The Dark Arena

by Mario Puzo

  He grinned and said, “I'm a big boy now,” and lit the cigar, exaggerating his pleasure. They all four of than burst out laughing. It seemed as if the last awkwardness, the strangeness of his coming home so different in face and manner, had been swept away. Their surprise, and then amusement at their surprise when he had taken out the cigar had broken down the barrier between them. They went into the living-room, the two women with their arms around Mosca's waist, Alf carrying the tray with the whisky and ginger ale.

  The women sat close to Mosca on the sofa, and Alf handed them all drinks and then sat down opposite them in one of the soft armchairs. The floor lamp sent a gentle yellow glow over the room and Alf said in the benign and half-joking tone he had used all evening, “The story of Walter Mosca will now be told.”

  Mosca drank. “First, the presents,” he said. He went to his blue gym bag still lying by the door, took out three small boxes wrapped in brown paper, and handed one to each of them. While they were opening the packages he took another drink.

  “Christ,” Alf said, “what the hell are these?” He held up four enormous silver cylinders.

  Mosca laughed. “Four of the best cigars in the world. Specially made for Hermann Goering.”

  Gloria opened her package and then gasped. In a black velvet box was a ring. Small diamonds were set around a square, dark-green emerald. She got up and flung her arms around Mosca and then turned to show the ring to his mother.

  But his mother was fascinated by roll after roll of tightly packed wine-red silk falling to the floor in large folds. His mother held it up.

  It was an enormous, square flag, and in the middle, superimposed on a white, circular background, rested the spider-black swastika. They were all silent. In the quiet of this room they had seen for the first time the symbol of the enemy.

  “Hell,” Mosca said, breaking the silence, “it was just a gag. You were supposed to see this.” He picked up the small box lying on the floor. His mother opened it, and seeing the blue-white diamonds she raised her eyes and thanked him. She folded the huge flag into a tight little square, then rose and picked up Mosca's blue gym bag, saying, “I'll unpack this.”

  “TTiey are lovely presents,” Gloria said; “where did you get them?”

  Mosca grinned and said, “Loot,” emphasizing the word comically so that they would laugh.

  His mother came back into the room with a large bundle of photos in her hand.

  “These were in your bag, Walter. Why didn't you show them to us?” She sat on the sofa and started looking at the photos one by one. She passed them on io Gloria and Alf. Mosca helped himself to a drink as they exclaimed over the different pictures and asked questions about where they had been snapped. Then he saw his mother turn pale, staring hard at one of the photos. For a moment Mosca had a feeling of panic, wondering if the really obscene pictures he had picked up were still there. But he was sure he had sold them all on the boat. He saw his mother pass the photos on to Alf, and he was angry with himself that he had felt any kind of fear.

  “Well, well,” Alf said, “what's this?” Gloria went over and looked at the picture. He saw the three pairs of eyes turned to him, waiting.

  Mosca leaned toward Alf and when he saw what it was, he felt a surge of relief. He remembered now. He had been riding on the back of a tank when it happened.

  In the photo was the huddled figure of a German bazooka man lying crumpled in the snow, a dark line running black from his body to the end of the print Over the body stood himself, Mosca, staring straight into the camera, his M—I slung over his shoulder. He, Mosca, looked curiously misshapen in his winter combat clothing. The blanket, in which he had cut holes for his head and arms, hung like a skirt beneath his combat jacket. He seemed to stand there like a successful hunter, ready to carry home the fallen game.

  And not in the picture were the burning tanks on the covered plain. Not in the picture were the charred bodies sprinkled across the whitened field like rubbish. The German had been a good bazooka man.

  “My buddy took that picture with a Leica the kraut had.” Mosca turned to his drink and turning back saw them still waiting.

  “My first victim.’ he said, trying to make it sound like a joke. And yet it was as if he had said the Eiffel Tower or the Pyramids, explaining a background against which he had been standing.

  His mother was studying the other photos. ‘Where was this taken?” she asked. Mosca sat down beside her and said, ‘That was in Paris on my first leave.” He put his arm around his mother's waist.

  “And this?” his mother asked.

  “That was in Vitry.”

  “And this?”

  “That was in Aachen.”

  And this? And this? And this? He named the towns and told funny little stories. The drinks had put him into a good mood, but he thought, This was in Nancy where I waited two hours on line to get laid, this was in Dombasle where I found the dead naked German with his balls swollen big as melons. The placard on the door had said, Dead German Inside. And it hadn't lied. He wondered even now why someone had troubled to write it, even as a joke. And this was in Hamm, where he got his first piece in three months and his first dose. And this and this and this were the countless towns where the Germans, men, women, and children rested in their shapeless, rubbled tombs and gave out an overpowering stench.

  And m all these the background against which he stood was like a man being photographed on a desert. He, the conqueror, stood on the flattened, pulverized remains of factories, homes, human bones—the ruins stretching away like rolling sand dunes.

  Mosca sat back on the sofa. He puffed on his cigar. “How about some coffee?” he asked. “I'll make it.” He went into the kitchen, Gloria following him, and together they set out the cups, cut the whipped-cream cake she took from the Frigidaire. And while the coffee boiled on the stove, she clung to him and said, “Darling, I love you, I love you.”

  They brought the coffee into the living-room, and it was their turn to tell Mosca stories. How Gloria had never gone out on a date in three years, how Alf had lost his leg in a truck crash in a southern Army camp, and how his mother had gone to work again, clerking in a large department store. They had all had their adventures, but thank God the war was over, the Moscas had come through safely, a leg lost, but as Alf said, with modern transportation what did legs mean, and now here they all were, safe in this little room.

  The enemy so far away, so utterly crushed, could no longer give them fear. The enemy was surrounded, occupied, starving, and melting away with disease, with no physical and moral strength ever to threaten than again. And when Mosca fell asleep in his chair, they, who all loved him, watched for a few minutes with a quiet, and almost tearful pleasure, almost not believing that he had traveled so far in time and place, and by some miracle bad returned, found his way back to safety unharmed.

  It was the third night before Mosca could get Gloria alone. The second night had been spent at her house where his mother and Alf had settled details for the wedding with Gloria's sister and father, not really out of meddlesomeness but because of their joy and enthusiasm that everything had come out right They had all decided that the wedding would be as soon as possible but that it must wait until Walter had a steady job. Mosca had gone along more than willingly with the idea. And Alf had surprised Mosca. The timid Alf had grown into a confident, assured, sensible man and played the family head to perfection.

  On that third night his mother and Alf had gone out and Alf had grinned and said, “Watch the clock, we'll be home at eleven.” His mother had pushed Alf out of the door and said, “If you go out with Gloria don't forget to lock the door.”

  Mosca had been amused at the note of doubt in her voice, as if the thought of leaving him and Gloria alone in the house was against her better judgment. Good Christ, he thought, and he stretched out on the sofa.

  He tried to relax but was too tense and had to get up and pour himself a drink. He stood at the window and smiled, wondering how it would be. He an
d Gloria had spent evenings together in a small hotel room the few weeks before he had gone overseas, but he could hardly remember now. He went to the radio and turned it on and then went into the kitchen to look at the clock. It was nearly eight-thirty. The bitch’ was a half hour late. He went to the window again but it was too dark now to see anything. As he turned away there was a knock on the door, and Gloria came into the apartment

  “Hello, Walter,” she said, and Mosca noticed that her voice trembled slightly. She took off her coat. She had on a blouse with just a few large buttons, and with this a wide pleated skirt.

  “Alone at last,” he said with a grin and stretched back on the sofa. “Fix a couple of drinks.” Gloria sat on the sofa and leaned over to kiss him. He put his hands on her breast, and they kissed for a long time. “Drinks coming up,” she said, and pulled away from him.

  They drank. The radio was playing soffly and a floor lamp cast its soft yellow glow over the room. He lit two cigarettes and gave her one. They smoked and when he stubbed out his cigarette he saw that she still held on to hers. He took it away from her and carefully crushed it in the ash tray.

  Mosca pulled Gloria down so that she lay across his body. He unbuttoned her blouse so that he could slip his hand inside her brassiere and then kissed her. He moved his hand down under her skirt.

  Gloria sat up and pushed away from him. Mosca was surprised and instantly alert.

  “I don't want to go all the way,” Gloria said. The girlish phrase irritated him and he reached for her impatiently. She stood up and away from him.

  “No, I really mean it,” she said.

  “What the hell,” Mosca said, “the two weeks before I went overseas were fine. What's wrong now?”

  “I know.” Gloria smiled at him tenderly, and he felt a quick anger. “But then it was different. You were going away and I loved you. If I did it now if would only make you think less of me. Don't be mad, Walter, but Fve talked with Emmy about it. You were so different when you came back that I had to talk to somebody. And we both thought it would be best.”

  Mosca lit a cigarette. “Your sister's stupid.”

  “Please don't say things like that, Walter. I won't do what you want because I really love you.”

  Mosca choked on his drink and tried hard not to laugh. “Look,” he said, “if we hadn't slept together that last two weeks I wouldn't have remembered you or written. You wouldn't have meant anything to me.”

  He saw her face get red. She went over to the armchair facing him and sat down.

  “I loved you before that,” she said. He saw that her mouth was quivering, and he tossed her the pack of cigar rettes, then sipped his drink and tried to reason everything out.

  His desire was gone, and he actually felt a sense of relief. Why, he didn't know. There was no doubt in his mind that he could talk or threaten Gloria into doing what he wished. He knew that if he said, “This is the way it has to be or else,” she would yield. He knew that he had been too abrupt and that with some patience and a little finesse the evening would end pleasantly. But he found with surprise that the effort was too much trouble for him to take. He was completely without desire.

  “It's okay. Come over here.”

  She came obediently. “You're not angry?” she asked in a low voice.

  He kissed her and smiled. “No, it doesn't matter.’ he said, and it was true.

  Gloria put her head on his shoulder. “Let's just stay here like this tonight and talk. We've never really had a chance to talk together since you've come back.”

  Mosca pulled away and went to get her coat “We're going to the movies,” he said

  “I want to stay here.”

  Mosca said with a deliberate, brutal carelessness, “It's either go to the movies or get laid.”

  She stood up and looked at Mm steadily. “And you don't care which.”

  “That's right”

  He expected her to put on her coat and walk out of the apartment But she waited submissively until he had combed his hair and knotted his tie. They went to the movies.

  It was nearly noon, a month later, that Mosca, coming into the apartment, found Alf, his mother, and Gloria's sister, Emmy, drinking coffee in the kitchen.

  “Do you want some coffee?” his mother asked.

  “Yeah, just let me wash up a bit” Mosca went into the bathroom and smiled grimly as he wiped his face dry before going back to the kitchen.

  They all sipped coffee, and then Emmy opened the attack.

  “You're not treating Gloria right She waited three years for you, she never had a date, and she missed a lot of chances.”

  “A lot of chances for what?” Mosca asked. Then he laughed. “We're getting along okay. It takes time.”

  Emmy said, “You had a date with her last night, you didn't show up. You get home now. It isn't right what you're doing.”

  His mother saw that Mosca was getting angry and said placatingly, “Gloria waited here until two in the morning; you should have called up.”

  “And we all know what you're doing,” Emmy said “You leave a girl who waited for you three years to go out with the neighborhood chippie, a girl who's had three abortions and God knows what else.”

  Mosca shrugged. “I can't see your sister every night.”

  “No, you're too important for that.” He saw with surprise that she really hated hint

  “It was everybody's idea that we wait until I get a steady job,” Mosca reminded her.

  “I didn't know what a bastard you'd turn out to be. If you don't want to get married, tell Gloria. Don't worry, die can find somebody else.”

  Alf spoke up. “That's silly. Of course Walter wants to marry her. Let's be sensible about this. He's finding things a bit strange; hell get over it. Hie thing for us to do is help him.”

  Emmy said sarcastically, “If Gloria slept with him everything would be fine. You'd be readjusted, wouldn't you, Walter?”

  “This is getting stupid,” Alf said. “Let's get down to fundamentals. You're angry because Walter is having an affair and isn't bothering to hide it, which is the least he could do. All right. Gloria is too crazy about Walter to give him the air. I think the best thing to do is to set a marriage date.”

  “And my sister keeps working while he runs around with all the little whores like he did in Germany?”

  Mosca looked at his mother coldly, and she dropped her eyes away from his. There was a silence. “Yes,” Emmy said quietly, “your mother told Gloria about the letters you get from that girl in Germany. You should be ashamed, Walter, honestly you should.”

  “Those letters don't mean a thing,” Mosca said. And he could see the look of relieved belief on their faces.

  “Hell get a job,” his mother said, “and they can live here until they find an apartment”

  Mosca sipped his coffee. He had been angry for a moment but now he was impatient to be out of this room, away from them. All this crap had gone far enough.

  “But hell have to quit-running around with these little chippies,” Emmy said.

  Mosca broke in gently. “There's only one goddamn thing wrong. I'm not ready to set a date.”

  They all looked at him with surprise. “I'm not sure I want to get married,” he added with a grin.

  “What,” Emmy was screaming incoherently, “what?” She was so angry she couldn't speak any farther.

  “And don't give me the three-year crap. What the hell difference does it make to me that she didn't get screwed for three years? Do you think that kept me awake nights worrying? What the hell, did it grow gold because she didn't use it? I had other things to worry about”

  “Mease, Walter,” his mother said.

  “Ah, shit,” Mosca said. His mother left the table and went to the stove, and he knew she was crying.

  They were all suddenly standing and Alf, supporting himself against the table, shouted with anger, “All right, Walter, this readjustment crap can be overdone.”

  “And I think you've been babied too
damn much since you've been home,” Emmy said with contempt.

  There was nothing to say to all this except to tell than exactly how he felt “You can kiss my ass,” he said, and although he spoke to Emmy, his glance included them all.

  He rose to leave, but Alf, holding cm to the table, moved in front of him and shouted with rage. “Goddamn you, that's going too far. Apologize, do you hear, apologize.”

  Mosca pushed him out of the way and saw too late that Alf's false leg was not there. Alf toppled over and his head struck against the floor. Both women screamed. Mosca bent over quickly to lift Alt “Are you okay?” he asked. Alf nodded but kept his face covered with his hands and remained sitting on the floor. Mosca left the apartment He always remembered his mother standing by the stove, crying, wringing her hands.

  The last time he entered the apartment Mosca found his mother waiting for him—she had not gone out at all that day.

  “Gloria called you up,” she said.

  Mosca nodded in acknowledgment

  “Are you going to pack now?” his mother asked timidly.

  “Yeah,” Mosca said.

  “Do you want me to help?”

  “No,” he said.

  He went into his bedroom and took out the two new suitcases he had bought. He stuck a cigarette in his mouth and looked through Ms pockets for a match and then went into the kitchen for one.

  His mother was still sitting in the chair. She had a handkerchief covering her face and was weeping silently.

  He took the matches and started to lea the kitchen.

  “Why do you treat me like this?” his mother said, “What have I done?”

  He had no pity and the tears stirred no emotion, but he didn't want hysterics. He tried to talk quietly, to keep the irritation out of his voice.

  “You haven't done anything, Fm just leaving; it's nothing to do with you.”

  “Why do you always talk to me like that as if I were a stranger?”

  The words touched him, but he could make no gesture of affection. Tm just nervous,” he said. “H you're not going out, help me pack.”