Chapter 4
-One year later-
It was the time of the day when most people were at home, all windows sealed shut, waiting for the night to bring a little bit of long-awaited fresh air. The only souls to be found in the streets were those of children or dogs, playing outside, still young enough to withstand the suffocating heat, and the occasional lost tourist, who had strayed from the usual scenic route in order to catch a glimpse of a more « authentic » local life, only to find that the way poor people lived here was just just as depressing as anywhere else. There was, however another kind of people that could be seen walking in the streets at that time of the day, in summer, those with no children to watch, no hobby to keep them at home, and no job to distract them from their unquenchable thirst. They met, or rather, were found together, in a local bar, usually for most of the afternoon, and did not talk to each other. This place was their second home, the place where they found some kind of comfort, before they were replaced, in the evening, by younger, more festive drinkers, locals, or tourist from the neighboring, cheaper hotels. When they arrived, they looked at their first drink as if it were their savior, but every time, when they left, they had the same, profoundly distressed look of someone who has just been betrayed .
Artyom sat in a corner, alone, sipping his whiskey faster than he would have wanted, wondering what were the stories of the men who had turned out to be his drinking companions. What kind of story had led them to such an abrupt and bitter ending, what turn of events had shattered their hopes in an instant, destroyed those they love, what gut-wrenching remorse did they felt for the things they did, or the things they did not do, for those they failed what kind of random cruelty life had unleashed upon these miserable wretches ? He did not ask, because he knew very well that no one would recall such stories, and that hearing them would only make him feel even worse. He knew because, like them, he had come here to look for the same thing : solitude and oblivion. No one's company could replace that of those he had lost. And so he had ended up in the poor suburb of a small town in Italy, drinking what little money he had left, not knowing the least what he would do when he ran out of money. He still had the handgun that he received when he was accepted in MSF.
But no matter how hard he tried to forget it, the same event kept resurfacing, sometimes in his dreams, sometimes appearing vividly before is eyes while he was awake always there, somewhere in his mind, lurking. The sound of the helicopter blades. The pilot counting down. The pain in his leg. The fear of not seeing her again. The sudden realization that it was the end. The fury of a man who has lost so much and knows so little about those who have taken it from him. The never-ending sorrow that only grows stronger as time passes and alcohol makes the past brighter and the present bleaker. The worst part of it is that he had already started to forget the faces of his fallen comrades. It felt to him that he was somehow betraying them. And she was no exception. Even her traits were growing more and more blurred. Only her name would soon remain, a name onto which Artyom was now grasping like a castaway would his raft in the middle of a raging storm : Joan Taggart.
This storm had led him here. At some point, he had taken the decision to go to Italy for a while, not that he knew anyone there, or that he had anything special to do. It was just the first thing that came to his mind. He had always wanted to visit this country, but now he realized that he did not care anymore. Once there, he just found a cheap flat to sleep in a quiet neighborhood and since then he barely ever strayed away from the street that went from it to the bar he had quickly made his secondary residence. What was he thinking ? Being in his current situation, tourism would not save him. But then why bother ? He was way beyond saving. He actually had been saved, and that was the very reason he was now so bitterly regretting. Why her, and not him ? Why had fate decided that the wounded, inexperienced soldier that he was survived, when the hero to who he owed everything, whom he admired like no one else, his mentor, died to allow him to escape ?
When he saw the boss' helicopter going up in flames, it barely changed anything. It was inevitable, and they had already lost everything anyway. But then the attackers got away. It was impossible that they had not detected them. It meant two things : their target was Big Boss and the hundreds of people they killed that night were merely collateral damage, and they were so sure that none of the survivors would ever find out who they were that they did not even bother to kill the few dozen escaping Mother Base soldiers. And so they escaped, with what little equipment they had left. The choppers were sold to South American freedom fighters, and then most of the soldiers went back to their home country, in which they would always, from now, feel like strangers. Artyom could not come back to Russia. He did not want to. He did not really care.
Suddenly, a man, tall, blond-haired, came into the bar, making quite some noise, which caused all the occupants of the half-deserted establishment to take a simultaneous look at their watch, surprised to see how early the first wave of young tourists was today, in a way that would be comical, if it wasn't so tragic. But the man was alone, and he was not dressed like a tourist. He did not seem to be a local alcoholic either for he was wearing a suit, and was smiling. He swung by the bar, and asked for a Martini. Everybody, except Artyom, who was blankly staring at the bottom of his empty glass, was looking at him. He did not seem to have noticed him, and yet when, his glass in his hand, he walked straight to the Russian and sat next to him, he was not surprised.