by Tim O'Brien
She told him and the boy chuckled. He had shoulder-length brown hair that was held in place by a leather headband. “Connais pas,” he said.
They stayed another ten minutes. Sarkin Aung Wan tested the faucets and oven and electricity, then she went back to the sun porch and stood with her hand shading her eyes. A strong afternoon sun made the room warm.
“May we take it?” she said. “I know we would be happy.”
“I suppose. It’s—”
“Are you backing out, Spec Four?”
“No. It’s just that I keep thinking about Cacciato.”
“Then it is time to stop.”
“Sure.”
“Will you smile?”
He smiled and said, “Okay, we’ll take it, but first I tell the others. The LT, especially. He has a right to hear about it before everything’s settled and done.”
“Yes, I suppose he does.”
“Do you mind?”
“Terribly.” She kissed his cheek. “But we shall come back later, after you have had your talk.”
“Soon.”
“Very soon, I know. Should I leave a deposit?”
“Ask if it’s necessary.”
She asked the boy, who shrugged and said the apartment had last been occupied in 1946. Deposits were not required. She took down the concierge’s phone number and promised to call.
The sun was just over the rim of the city. They walked down the hill toward Invalides, circled around the broad cannon-studded lawns, cut through a park, then followed Rue de Varennes toward the hotel. The Italian embassy’s flag was at half-mast. Things seemed very still.
“It is a lovely, lovely apartment,” Sarkin Aung Wan said. “Isn’t it better to hunt apartments than people?”
“Much better. Shall we stop for a drink?”
“To celebrate our apartment.”
They had cognac in a small stand-up bar on Rue de Grenelle. A television was playing behind the bar, and there were pictures of students clashing with riot police. The police wore plastic face shields and armored vests. The students were running from gas. Then there were pictures of de Gaulle, hatless, sitting behind a microphone, then more pictures of students waving banners. There was no sound. No one in the bar paid attention.
Later they walked up to Rue St.-Simon. It was dark now, and the hotel’s courtyard was quiet. They stopped and kissed.
Inside, Doc and Eddie and the lieutenant were playing canasta in the sitting room. The lieutenant was drunk.
“Easy does it,” Eddie said. He motioned with his head toward the old man as if to signal something. “Eisenhower’s dead.”
“Ike?”
“It’s in the papers.”
“A chain-smoker,” Doc said. “I keep telling people you can’t smoke like that and expect anything else.”
“Shut up.”
“Sorry, sir, I was—”
“Just zip the fuck up.”
It was no time to mention the apartment. Paul Berlin sat in for a few hands, then went up to the room. Sarkin Aung Wan was already asleep. He switched off the light, covered her, then took Eddie’s Herald Tribune into the bathroom to read about Eisenhower. There were two pictures on the front page. One showed Ike as a cadet at West Point. The other showed him riding into Paris, the famous grin, his jeep swamped by happy Frenchmen. It was hard to feel much. A generational thing, he supposed. Maybe his father would feel the right things. He read the story—it was purely factual, stressing those aspects that related to France—then he browsed through the rest of the paper, surprised to see how little things ever changed. The world went on. Old facts warmed over. Nixon was president. In Chicago, a federal grand jury had handed down indictments against eight demonstrators at the Democratic convention the previous summer. He’d missed that—the whole thing had happened while he was in basic training. Tear gas and cops. No matter: Dagwood still battled Mr. Dithers. What changed? The war went on. “In an effort to bring the Peace Talks to a higher level of dialogue, the Secretary of Defense has ordered the number of B-52 missions over the North be dropped from 1,800 to 1,600 a month; meanwhile, in the South, it was a quiet week, with sporadic and light action confined to the Central Highlands and Delta.” Only 204 more dead men. And Ike. Ike was dead and an era had ended.
He folded the paper, leaving it on the stool so he could read the sports in the morning. He showered, smoked a cigarette, and got into bed.
He lay there a long time, thinking about a lot of things. Maybe in the morning he would try calling home. Explain things. Tell how it started as one thing and turned into something else. Get some advice. Whether to take the apartment. How to justify everything.
Sarkin Aung Wan turned and snuggled against him.
“Warm?” she said.
“I’m fine. Go back to sleep.”
She curled closer. He could feel the small bones under her skin. It sometimes seemed he could break her like glass.
“I was dreaming, Spec Four.”
“Really?”
“Don’t you want to know the subject?”
“The apartment.”
“And we had a puppy. A fuzzy little puppy with brown eyes, and … and we were lying on the floor, you and me, and we kept calling the puppy. And I had to train him not to … you know. But such a puppy! Wouldn’t a puppy be nice?”
“Can’t wait.”
She was quiet awhile. He could hear her thinking.
“Are you all right?”
“Perfect.”
“Spec Four?”
“Yes?”
“Who was Eisenhower?”
“Nobody,” he said. “A hero.”
When he knocked on the lieutenant’s door the next morning the old man was still in bed. Bare-chested, wearing only his shorts, he looked almost ghostly in the pale light. His chest was sunken, the ribs so prominent they could be counted.
“I can come back, sir. I didn’t want to disturb you or anything.”
“Who’s disturbed? Do I look disturbed?” The lieutenant waved him in.
Paul Berlin toyed with a cigarette and watched as the old man got up and began to dress. The room smelled of rubbing alcohol. There were other smells, hospital smells, that were harder to place.
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“About what?”
“About—you know—Eisenhower. I’m sorry.”
The lieutenant buttoned up his trousers. “Never knew the guy.”
It was hard to find a way to begin. Paul Berlin went to the window and opened it by turning an iron crank. He stood there a moment, flipped his cigarette down to the courtyard, then turned and shook his head.
“Spill it,” the lieutenant said.
“Sir?”
“Blurt it out. What’s up?”
So Paul Berlin told him about the apartment and how Sarkin Aung Wan wanted to take it and how maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea. Make things permanent. Settle down for a while.
“And the upshot is—?”
“No upshot.”
“You’re gonna split?”
“Sort of. I wanted to hear what you think.”
“About splitting?”
“I guess.”
The lieutenant smiled. It was a genuine smile, without irony. “She’s a fine girl.”
“I know that, sir.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“It’s … you know. Just taking off. Leaving everything, ending it.”
Shrugging, wagging his head, the lieutenant sat down to pull on his boots. “Water over the dam. Dam’s busted. Can’t see what difference it makes if you go it alone or with your buddies or with some pretty little girl. Comes out the same.”
“I’m not sure.”
“No?”
Paul Berlin ran his tongue along his lips. “Well, it’s just that so far we’ve been in it together, all of us. You know? I mean, we’re a squad. Chasing down Cacciato, it’s been sort of a mission. It’s not like we just ran away.”
“You really buy th
at shit?”
“Kind of. I don’t know.”
Lieutenant Corson pinched the corners of his eyes. He looked exhausted.
“What can I tell you?” he said. “I can’t give no orders. Never could. I could play the game, make it look good, but now it’d just look silly. Far as I can tell, Oscar’s running the show. And that’s where I’d be careful.”
“Can’t you—?”
“Nope. Make up your own mind. Hell, maybe it’s for the best. Maybe something good’ll come out of all this shit.”
“You mean it, sir?”
“Sure. Just watch out for Oscar.”
“What about you?”
The old man sighed. He went to the wash basin and splashed water to his face. “Who knows? Hang around for a while, I guess. Figure things out. I got this friend stationed over in Germany, so maybe I’ll … I don’t know. It wasn’t my war.”
“I wish I could help.”
“Doesn’t everybody?”
They had breakfast together, the two of them alone, then the lieutenant went out for a paper. Paul Berlin watched him move through the lobby, skinny and bloodshot and old, stiff, a lifer for life.
What could you do? The old man was right. Either you made the break or you didn’t.
For a time he sat alone at the table. He felt sad. The old man, probably. But then he thought about Paris, all the things that could be done, the nice little apartment, fixing it up.
Later Sarkin Aung Wan came down.
“It’s done,” he told her.
“Did he make a scene?”
“No. He said to do what’s best.”
“I wish he would—”
“I know. I know all about that.”
That afternoon they leased the apartment. Afterward they celebrated with a long lunch, then spent the rest of the day shopping. They bought a watercolor from an artist along the river, a rug, dishes and towels and place mats. At a small antique store near Invalides they found a bronze-cased clock. It didn’t work, but that was fine.
“We’re refugees,” Paul Berlin said. “What does time mean to refugees? We’ll buy a hundred broken clocks.”
Instead they bought sheets and blankets and a radio, a chrome-framed mirror, silverware and a tablecloth and a geranium. They carted everything up to the apartment, piled it in the kitchen, swept down the floors, then went to the porch to watch the sunset. They opened a bottle of wine and drank it slowly. The church’s stained-glass windows glowed like gemstones. Then the bells began to chime.
“You see?” Sarkin Aung Wan said. “It isn’t bad at all.”
And it wasn’t. The sound was rich. The pigeons were lined up in rows along the belfry.
“What do you think, Spec Four?”
“The bells are nice.”
“Perhaps we could have a muffler installed. The pigeons are either very stupid or very deaf.”
“And you’re very pretty.”
“I’m not too young for you? You keep saying I’m a child.”
“You’re fine.”
They drank the wine and listened to the bells and watched the sun disappear. The porch captured the last light. Sarkin Aung Wan’s cheeks glowed like new copper pennies. He kissed her.
“Are you pleased?” She looked at him closely.
“I’m pleased,” he said. “I’m happy.”
It was after midnight when they returned to the hotel. Oscar and Doc and Eddie were waiting in the lobby. They were sitting on their rucksacks, going over a street map. The lieutenant watched from the doorway.
“Pack up,” Oscar said flatly. “Fast. You gon’ wasted ten seconds.”
“What?”
“No bullshit, just do it. Move out.”
They looked shaken. Eddie’s face was drawn. Doc kept rubbing his throat. On the floor beside them Cacciato’s rifle was wrapped in a poncho.
“Do it,” Oscar said. “Now.”
“Do what? We’re—”
Doc stood up. “Oscar’s right,” he said softly. “You best hurry. We’ll explain later.”
“What happened? Everything was fine.”
Oscar made a hard mocking sound. “Oh, yeah. Things were real sweet. Real cozy. Tourist shit an’ apartments. An’ sooner or later it catches up with you. Didn’t I say that? Didn’t I?”
“Sure.”
“There it is. Sooner or later. Those is facts.” Oscar went to a window, drew back the curtain, and peered out. Then he turned and stared at them. “It’s over. Good times are gone an’ a billion fuckin chickens are comin’ home to roost. Now get upstairs an’ pack. We checkin’ out.”
Forty-four
The End of the Road to Paris
Except for an occasional car or motorbike, the streets were deserted. Hunted again, on the run, they followed Rue de Grenelle to a large wooded park opposite Place Joffre. Oscar stopped there, signaling for them to wait while he scouted out a spot to spend the night. The air was damp.
“I don’t get it,” Paul Berlin whispered. “Things were fine, no problem.”
“Quiet.”
“Doesn’t make sense.”
“Sense!” Doc laughed bitterly. He squatted in the grass, a low fog wrapping him like a blanket. “Wonderful sense!”
“What—?”
Doc shrugged. “Same old tune. Hotel clerk gets suspicious, calls in the gendarmes. One thing leads to the next … Where’s our passports, why all the military gear, who’s our CO? Desertion, illegal entry.”
Paul Berlin closed his eyes. Suddenly he wished it would all end. Everything: the cold and the running and the war. He wanted to go home. A clean bed, his mother and father, the town, everything in its place.
“Oscar’s right,” Doc said, and sighed. “You can’t get away with this shit. The realities always catch you.”
“But maybe.”
“No maybes. Reality doesn’t work that way.”
Oscar crept out of the fog.
“Over there,” he said. He pointed toward a clump of bushes beyond a statue of a man holding huge bronze scrolls. “We can set up the ponchos. Nothin’ elaborate. Get some sleep an’ then figure what to do.”
“Jesus.”
“You slept out before, man. Pretend it’s Boy Scouts.”
Doc and Sarkin Aung Wan helped the lieutenant into the bushes. They rolled out the ponchos and covered themselves with coats. Sleep was impossible. Impossible, Paul Berlin thought. Hard to figure a happy ending.
Near dawn the fog turned into a steady drizzle.
They had coffee and rolls in a dingy café across from the park, then wandered aimlessly up toward the river. The lieutenant’s cough was back and Sarkin Aung Wan helped him along, holding his arm. The others were edgy.
“What happened to spring?” Doc muttered. “Flowers and sun and stuff? What happened to all the pretty things?”
“Be cool.”
“April in Paris, man. Where the hell is it?”
They spent the morning on the move. When the old man’s cough worsened, they would duck into a museum or café, careful to avoid places where they might be conspicuous. At noon the rain let up and they decided to take a chance on the apartment.
It was midafternoon when they reached the building. They waited outside for a time, then quickly crossed the street and climbed the six flights of stairs.
“This is it?” Oscar said. He grinned and made a face. “Your swell apartment? The great escape?”
Rain had leaked through a ceiling fixture but otherwise things were exactly as they’d left them.
Doc got the lieutenant into the shower, then wrapped him in a blanket.
“So this is it,” Oscar said. “Peace on earth.”
“You can leave.”
“Not ’less the rats start attackin’.”
They waited until dark. Then Sarkin Aung Wan fixed a supper of cold meat and bread and wine. The lieutenant fell asleep on the floor.
“So what’s the next move?” Eddie asked. “I hear Sweden’s real pretty in April.
”
“Shit.”
“What’s wrong with Sweden?”
Oscar shook his head. “Sweden’s for candy-asses.”
They waited. Oscar went to the window, stood there a moment, then turned. His sunglasses were tilted up on his forehead. When he spoke his voice reminded Paul Berlin of Lake Country.
“Listen up good. Fact number one: We’re in trouble. No papers, no orders. Far as law’s concerned we nothin’ but deserters. Fact number two: Sooner or later we’re gonna be nailed. That’s a fact of real life.” He looked at Paul Berlin. “Fact number three: Some of you dudes been fuckin off. I ain’t namin’ no names, just telling facts. We got to get serious. No more dilly-dally shit, no more apartments or playin’ house. You know what happens to deserters? You know?”
“They burn,” Eddie said.
“There it is.”
“Maybe we could explain it,” Paul Berlin said. He felt a little embarrassed. “Couldn’t we? Tell them how Cacciato—”
“Get off it, man.”
“I mean, maybe we should just turn ourselves in. Go over to the embassy and explain exactly what happened. How we started after Cacciato, and how … you know. Maybe they’d go easy on us.”
Oscar was quiet. He looked at Eddie, then at Doc. He sighed. He walked across and put his finger against Paul Berlin’s chest.
“You know somethin’?”
“What?”
“I pity you.”
Paul Berlin smiled.
“I do, man. I pity your sorry ass. You don’ dig the basic game, do you? The game’s set up, all the pieces out on the board, an’ either we play or we fry. No other options. You don’ amble nice an’ polite into Uncle Sam’s embassy and blush an’ tell some crazy story like that. The game, it ain’t played by those rules. You got to have proof. Evidence.”
They were quiet. Sarkin Aung Wan sat with the lieutenant’s head in her lap, gently stroking his forehead. Doc seemed to be concentrating on something in another room.
“Understand me? We either keep runnin’ or we do somethin’ positive.”
“Like what?” Paul Berlin asked, but he knew the answer.
Oscar grinned. “Like we go out on one last hunt. Put on our huntin’ threads an’ do it proper. This time, no shit, we bag the sorry dude.”
“Back to the beginning.”
