The Losing Role (19 page)

The forest seemed to grow denser, with no exit in
sight. Thin shafts of daylight burned themselves out before
reaching him. The snow became heavier and wetter, and fat globs of
it smacked him at unknown intervals, trickling down his neck and
chest. He shivered. His knees ached. He slogged on, getting
clumsier. He had to climb over a fallen trunk but he couldn’t feel
his fingers grasping and he toppled down the other side.

Ten o’clock in the morning. For hours it had dragged
on like this, a slow death. Then, the daylight formed patterns on
the trail up ahead. The trees became skinnier and stood farther
apart. He had to be close to something or someone even if just a
village. He pushed on, stabbing his dead toes into the snow,
flailing his arms, muttering like a madman, his heart pumping
against his ribs. The forest gave way to a low valley that was
hemmed in by more forest on all sides. In the middle of this white
basin stood a boxy structure that resembled a factory or a modern
train station—but upside down. A series of squares were set atop
one another in the Bauhaus style, some held up by columns, others
by sections of glass that seemed to have no girding whatsoever. A
clean round tower rose from one corner. Flat stretches of roof bore
puffy blankets of snow.

Max stopped at the edge of the trees and consulted
the one map Felix had given him. This site was nowhere on it. He
couldn’t even locate the valley. Kneeling, he pulled out binoculars
and scanned the snowbound grounds. No people, soldiers, vehicles,
nothing. Closest to Max, statues, fountains, and dead shrubs poked
through the white at symmetrical distances—what had to be a
classical garden under all that snow. It meant the building had to
be a villa. Max focused on the windows. Most blinds were closed. No
smoke from any of the three chimneys.

Since he’d stopped, his sweat had cooled again. His
shirts and underwear were soaked. Holing up a while might be the
best thing for him. He could get a fire going. He tightened his
scarf and buttoned up his overcoat to the top. He scanned the still
scene once more, pulled his tommy gun off his shoulder, and marched
down to the villa.

The double front doors—he guessed this was the front
entrance—were black metal etched with gold, a Byzantine design of
intersecting angles and swirls that reminded Max of monkeys
tumbling down flights of stairs.

Why knock and announce himself? He was a soldier. He
turned the handle and the door opened. He tiptoed through a foyer,
and into the main room. Just enough snow-white light made it
through the blinds and high windows to lend everything a dim,
blue-gray hue. He passed chromium columns and semicircular
partitions. The furniture was draped in white linen yet the
protruding wooden feet and legs revealed to Max the antique styles
of Louis XIV, Neoclassical, Empire. Even from under the linen, the
pieces gave off the telltale muskiness of damp antique upholstery.
The furnishings didn’t match the villa’s sparse and sterile design,
and the effect was jarring. The curved modern walls held
traditional tapestries, glossy plaques, and colorful coats of arms.
Ornate rugs from the Levant covered the cold, polished tile floors.
He descended into a sunken room and climbed short stairs into a
higher room, and on and on, so that it became difficult to tell
whether he was above or below ground without consulting the nearest
window. He followed what sounded like a dripping faucet, only to
realize he was hearing leaks within the villa’s many skylights.

He caught what could only be the aroma of a fine
perfume. Following the scent, he entered a room that looked like
the den. The walls and pillars had elegantly carved woodwork. He
sat on a settee before a window and, pulling back the linen, saw
that it was covered in marvelous Belgian tapestry. “Wonderful,” he
muttered. He checked his watch. Eleven o’clock in the morning. Only
an hour or so before he dared deplete his rations—

“
Psst
. Why are you here? What do you
want?”

“Who goes there?” Max bolted up aiming his tommy
gun. He saw no one. The voice had been a whisper. It was a woman’s
voice, her English heavily accented. “Please, I won’t hurt you,” he
whispered.

A desk was draped in linen, fronting a wall of
built-in bookshelves. From behind the desk, a woman raised her
head. Her blond hair was pulled back tight and her long, slender
nose showed a faint crook at the bridge. The eyes were set so deep,
Max couldn’t tell their true color. They focused on Max and refused
to blink. “I’m asking you, what is it that you want?” the woman
said in Belgian French. “Speak up now, soldier Joe.”

Max remembered—to her, like this, he was an
American. “Sorry, don’t speak much French,” he said although he
knew some. “And who you calling Joe? It’s Lieutenant Joe to you.”
He lowered his tommy. He added a wide American smile.

The woman studied Max from head to toe, taking her
time. Max kept smiling. The woman placed an old Luger pistol on the
desk and stood. She was wearing a plain but elegant blue housedress
with a faint pattern of orchids. She sighed and said in rough
English, “You may have been killed, entering here without
announcing. I might have killed you. But what is there to be done
now? You are here.”

“Yes. I seem to have lost my way,” Max said.

The woman sat next to Max on the settee, and Max
could smell her freshly soaped and scrubbed skin. For a moment, his
hunger for food subsided.

“This is not an inn, you understand?” the woman
said.

“I know. I understand. I was only cold.” Max told
her his cover story fast and all at once, dumping it in her lap
just as any American would. His name was Price—Julian Price. His
unit got hit hard east of Malmedy. The survivors were scattered and
lost behind German lines. He had been able to escape. He just
wanted to get home and go back to night school if he wasn’t too
old. He hoped to find a job where he could help people.

“I am Justine—Justine DeTrave,” the woman said. She
told Max she was watching over this, her family’s country villa,
along with her younger brother. Her brother had disappeared looking
for food and she feared the worst, she said, bowing her head. As
she spoke, the white window light revealed the soft curves of her
face and long neck. She looked thirty at the most. He saw no
wedding ring on her finger. She was beautiful even with her pinched
features and curt manner—a hardier disposition than her noblesse
upbringing must have wished on her.

“And your parents?” Max asked.

“They are dead,” Justine said, sticking to
English.

“Oh, forgive me,” Max said, his confidence growing.
With a Belgian, here like this, he could perfect his role. He could
work on his mannerisms, and she’d notice few inconsistencies in his
American English. Plus, the Belgians had to love the Americans for
liberating them, for driving the hated “
boche
” back into
Germany. “I should apologize,” he added. “We Americans are always
asking for a person’s life story.”

Justine gave a shrug.

They listened to the snow water trickling down the
windows. They had no reason to hurry this. They weren’t going
anywhere soon.

“My compliments on your fine furniture,” Max
said.

Justine laughed, her head back, and she touched her
neck. “Ah yes, but, the house itself? You don’t like it so
much?”

It certainly wasn’t an actor’s abode, Max thought.
“These are smart, the modern Bauhaus designs—Gropius, Le Corbusier.
If one can afford them. Even so, one has the many water leakings to
contend with, what with so many windows.”

“So many, yes—don’t tell me about it,” Justine said,
waving a hand. She cocked her head at him. “How did you know this
house is a Le Corbusier?”

Max chuckled. “Yes, well . . . I went to college for
a while.”

“In any case, I quite agree with you. This house,
it’s not how
maman
and
papa
wished it. It turned out
all wrong. But then have not most all things?”

“Indeed. You got that right, Ms. DeTrave.”

Max drew a pack of cigarettes. They were
Chesterfields—a surprise gift from Felix. He offered Justine one.
She waved it away. From her hip pocket she drew a pack of Belgian
cigarettes and placed one between her slim lips. Max offered a
light, but she ignored it. She sat with her hands pressed to her
knees as if ready to spring up.

“I will tell you about this house,” she said
finally. “The original structure, it is dated back to the 1400s.
The French bombed it in 1916. Then the British, the American
and—
mais oui
—even the German had a go at it before 1918 was
over. So it was rebuilt, in the newer style. I despise the new
style.” She slapped at Max’s knee and smiled. “Why can’t they bomb
it now? We could rebuild it in the old style, eh?”

“You must be careful what you wish,” Max said.

“Yes, I suppose so. The furniture, that’s from the
original house—what we could salvage, in any case. Also this
woodwork here in the, how do you say—
repaire?
Refuge
chamber? Sanctuary?”

“It’s a den. They just call it a den.”

“They?” Justine straightened, her eyes hard
again.

Max shrugged, smiling. “’Just an expression—figure
of speech.”

Justine was staring at his two knapsacks, and his
wool overcoat with the two bullet holes under the arm. Only now did
she light her cigarette. She blew smoke up at the ceiling.

Max stood. “You don’t trust me. I understand. I’ll
go.”

“Non.” Justine stood. She was whispering again. “You
wait, okay? Remain here? You must be hungry, yes?”

“I could eat a horse,” Max said, recalling this
phrase from the POW camp.

Justine frowned, an endearing curl of her mouth that
made her look ten years younger. “Another expression, I hope? In
any case the horses are gone.” She grabbed the Luger off the desk
and slid it into the pocket with her cigarettes. “I will procure
some food. Relax yourself now. Lay down.”

How could Max argue with that? Any food would make
his rations last longer. He sat back on the settee and listened to
Justine DeTrave’s feet pitter-patter down the hallway. Just having
her in the room seemed to have warmed it up. He placed his tommy
gun on the floor, and his gear. He stretched out. He closed his
eyes, but he did not sleep. He imagined himself as he had Zoock
with a café owner’s daughter. They would feast together. Drink
wine. He thought he’d caught a twinkle in Justine’s eyes and he
hoped it was not simply a reflection of the snow outside. If she
demanded his secret in the heat of passion, he would admit that,
yes, he was an American deserter, and she was all he had now
. . . He smoked another Chesterfield. Who cared if they ran out?
Women made the worst times bearable.

She was coming back. He sat up. The pitter-patter
was faster, louder, more like a rumble. He grabbed his tommy,
shoved the knapsacks under the settee and crawled behind the desk,
crouching. Slowly, he released the safety.

“Lieutenant? Meester Price,” Justine was saying.

Max heard the jingle jangle of gear, and the heavy
breathing of men. They were in the doorway. He stayed down.

“Lieutenant, you in here?” said a new voice. It
sounded American, but refined. Max lifted the bottom hem of linen
and saw the muddied, snow sodden boots of two Americans. A second
voice said, “Sir? Can ya come on out? The good lady brought us up.”
This other voice was twangy, the words leaning up against one
another.

“Who goes there?” Max growled. “Password?”

A chuckle. “Shee-it. Sir, know you must be good and
rattled, but you’re in good hands—”

“Stand up, Lieutenant,” said the refined voice.
“That’s an order.”

Max rose, aiming the tommy. At the doorway, two
Americans smiled at him. They had their hands up, but only halfway.
One was a captain, the other a sergeant. A black pipe hung from the
captain’s mouth and the sergeant smacked gum.

“All right, then,” Max said. What else should he
say? Stock phrases swirled in his head.

“Had enough? Happy now?” said the sergeant.

“Boy, am I glad to see you guys,” Max said. He set
the tommy down.

“Likewise,” said the captain.

“Sorry. Just can’t tell who’s who these days,” Max
added.

“Ain’t that the whole truth?” said the sergeant.

Justine was peaking in from the hallway, rubbing her
hands together. The captain smiled for her. “See now, Ms. DeTrave?
Everything’s fine.”

“Yes, yes, I see,” Justine said, but her fingers
were twitching—trembling with fear. That’s why she was rubbing them
together. Odd, Max thought. The newly liberated don’t tremble. They
hug, they sing, they kiss and dance, but they don’t tremble. Max
was the one who should be trembling, and the very thought made his
blood rush.

He put on the biggest grin he had. “No, just can’t
tell who’s who,” he repeated as he strode over to the doorway, his
arms out wide for handshaking.

Eighteen

“What was that about a password?” the sergeant said
as Max, still grinning, shook the sergeant’s hand. The hand was
cold—the sergeant had come in from outside.

“Nothing, nothing. I was only hoping to trick you
off guard. Ha ha.” Max stepped over to shake the captain’s cold
hand. “Name’s Price—Julian Price.”

The captain looked Max straight in the eyes. “Lost
your way, Price?” he said. Max nodded. “Join the club, then. It
appears we’re only a little less lost than you.”

Justine DeTrave had stopped trembling, yet her frown
returned. “I come back,” she said and marched off down the
hallway.

Max stuck his head out to her. “One moment, honey.
Where’s the chow?—you know, the food?”

Justine held up a hand, her back to him. “Yes. I
come back. You will wait in the den room.”