Once an Eagle (38 page)

Laughing, Sam said, “He's a BG now, you know. He's coming down here himself—I'll be seeing him in a day or so.”

“Are you going to rejoin the Regiment at Hexenkirche?”

Damon stopped smiling. “I don't know. Are you?”

“Absolutely. I already know German: why waste it?—Come on over to the Casino,” he urged. “Let's watch the world at play.”

“You're pretty fired up for an invalid, Ben.”

“You're looking at the most frivolous man in the Anal Enema Flatulent. Come on …”

They finished their drinks and walked through the little park. The leg felt better again—whether it was the relentless exercise or the vermouth cassis Damon wasn't sure. He could tell Krisler was having his own troubles; his breath came unevenly and his face was blotched and strained.

In silence they climbed the steps and entered the cool, hard light of the foyer, stood for a few moments at the edge of the salon where groups of people sat drinking and laughing; the long room was all aquiver with the bright, powdery chatter of French. Refracted light from the Port played across the ceiling in shimmering scales; the women's dresses glowed.

“Damn, I wish I knew the langue du pays,” Krisler observed. “Not just classroom garble, but enough to really function. Do you?”

“A little.”

“A sleeping dictionary's the best way, I'm told. A feel for the patois.”

“What? Oh, sure.” Damon was watching a man with straight dark hair and a fine mustache who was standing in front of a small group—they looked English, though perhaps they weren't—regaling them with some hunting exploit: there was a rapid pantomime of consternation with the beast charging, all horns and hoofs and malice, followed by panic and a heroism born of desperation; the principal fired, a perfect shot, and stood with his foot on the jungle monster, heroically, posing for congratulatory pictures. The group around him—the men were all in civilian clothes—rocked with laughter and begged for more; and Damon felt a swift tremor of resentment, and then bleak indifference. This was one of the playgrounds of the rich: the world was going back to normal and the rich were back here, playing. It was all natural enough. For all he knew the man was Boy Bradford, V.C., D.S.O., M.C., and a brigadier in the BEF at twenty-four … Beyond the group he could hear the spidery, running click of the roulette balls and the bored monotone of the croupiers: “Faites vos jeux, sieurs-et-dames, faites vos jeux …”

“Let's go in and watch the play,” he said.

Krisler shook his head. “I think I'll sit me down for a spell. All this big-time excitement. The proximity of beautiful women leaves me breathless.” Damon noticed he was perspiring lightly; he looked still paler, the skin drawn tight over his beaked nose. It might be better if he left him by himself for a bit.

“All right. I'll make a lightning tour of the premises and tell you which games are rigged.”

He started toward the gaming room, then on a sudden impulse veered right and moved out along the colonnade, gripping his cane tightly, glancing at the couples standing here and there. Meeting Krisler had thrust the problem of his future into the forefront of his mind again; he lighted a cigarette and stood beside one of the columns, gazing out at the yacht basin, the graceful sweep of the blue and white and mahogany hulls, the glitter of their brass appointments. The stern of one vessel said
L'Aiglette, Cannes.
Two men were stowing crates of provisions in her hold. They were free now, free to sail to Halmahera, Timor, Palamangao: the exotic isles …

He had done all right, in a certain sense. He had carried in his pack, if not a field marshal's baton, at least a battalion executive officer's walking stick. He could lead men, inspire their confidence and respect, he had that tactical feel the Old Man talked about—that seventh sense that had nothing to do with book learning or map reading or training manuals or educated guesses, either. He had found his niche. Had he? Or was this all a delusion, won at the expense of other talents the iron demands of battle had stifled? No man knew what was in him, deeply and irrevocably his: we were all of us strange creatures under our skins—poets and seers, captains and pioneers—what man could say what was finally his destiny? Resting one arm against the cool ivory plaster he arched his back and frowned.
Farewell the
—how did it go?
Farewell the plumed troop and the big wars that make ambition virtue! Farewell the neighing steed and the shrill trump, the spirit-stirring drum, the something something something; and oh you mortal engines
—that was good, mortal engines—
whose rude throats the something Jove's dread clamors counterfeit, farewell! Othello's occupation's gone!
Was that at the heart of his confusion after all?

He sighed, shifted his weight again and glanced around him, almost guiltily; there, framed between two pillars like some classical embodiment of woman, a girl was standing, talking to a French cavalry captain and an older man, a civilian wearing a rosette. She was facing the sea, her face aglow in the afternoon sun. She was stunning; beneath her copper-colored hair her face displayed an exciting balance of fragility and force, like some exquisitely tempered steel. Damon was certain she was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. The two men were telling her something amusing and her lips broke into laughter, her eyes danced, she stirred and shifted like a pretty little sailboat moored to some ponderous barge, longing for the open water … He found that he was simply standing there staring at her, his cigarette burning his knuckles, content just to watch this lovely creature, bask in her exuberance and charm. The somber fury of the Argonne, its losses and terrors and foul redolence, slid from his soul like evil scales.

The girl was speaking French rapidly; he could hear an occasional phrase. “Oh!—mais c'est trop drôle, ça!” she exclaimed once. “Il fait la bête …” What did that mean? Her laughter was deep and rich, a delightful change from the strident soprano clatter of most Frenchwomen. He knew he was being rude, unpardonably rude, staring like that, but he could not bring himself to stop: it was like a medal—the rarest sort of medal, rarer even by far than the baby-blue ribbon with its five white stars he'd won at Brigny Farm—bestowed on him for the dangers he had passed. Why shouldn't he feast his eyes on beauty? A cat could look at a king, as his mother said. Besides, there was something else: he had seen her before somewhere—or no, she reminded him of someone, someone he'd known well …

The trio was joined by two others, a French lieutenant of artillery, a handsome, slender man, and a voluptuous, full-faced girl in a flaming orange dress; and the group burst into animated greetings and explosive little bursts of laughter. The girl with the copper-colored hair now appeared a bit constrained: her face seemed graver, more intent; she didn't like the newcomers. Her eyes flashed out toward Damon once, irritably, returned to the group. Abruptly he turned away, went off to the far end of the colonnade and smoked another cigarette. As had happened several times before in his life he had the sensation that everything was arrested, held in sweet stasis—waiting for some episode, some event thunderous or trivial, to tilt it and impel it forward again. He was caught in a time bubble, as he'd been that afternoon with Celia on the lawn, or lying on the bank of the Marne with Dev—

Near him at the end of the promenade an old man in a wheelchair, a proud old man with a monocle and a jade cigarette holder, a count or baron from his manner, was arguing with a fat young man in tweeds, pointing one trembling finger at him as he talked. The baron was furious; his swollen dark jowls were quivering with rage.

“—No pride!” he barked in impeccably enunciated English, “you have simply and horribly not one particle of pride!” The angrier he got the more amused and indifferent the fat young man became.

“But Uncle Alexis—” he began.

“You are heading for perdition—that special perdition of indolent, of uncaring souls!” The nephew laughed and shook his head indulgently, disbelieving, intent on dissipation, on folly, and turned away. “You mark what I say, you young devil!” the old man called after him hoarsely, pointing the shaking white finger. The young man turned and made a series of vague, propitiary gestures with his plump hands, then went off with alacrity toward the grand salon. Damon's eyes, returning, encountered the baron's; the old man glared at him and nodded—as if Sam were the author of all this brainless perversity—gave a swift, wild gesture of exasperation, whipped out a handkerchief and spinning his wheelchair around began to cough into it rackingly, his shoulders hunched … Damon started. The girl was walking toward him, alone, in another few seconds she would pass by the column where he stood; she was moving with a firm, easy stride, her slim little figure very erect; feminine yet assertive. He felt his heart leap. Before he had thought he took a step toward her and said: “Pardon me, Miss …”

“Pardon?”
The word was French. Her eyes had shot up to his—sharply, a trifle forbidding.

“Mes homages, Madame.” He saluted, the way he had seen French officers do on greeting ladies. “J'ai pensé que vous—que vous étiez—”

“Ah, you speak French, Commandant,” she replied in English, with a charming French accent; and she smiled—that devastating, electric smile that sparkled like sunlight spilled over water.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “It's only that I thought—I could have sworn you were American.”

“Really? What a remarkable thought! Why?” She seemed intrigued by this, her charming little head held on one side.

“Oh, I don't know—just the way you were laughing over there, with those other people.” She was quite young—eighteen, nineteen; the whites of her eyes were so clear they were almost blue. “I must apologize for staring …”

“Yes, you
were
staring. Is that the custom in America?”

“I guess our manners aren't all they could be, compared with Europe … It's just that you reminded me of—people back home …” His instincts had received a severe jolt, but he persisted. “You're sure you're not
part
American?”

She laughed her low, musical laugh again. “As sure as one can be in this world, Commandant.” Her eyes moved away from him now. “No, my mother is Spanish and my father is Count Edmonde de Besançon.” She paused, then said softly: “I am the Countess de Vezelay.”

“Mes Homages,” he repeated gallantly, though his heart had sunk out of sight. Married. And to a bloody count. Yet he couldn't bear to end the conversation. “Really? Where is Vezelay? I've seen only a very small part of France. A very sad part.”

“Of course, that goes without saying.—Oh, it is a hill town in Burgundy. Very romantic, very historic, very imposing. We feel it is quite beautiful in its own insufferably austere way. The castle is so gloomy and cold after October—anything that gloomy and cold
must
be imposing.” She smiled at him merrily. “That's why I am down here. For the sun!”

“Of course.”

“And to see old friends. Now that this wretched war is finally over.”

“Of course,” he echoed. “It must be a great relief to you.”

“—How charming that you thought I was an American!” she pealed. “That is delicious. I must tell Ramon, it will delight him …”

She'll leave now, he thought. But she didn't; from her purse she removed a cigarette case and selected a gray, gold-tipped cigarette. Damon offered her a light, took out a Camel and said: “Will you permit me?”

“Mais certainement, certainement … What extraordinary manners you have, Commandant.”

“Do I?”

“For an American, that is. Tell me about yourself. Where is your home in America?”

“Oh, it's a very little town. You've never heard of it. In Nebraska.”

“Goodness! Where is that?”

“Well, it's out in the Midwest. On the edge of the West, actually …” It didn't matter what they talked about, just as long as they could go on talking and he could stand here braced on his cane, his leg a throbbing hot cone, and bask in the delicate beauty of this vivid, copper-haired girl. Who in God's name was it she reminded him of? “It's a—sort of a transitional state,” he went on.

“What do you mean—transitional?”

“Well, you see it extends from the Missouri—that's a major tributary of the Mississippi—”

“Oh yes, the river of our Père Marquette and De la Salle … ”

“—yes, that's right. And it runs west across the Great Plains, almost to the edge of the Rocky Mountains.”

She frowned. “They are tedious, are they not? the Great Plains?”

“Well—they certainly can't compete with
this
…” He laughed and gestured toward the yachts, the sails of boats like swollen peppermint and scarlet shells against the vibrant blue of the gulf, the dreamy cobalt ridge of the Esterel. “But there's—I don't know, a magical quality about them, a kind of simplicity. Especially in the spring, in early May, when the willows and cottonwoods along the river turn that rich yellow-green. It's sort of the color of life itself, in a way; like starting in all over again …”

He broke off, embarrassed. She was watching him intently—and more than that too, he saw: a little more than that. He could almost swear there was more. A trace of softening in her eyes, a swift little shadow of wonder and sorrow. Was there? He grinned and gave a short shrug. “I guess I'm just homesick,” he said. “I haven't been home in three years now. I'm getting sentimental.”

“You have a sentimental streak then, Commandant?” she asked softly. “And you a soldier?”

“Yep. Purple and pink and a mile wide.” They laughed together. She evinced no desire to go although her cigarette was nearly burned out. “I keep having this feeling I've seen you somewhere before,” he offered, watching her carefully. “I hope you don't mind.”