“An SAS patrol found us. You are with the field hospital, and the surgeon says you are going to be all right. You are to rest. I can give you water.”
“I feel all doped up.”
“They’ve given you pain medicine. Do you need to use the bathroom?”
He shook his head, closing his eyes for several moments. Katrinka sat upright, scarcely breathing.
His eyes opened again, and he glanced at her lap. “What do you have there?”
“Oh, my knapsack. Some fruit we were going to eat, a handkerchief and a comb. My book.”
“Can you read to me?” His voice was almost unrecognizable.
Forcing her shoulders to relax, she settled back, opening the book at random. The words barely disturbed the stillness of the room. It was so quiet, she thought he must have fallen asleep. She was beginning the next chapter when he interrupted, his voice agitated.
“So, where’re you trying to get back to?” he asked.
“What?”
“Like in the story. Where’s your home?”
“Well, it’s… I guess Le Flâneur is my home.”
“Your home’s a ship. Got it.”
“They said I wasn’t like the rest, you know; I was born on a different tide.”
“Why’s that?”
“I was born on land. My mother’s people always give birth at sea. But it was the time of monsoon and they were ashore. My mother gave birth to me on her island, Phyu Thiri Kyun, ‘Island of the Pale Moon.’”
“Sounds beautiful Trink; tell me about it.”
He wanted to hear her talk. Like a child who is afraid of the dark, asking for one last fairy story before the lights are turned out, and the monsters appear. She would tell him hers.
Katrinka put the book down and pulled her stool close. She curved an arm around his head and stroked his cheek, speaking in a low voice.
“My mother’s people are the Chao Le—Burmese sea gypsies. My grandmother, Mya, fell in love with a Christian missionary. She conceived, and when my mother was born Mya and her lover were outcast. They set sail in a small kabang, attempting to reach the mainland. But a bad storm rose up, and the sea was rough. They struck coral, and the boat sank.
“Mya bound my mother to a plank, which managed to float back to shore. Her people considered it an omen from the sea gods, showing that all was forgiven, and so my mother was raised by Mya’s family.”
Farr was quiet for a long time before speaking. “Your dad, Amparo. He won’t always be on Le Flâneur. What’ll you do then?”
Katrinka reflected. “If I have to settle somewhere, it might be Coronado. We lived there when I was a small child. A-mah was back with Papa then.”
“Yeah, you talked about that before. Coronado. Sounds nice; sounds peaceful…”
She looked down at his face, usually so hard and grim, now softened by morphine. His eyes were half closed, he was falling asleep. The fairy story was over. The lights were out. And she was there, her protective arms curved around him, keeping the monsters at bay. Resting her head next to his, they both slept.
* * *
A few hours later she woke, as Farr stirred restlessly in the bed. Her arm was stiff, and she stood, massaging it to get the blood flowing again.
He called out, “Katrinka, where are you?”
“I’m here, Wolfe. Right here.” She sat down again.
“I need to get up, I need—”
She reached under the cot for the bedpan.
“I’m not using that.”
“You most certainly are going to use that.”
After a bit of maneuvering, they actually managed it. Exhausted, Farr slumped back into the pillow, his face covered in sweat. He lay still for a long time.
“Would you like me to read to you some more?”
He shook his head, wincing in pain.
“I’m going to call the nurse. Perhaps you need another injection.”
She expected an argument, but he was silent. Katrinka crept down the hallway to the small desk at the far end. A night nurse looked up, and Katrinka explained.
“Yes, the doctor said another dose might be needed. Is he restless?”
Katrinka nodded. “He seems to be in pain.”
“I’ll be there in a minute.”
Katrinka returned to Farr’s side, and a few moments later the nurse appeared with a small syringe on a tray.
“This should help him sleep,” said the nurse. She swabbed his arm and injected the morphine. She plumped his pillow, and after straightening the bed clothes, departed with the bedpan.
“Talk to me, Trink.”
“Would you like me to sing to you? I used to sing to my avo, my grandmother in Porto, when she was ill in bed. When I was a small girl, she taught A-mah and me fado.” She curved her arms around him, humming softly.
“That’s nice.”
“I remember A-mah singing to Papa when he was ill or tired. My mother would hold him in her arms, like now with you.” She smiled down at him, speaking softly and soothingly. If only he could sleep. “A fado of by-gone times, sung in the cafés along the river, in Old Porto. She used to sing there, you know, to the fishermen and old men.”
“What’s fado?” he asked sleepily.
“The Portuguese have a word, ‘saudade’. I don’t know the English word.” She shifted her arms a bit. “It is a nostalgia or longing for home; it can be about a lost love. It is passionate and bittersweet. Fado is what the women would sing late at night, in the taverns, their men having gone away to sea. Wondering if they would ever return. It is about sadness and loss.”
He sighed in her arms, before drifting off in uneasy sleep. “Why can’t it just once, have a happy ending?” he whispered.
* * *
Farr was moved to another hospital and was to be gone several days. Valentine, who’d been slated for orders to England, stayed on, taking over Farr’s job as well as his own. Katrinka worked hard to make the load easier for him.
The team had moved again, closer to Trois Cloches. They’d been given access to an unused schoolhouse that not only had electricity, but also a small kitchen, bathroom, and running water. With the Allies engaged in fierce battles in the northeastern part of France and in Belgium, the Jeds in the Deux-Sèvres area were left to themselves, in helping to organize the Resistance. Nye was frequently out at meetings with various local leaders and military officers. Giraud oversaw the training and regrouping of the Resistance into companies of the newly formed French Regiment. They were all in need of weapons and equipment.
Small pockets of Germans still held on, along the fortified cities of the west coast. The French needed to keep them contained, and prevent them from breaking out in search of food and supplies.
Valentine worked the wireless, receiving and transmitting messages, and sending them out with Katrinka to the appropriate people. They, in turn, would give her messages they needed sent back to London, which Valentine would put into code and transmit. The work was never-ending.
Sometimes, she was gone from early morning until night, and would rise at dawn the next day. Food was still scarce, and they were always hungry. The rough living conditions and exhausting schedule made her tired and cross. She was discouraged with the lack of food items for sale, and sometimes the lack of any fresh food at all. This situation brought her close to tears.
They continued to subsist on field rations and whatever else could be found. Sometimes, a villager would bring them part of their meager supplies. One brought them a roasted rabbit. Giraud swore it was a rat.
With the food supply in such a grim state of affairs, Katrinka was delighted to learn that the team had been invited to a post-wedding dinner by one of the Resistance families. Staggered by the quality and variety of food, she inquired about the supplier. The wife smiled, speaking of a ‘sorce special’.
<
br /> Later, Katrinka cornered the woman, who finally gave up the information.
“But you will never be able to afford him; his prices are high. And this was only for the special occasion,” explained the wife.
Katrinka had most of her papa’s money left. She was determined that, in the last few weeks, she and the others would eat well.
The next day, using the directions the woman had written down, Katrinka made her way to a farm on the outskirts of Trois Cloches. An older man answered the door. He was short in stature, barely as tall as herself, and wore his belly over his belt. He had thick, dark hair, which was brushed straight back from his forehead. His deep-brown eyes flickered over her with interest.
She smiled, indicating the basket on her arm. “Monsieur, may I enter? I have a business I wish to discuss with you.”
He nodded and led her to a small sitting room with sagging sofas. The walls were dotted with old landscapes, and framed pictures of young men and women crowded the mantelpiece. It was damp and cold, and the room smelled of stale cigar smoke.
Katrinka explained her proposition with confidence. She would pay well for the desired items. She was dismayed when he shrugged at her offer.
“Mademoiselle, I have many customers who are willing to part with their money.”
Crestfallen and close to tears, Katrinka rose, thanking him for his time. She turned to go.
But he reached out for her arm, speaking with great diffidence, “Perhaps, mademoiselle, there is a way this may work. You see we are both hungry.”
She looked at him curiously.
“I do not look it, yes? But I am a man who starves.”
Then she saw his eyes with their naked need in them, and she understood.
“It is this way. I am a married man, a happily married man. I have been married many years now. My wife, bless her, has worked hard and raised our children with pride. But she no longer cares for the joys of the bed. For me, it is difficult. You see me. I am a strong man yet. Bursting with the desires of a man. I remember the days we had. She is a good wife. She fulfills her duty once, twice a year. These are very special occasions, but there is no joy in it for her. I know.”
He paused, gazing at her body with a simple admiration. “My dear, you are young. Your flesh is soft and sweet. Would you care to exchange with me, an old man, pleasure for pleasure, to assuage our hungers?”
Katrinka drew back, studying him thoughtfully. Could she do it? Of course she could. Would she enjoy it? What would he be like in bed? She did not care to be repulsed, no matter how hungry she was.
He read her eyes. “Ah, mademoiselle, there is nothing to fear. I am told I was quite adequate in my day.” He smiled, a smile so full of boyish bravado and charm that she decided at that moment. Katrinka missed Farr, and their shared sexual enjoyment. Sometimes her internal parts ached, which no amount of masturbation could alleviate.
“Yes, monsieur. I understand your meaning, and that would be quite all right.” She added coolly, “If you are sure you would be up to the task.”
He gurgled with laughter. “Never fear about that! Shall we set a time and a place?”
“I am often free early in the morning, which is when I go for food. There are long lines and I must wait.”
“Then the mademoiselle must leave it all to me.” He grasped her hand, pumping it vigorously.
“There is one other matter, monsieur.”
He released her hand, “Ah.”
“There must be precautions, you understand. You must have with you a… a preventative.”
“Of course. Mademoiselle displays admirable logic. There are no worries. I will have what is needed.”
Katrinka smiled. The little man seemed relieved. A dalliance sexuelle was one matter. A young woman appearing on his doorstep with an infant in her arms was quite another.
After Katrinka left, the man sauntered down the long hall to the kitchen where his wife was peeling a few potatoes at a large wooden table. Brushing a stray tendril back from her face, she looked up as he entered. “Did I hear someone at the door?”
He walked over to her, dropping a kiss on the top of her head. “Oui. Just a customer.”
His wife nodded and continued peeling potatoes.
* * *
For the next few weeks, the team was able to enjoy an abundance and variety in their meals. All gave silent thanks to Katrinka’s father’s funding. All except Nye. He suspected the black market, and knowing the way things operated, guessed she had not been asked to use money. He was surprised he could still feel shocked at her behavior. He imagined she was not losing much sleep over it, and she certainly seemed happier.
He told Katrinka he did not want to hear about any details, and if the wife came after her with a meat cleaver, he was not going to rescue her. She just laughed.
For her part, Katrinka was quite pleased with the transaction. The Frenchman more than kept up his side of the bargain. As a matter of fact, Katrinka had a job keeping the little man in order. She was surprised by his numerous requests. He wanted her to perform fellatio on him. She said it was distasteful. She didn’t like it, and she wouldn’t do it. He wanted to perform cunnilingus on her. Katrinka did not care much for that either, but he did a surprisingly good job. He wanted her to masturbate while he watched, so she used a courgette from the food packet she was taking back to camp. He wanted to perform anal sex—absolutely not.
He then asked, a bit timidly, if he might enter her from the rear. Katrinka readily agreed. She was quite fond of that position. Being on hands and knees, it gave her the ability to fondle herself, while the man operated from the rear. But in this case the little man had both areas covered, and Katrinka came to a pleasurable climax, which seemed to please him immensely. She was becoming quite charmed by this assiduous little Frenchman.
Then there were the more astonishing requests. He had a desire to urinate on her. When she refused, he asked if she would urinate on him. She waited until their next assignation, holding back her bladder, then complied, while the man masturbated beneath her in a delirium of orgasmic delight. He brought different items he wanted to insert into her, but they itched, and she refused. One day he brought her a tiny switch and asked her to strike his buttocks with it. She made a few attempts on his wriggling flesh with its sprouting black hairs. She began laughing so hard, she had to stop.
But most of all, the little man loved her breasts. Often after orgasming, he would lie on top of her, with his head burrowed into them. Katrinka liked that best. With their arms folded around one another, she would rest her chin on the top of his head. She didn’t love him. She wasn’t even sexually attracted. But the simple embrace soothed her aching emptiness, and she looked forward to those moments.
Katrinka wondered how his wife must have felt performing all these acts, and asked him about it one day.
His eyes bulged in disbelief. “Never! Never have we done these things!”
“Why not?”
“But, mademoiselle, one does not perform such acts with one’s wife!”
“Why?”
For that he had no answer, except to sputter uselessly.
As for the farmer’s wife, she was delighted and somewhat astonished to find her husband showering her with little gifts and added attention. She put this rare display of sentimentality down to their approaching anniversary. She wrote to her sister about the pleasant change, and received a cryptic reply:
“The old fool is up to something.”
The wife put that down to simple envy.
* * *
Nye had a problem. On his desk lay two reports, one concerning a wounded American Army Air Corp lieutenant, and one a German prisoner. Both needed quick access out of the country. He sat back smoking his pipe, studying the summaries.
The first one was fairly straightforward and could be easily dealt with. The American
pilot had been shot down near La Sansoune last spring, just before the massacre of the village. He’d been sheltering there in a safe house when the Germans attacked, seeking retaliation for Resistance sabotage. The pilot, along with a few others, had managed to escape, and another safe house on the circuit took him in until his wounds healed. Now HQ was requesting his immediate return to London, where he would name names in hopes of eventually punishing the perpetrators for war crimes.
The Germans had sent out a small unit of Waffen SS agents to hunt him down. Nye knew if these officers found the pilot, the man was dead. Valentine was bringing the pilot in tomorrow evening, and he’d spend the night here with the team.
Well, he’d send Valentine out to contact Raphael’s old liaison Pascal, and Pascal would get the pilot down to Marseilles. Amparo had been working there since the Allied landings, and could take him up to Lisbon, and from there, transport to London. Lots of steps, but easy to accomplish. Problem solved.
He picked up the second report, reread it, and then threw it down on his desk. This seemed more complicated, but perhaps it would be even easier. He needed to speak with Katrinka.
Nye was pacing the small room when Katrinka came in. He gestured toward a chair. “Trinka, take a seat. I have a possible job for you. Strictly optional, but I wanted to sound you out on it. I know Farr is coming back soon.”
She flushed. “Yes?”
“As you know, things have calmed down dramatically this past week. General de Gaulle has returned, and along with the Free French, will be taking control of the country. The Jeds will be sent elsewhere.”
“I know, Wills. You have already told me.” Her voice was tense.
“You’ve been asking for some time off to take Emerson’s ashes down to Lascaux.”
“I can go?”
He smiled at her eagerness. “Yes. But here’s where the job comes in.”
“At Lascaux?”
“Trinka, I’m sure you know that not everyone in the Fatherland is happy about Hitler’s plans for a New World Order. A group of student journalists in Munich calling themselves The White Rose were caught composing and printing pamphlets denouncing the Nazi regime. Three were guillotined, and another one was executed later. One was imprisoned, but has recently escaped. Code name: Milou. She’s been making her way to France since her escape from the internment camp in Germany, passing from safe house to safe house.”
Just Another Girl on the Road Page 15
