I Am God by Giorgio Faletti Read Free Book Online Page A

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.
    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 of you … ’
    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 anotherone, 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