by Ian Slater
“General, that boy,” she said, “he asked me if I’d — you know.”
“You’re kidding me!” Freeman said.
“No way, sir. No, I’m not kidding. He said things — not dirty stuff but things only a — I think that only a full-grown man should know about.”
Freeman thought about it for a second. “So we should tell him he can’t do that in America. Not yet — I mean, when he gets — well — I—” Melissa Thomas saw that the legend was embarrassed. Freeman could only imagine what Catherine or Margaret would have said.
“Well, I guess we’ll have to reeducate him. It’s one thing for damned terrorists and oil sheiks to have twelve-year-old brides, but he can’t—” The general made a vague gesture which Marine Thomas took to be a stand-in for the phrase “sexual relations.” “He just can’t, that’s all.”
“He needs,” Melissa suggested, “a strong male figure to look up to, someone who’ll tell him what’s what and not take any cra — nonsense. Who can get his respect, someone like that guy on your team. Lewis, isn’t that his name?”
“Aussie?” said the general, nodding. “Yes, maybe he could keep a sort of uncle’s eye on him during the relocation program. And perhaps Jamal may be able to modify some of Aussie’s antipodean phrases.”
“He’s a polite boy,” continued Melissa. “I didn’t mean to suggest he’s — well, you know — vulgar. He just knows too much, if you know what I mean, General, for his age.”
“I understand. I’ll speak to Aussie when the team regroups. Aussie’s wife is a refugee from the JAR — Jewish Autonomous Region — in the old Soviet Union. And she and Aussie don’t have kids. She might help.” The more Freeman thought about Thomas’s suggestion, the better he liked it. “Good idea, Marine. Don’t worry; we’ll straighten him out.” The general smiled. “Already got him started on the milk shakes.”
“Oh, he knew about those,” she said, smiling back.
There was a tap on the partition. The consular official pressed a button, the glass sliding down to reveal the other consular official who’d been on the dais. He’d been working his laptop and micro printer and now passed back a sheaf of two-by-four-inch pieces of paper. “Messages for you, General. I’ve prioritized them for you.”
The general leaned forward as he reached for them. If there was one New Age expression he disliked more than the grammatically ugly “you did good” instead of “you did well,” it was “prioritize.” It reeked of “suit psychobabble.” “Thank you,” he said, and sat back.
The first message was from the president, a quotation from the inimitable Winston Churchill, ending with “well done.” Freeman smiled at the vicissitudes of life: After Priest Lake he was a “bum” now he was a “hero.” Good.
The second message was from the State Department, furious that he’d linked the term “Hamas” with “scumbags.” Hamas, Foggy Bottom reminded him, also served as a “charitable arm” to the Palestinians, and the general’s use of scumbag in connection with it was “unnecessarily inflammatory and an affront to all Muslims.”
Freeman screwed the message into a tiny ball, handing it to the consular official. “Round file this, will you?”
The consular official informed him that scores of congratulations were pouring in but that there was one message from home he might like to see immediately. The consular official was right. It was from Margaret:
Cannot work new DVD player. Will you help?
A damsel in distress.
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