nipples are like small buds. His father has to drag him away. One after the other the Colellas leave, apologetically repeating “Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas,” without turning around, as if they weren't supposed to see or know, as if they had spied on some forbidden truth.

“Feel better now, hon?” Vanessa whispers, and Manuela nods. The explosion no longer rings in her ears. Even the nauseating smell of burnt flesh is fading. Her heartbeat is slowing, the tingling in her legs is fading. She gives her sister a painful smile, which, instead of reassuring her, pierces her heart. What the fuck did they do to you?! she would like to scream. She plucks the rose from her sister's sleeve, but she can't muster a single word. When her sister enlisted, Vanessa was pregnant. She gave birth the day Manuela was sworn in. Her mother had to choose. She couldn't be in the barracks and the hospital at the same time. Obviously she chose the hospital. Manuela took it hard. Two hundred and fifty female soldiers of the third echelon were sworn in on the parade grounds of the Ascoli Piceno barracks. The army chief of staff was there, along with generals, dignitaries, and family members, eyes wet with tears. Manuela was the only one without any relatives; she had given her classmates the tickets reserved for her family. Not even her grandfather came, because no one could take him. Parkinson's had already destroyed Vittorio Paris, he was all skin and bones, as frail as a dried spider; he weighed all of ninety pounds, and could no longer drive or even take a bus. But it wasn't Vanessa's fault that Alessia was born by cesarian, scheduled well in advance; the doctors don't postpone a C-section just because your sister is swearing allegiance to the flag. To Vanessa, not being there for Manuela that day had seemed like an unforgivable betrayal. She really should have been there. She'd been the first to learn that her sister had enlisted, and, unlike Manuela's mother, or friends, or other relatives, to Vanessa it seemed like the right decision—even if at the time there weren't many female soldiers and everyone said it was unnatural, because a woman's biological destiny is to give life instead of death. But Manuela would reply that human beings have freed themselves from the fierce, obtuse tyranny of nature. People aren't zebras or kangaroos, dominated by instinct, or train cars limited to specific tracks. “We don't have just one path before us—we're free.” Vanessa had helped her fill out her application, and had gone with her to the recruiting office. When Manuela disappeared into the barracks, Vanessa bawled like a fool.

Months later, Vanessa had watched the video of the swearing-in ceremony, which Angelica Scianna's parents had taken. All the women looked perfect in their uniforms, with their lip gloss and clear nail polish, the only makeup that regulations allowed. But Manuela, wearing neither lip gloss nor nail polish, her black ponytail tucked under her cap, her expression serious, made the most believable soldier. In the video the women shouted in unison: I SWEAR! and then intoned “Fratelli d'Italia” at the top of their lungs. It gave Vanessa goose bumps to hear the national anthem sung by all those female voices.

*   *   *

At a quarter past midnight, Alessia is asleep on the foldaway bed set up in her mother's room, Cinzia is loading the dishwasher, and Vanessa, cell phone pressed to her ear, is leaning out the bathroom window, because the Bellavista blocks the signal in the Parises' apartment. She's whispering. Manuela is still awake and Vanessa doesn't want to be overheard talking to some guy she met for ten minutes and who's already calling her on Christmas Eve. Manuela is pretty strict. She says a soldier is like a priest: you can't just be religious in church. And so she behaves as if she were in uniform even when she's not. Manuela's romantic life—at least as far as Vanessa knows—is almost humiliatingly monogamous. She only ever brought home one guy, Giovanni Bocca, and even though Vanessa found him uninteresting and untrustworthy, she'd resigned herself to the fact that Manuela was going to marry him. Manuela had already asked her to be her maid of honor. They had talked with the parish priest at Our Lady of the Rosary Church, and had even asked if they could be exempted from premarital counseling. But then, last year, before she left for Afghanistan, she broke up with him. Without telling anyone why.