Born Twice (Vintage International) by Giuseppe Pontiggia Page B

strange voice. I manage to swim toward him before a wave crashes over me, I come to the surface and grab his arm. His face is green, his mouth twisted in a senseless smile. I grab him under his arms. “Easy now, Carlo, easy,” I say. He offers no resistance, and thankfully he doesn’t pull me down. I swallow water; the sea opens in an abyss beneath us, it crashes over us; I swallow water again while trying to stay close to the light, close to the froth. Carlo is immobile, paralyzed with fear but close by. I dive down and push him to the surface. When I come up, between sprays of water, I see the coastline again, now even farther away. It’s over, I think. How idiotic. We can’t both be saved and I can’t abandon him; we’ll both end up dying. Five minutes ago I was on the beach. The wave picks us up again. I try to hold on to him by his arm, but he slips away and disappears beneath the surface again. I feel his body between my legs so I wrap them around him, dive down and push him up, and come to the surface. I’m shaking. We’re being pulled still farther out by the undertow, and the waves are getting even stronger. I reach for his torso but lose my breath. I’m rasping. I hug him; his eyes are glassy. The swollen waves glide beneath us, the shore only an intermittent strip of land. So this is how you die.
    Then I see a dark spot on the water; the surface rises up and forms a point. The crest of a wave breaks beyond us. The tip grows larger; it’s a rowboat. A man is shouting at us, he leans forward over the oars, the boat tips dangerously, it’s about to capsize, it slides back down on a surge, now it’s coming closer. I recognize the lifeguard—Come on, Carlo, you can do it—but he doesn’t move; maybe it’s better that way. I gather my strength as the rowboat comes closer; it’s only a few feet away.
    “You dickheads!” the lifeguard shouts. I avoid a breaker as the lifeguard reverses the oars. “Grab him by the legs!” he shouts. I lift Carlo up—he’s as stiff as a cadaver—the lifeguard grabs him under his arms and yanks him out of the water; heaving him on board, he slips back but doesn’t fall. “Damn!” he shouts, and throws me a life preserver. He’s furious. “Now hang on!” he yells, and leans on the oars. The bay is getting closer, the life preserver sinks beneath the waves that crash over my head, I see a mass of bubbles, I breathe, swallow water, and suddenly a shock makes me lose hold of the life preserver. The boat crashes against some rocks, the lifeguard swears, and then manages to free himself, one oar breaks, a wave pushes us, raises us, throws us between the jetties, and we fly through as if on rapids, flung forward. And then, suddenly, we’re in the harbor, where the water is calm and the crash of waves distant. I close my eyes.
    “You idiot!” I hear Franca yell at me when we get closer to the beach. I can touch the sandy bottom with my feet.
    “Carlo!” Veronica comes running into the water, screaming as if he had died. I rest on the life preserver; the others make their way toward us and carry Carlo to the beach. I’m alive, exhausted, blissful, and giddy.
    “A complete lunatic,” I hear the lifeguard say, pointing at me. As I move from the water to the beach, the insults change into admonishments. Franca, Paolo, and Alfredo wait for me on the boardwalk by the cabins. She looks at me sideways, in profile, still trembling. She’s trying to express her rage, participation, commiseration, and exasperation and manages to do so quite well.
    Alfredo, because of his age, feels authorized to maintain a haughty silence. Paolo, bobbing along between the festivities and the accusations, slowly asks, “Papa, are you crazy?”
    “Who, me?” I reply. “Carlo followed me in!” Franca shakes her head as if face-to-face with extremity.
    “What happened to your friend?” the doctor asks me, taking the pipe out of her mouth and tamping at the tobacco with her thumb.
    “He