Free The Human Body by Paolo Giordano Page B

Abib’s saliva that he now feels worse than the others. Who knows what disgusting infection he’s passed on to him. He lives in the tent with the other two interpreters, on those carpets that stink of feet. An incredible odor, like sticking your nose in a sweaty sock. At first Di Salvo didn’t want to sit down, but now he’s gotten used to it. He just tries not to put his head down, even when he feels light-headed.
    Now he’s disoriented and miserable. He has cold sweats. Shortness of breath. He won’t go to Abib anymore. For the whole rest of the mission he won’t touch a pipe ever again. He mentally utters a vow to God:
If you let me make it to the toilet, if you save me from this stuff, I swear I won’t go to Abib’s to smoke anymore
. He’s about to go further, to promise that he won’t smoke even once he’s back home, but then he remembers the pleasure of sitting on the terrace in Ricadi, with his feet on the railing, slowly inhaling a joint as he contemplates the oily sea, and he thinks twice about it. Six months without drugs may be enough of a commitment.
    Another violent cramp makes him cough and lean forward. For a moment Di Salvo loses control of his sphincter; he feels it dilate suddenly. He’s soiled himself, he’s almost certain of it. He taps Cederna on the shoulder. “I’ll give you ten euros if you let me go ahead.”
    The senior corporal major turns his head slightly. “Fifty.”
    â€œYou’re a bastard, Cederna! So it’s true you’re not as bad off.”
    â€œFifty euros.”
    â€œUp yours. I’ll give you twenty.”
    â€œForty and that’s as far as I’ll go.”
    â€œThirty. You’re a bastard.”
    â€œI said I won’t take less than forty.”
    Di Salvo feels the animal in his bowels rebelling. He has rhythmic, involuntary contractions in his anus. There’s something alive in there, with its own beating heart. “Okay, I’ll give you forty—forty,” he says. “Now get the fuck out of the way.”
    Cederna gestures with his arm as if to say, By all means, go ahead. He snickers. He’s probably not sick at all; he’s just there to annoy the others. The first guy in line has gone in, so now there are only two more ahead of Di Salvo. It won’t take much longer. He stares at his wristwatch as three minutes go by, excruciatingly slow, second by second; then the door of a toilet opens for him, like an invitation to paradise.
    There are steps on both sides to enter the walkway with the latrines. Di Salvo rushes forward, but before he can get into the toilet an officer from the engineer corps comes up on the other side and beats him to it.
    â€œGet out of there!” Di Salvo yells.
    The second lieutenant points to the stripes on his jacket, but Di Salvo has forgotten all about rank. He waited all that time on line and gave forty euros to that scumbag Cederna and no one is going to swipe his place now, not even General Petraeus himself.
    â€œGet out of there!” he repeats. “We’re all sick here.”
    The second lieutenant doesn’t appear threatening; rather he has an imploring look, as if he too has just shit his pants a little. He’s a guy with a square head, not very tall but more solidly built than Di Salvo. The name on his insignia says Puglisi. Di Salvo instinctively notices those details. He takes in the parameters that a fighter must consider before confronting an opponent: height, circumference of the biceps, bulk. His brain informs the muscles that he should fight.
    â€œPlease,” the engineer begs, pulling the door toward him so he can close it. Di Salvo sticks his foot against the jamb and forces the door open.
    â€œNot on your life. It’s my turn.” He drags the second lieutenant out by his jacket collar.
    â€œHands off me, soldier!”
    â€œOr what?”
    â€œDon’t tick me off. I’m