The Rebellion of Yale Marratt (41 page)

 

 

As they followed a beak-nosed Arab who had evidently understood Trafford's
request, Yale recalled that he had hooked his trench knife on his belt.
It seemed dramatic when he did it, taking it out of his barrack bag
at the airport. Then, he had thought it might simply come in handy if
he got in a tight spot. Now, as the Arab led them into narrow alleys,
through crowds of his sweating, gesticulating Moslem brothers, the knife
gave Yale a feeling of assurance.

 

 

"I hope you know what in hell you're doing!" Yale said edgily.

 

 

"For Christ's sake, stop worrying, Marratt." Trafford smirked at him.
"I'm wearing a Colt revolver. I was supposed to turn it in, but I figure
this one is my baby. It has a couple of notches on it, already."

 

 

Yale looked at him, astonished.

 

 

"I shot a couple of Japs in Burma last year," Trafford explained casually.

 

 

The Arab led them into a small shop hung with goat hides. They waited
while the Arab disappeared behind a curtain.

 

 

"Jesus!" Trafford held his nose. "What do they cure this stuff with?
It smells as if it had been buried in shit."

 

 

"I think they use the animal urine," Yale said.

 

 

A man came from behind the curtain. Yale guessed that he was probably
French. At least he wasn't wearing the typical Arab burnous. "That is
right, and sometimes they use human urine," he said, smoothly. "It makes
the leather very soft." He looked at them querulously. "You came to buy
leather goods? We make fine Moroccan billfolds and briefcases here. All
hand made. My name is Bronson. Max Bronson."

 

 

"You speak English pretty damned well," Trafford said, cautiously.

 

 

Bronson smiled. "I speak French, Arabic, German very well also, but your
American language I learned particularly well. I lived in the United States
for twenty years."

 

 

"Why did you ever come back to this ass-hole of the universe?" Trafford
asked.

 

 

"I am a German," Bronson said, with a clipped military accent. Yale stared
at him. "Not a Heil-Hitler German." Bronson laughed. "Although I have had
some interesting contacts. Since you didn't come to buy leather novelties,
you have some interest in, let us say, currency? The rate on the black
market today is forty-two francs for a dollar. How many francs do you
wish to buy?"

 

 

Trafford hesitated.

 

 

Like him, Yale felt that Max Bronson was just a little too suave.

 

 

"Why does anyone want dollars so badly?" Trafford asked.

 

 

"The fortunes of war." Bronson offered them thin black cigars. When they
refused, he lighted one himself. "Things do not go so well with the Germans.
There are people in the Axis countries who even believe that you will win
this war. So you see an Italian with his money in lire, or a German with
marks, would gladly exchange them for dollars. Fewer dollars, to be sure,
but still able to purchase something. Such dollars are better than many
marks or lire that will buy nothing."

 

 

"It's good to know there are some rats in Germany," Trafford said.

 

 

"Just as there are rats in your country." Bronson smiled at him ambiguously.
He blew smoke at Trafford. "How many dollars do you have?"

 

 

When Trafford told him that he had three hundred dollars, Yale noticed
the disappointment on Bronson's face. He excused himself, went into the
back room and came back with a handful of francs. He counted out twelve
thousand six hundred, mostly in thousand-franc notes.

 

 

Trafford passed the bills to Yale. "Are these real or phony?" Yale examined
them. He shook his head. "They look okay to me. But just remember it's your
red wagon. Even if they are genuine I don't know how you are going to
convert them back to dollars."

 

 

Bronson took Trafford's three hundred dollars. He asked Yale if he wished
to exchange any money. Yale shook his head. If there were any possibility
of further dealings with Bronson, he wasn't going to do it with Trafford
watching.

 

 

"I suppose you handle large sums?" Yale asked with what he hoped was a
disinterested tone. Bronson looked at him intently. "Any sum," he said
coolly. "I have handled several million dollars in the past month."

 

 

Trafford shoved the francs in his pocket. "Well, let me warn you, friend,
these francs better be for real, or I'll be back, and there'll be one less
German to worry about. Nazi or not."

 

 

"I speculate, but there is a limit to speculation," Bronson said, looking
at Trafford as if he thought the Major was slightly stupid. "Perhaps
when you get paid you will be back with a few more dollars, Major?"
His tone was ironic.

 

 

Trafford ignored the sarcasm. He asked Bronson how to get to the Rue
de Gallieni.

 

 

"You are looking to spend your hard-earned money, so soon?" Bronson asked,
amused. "If you will permit me, I will take you to a famous place. Very
nice, how do you say it. . . stuff!"

 

 

Yale protested that he wanted to find a hotel room.

 

 

"You can sleep in your grave, Marratt," Trafford said. "Come on.
French pussy is the best. It's only eight o'clock. We've got all night."

 

 

They followed Bronson who pointed out various sights to them. "This is
a French establishment," he said, suddenly directing them into a small,
dimly lighted bar. Bronson spoke to the bartender in French.

 

 

"Non. Demain," the bartender answered. "C'est une heure avancée.
Les filles sont occupées."

 

 

Bronson continued to ply him with fluent French. He spoke so rapidly
that Yale lost the conversation. Finally, the bartender shrugged. He
beckoned them to follow him, and led them downstairs into a smoke-filled
cellar. The place was crowded. Men and girls, sitting around tables,
stared at them as they passed. The bartender found them a table in
a corner.

 

 

"Here you are. Women. Help yourself," Bronson said, pointing generally
around the room.

 

 

Trafford told him to tell the bartender to bring them a bottle. . . .

 

 

"These babes are all occupied," Trafford complained looking at the girls
who did all seem to have male escorts.

 

 

Bronson shrugged. "It is late. But you wait. You are American. You have
an advantage." He had scarcely spoken when a girl wearing a black dress
splashed with red and yellow flowers walked over to their table. She
stood near Yale, and smiled at him beguilingly.

 

 

Bronson got up. "Well, gentlemen. You are on your way. I'll say good
night."

 

 

Yale watched him go. Trailord had started to drink straight whiskeys.

 

 

The girl sat down. Yale pointed at TrafFord. "Him. He wants you! Not me."

 

 

Trafford slid his hand under the girl's skirt. She looked at Yale and
shrugged. "My friend is a eunuch." Trafford nodded at Yale. "He can
screw but he doesn't enjoy it."

 

 

In a few minutes Trafford was playing with the girl's breasts, and she
was murmuring at him in French. "Get yourself a mamselle, Marratt!
I can't understand a damn thing this one's saying . . . but she feels
like a hot cookie." He grabbed Yale's hand. Before Yale realized what
Trafford was doing he shoved Yale's hand under the girl's skirt and
between her legs. "What did I tell you?" He grinned obscenely. "She's
ready to be laid."

 

 

"You take her and lay her. Leave me alone!" Yale said angrily. The girl
got up and tugged at Trafford's arm. "Okay, chum, you're on your own,"
Trafford said. He grabbed the bottle and followed the girl in a wavering
path between the crowded tables. In a few minutes he was back. "Listen,
you bastard. She's got another girl. I don't want to go alone. Come on,
don't be such a prick."

 

 

Yale told him to go to hell. "You're a sucker," he said. "She'll probably
have some Arab buck ready to roll you as soon as you get your pants off."

 

 

"You're a shit," Trafford sneered at Yale, leaving the table again.
"Some day, maybe I won't be able to do you a favor, I hope."

 

 

Yale ordered a drink. He listened as a pianist played "Some One of These
Days," and sang it in French. Yale pulled out his billfold to pay the
waiter, and noticed a picture of Cynthia that he still carried. Behind
the yellowed celluloid compartment, it had faded like a travesty of some
picture taken in the early days of photography. He lifted it out of his
billfold. Cindar, standing in front of her dormitory, self-conscious,
a smile on her face. 1939 . . . another world. It was ridiculous for
him to keep living in the past. For him Cynthia was dead. The past was
dead. How much sadness can a man hold, he wondered? Do we ever reach
a pinnacle where we can say I am all . . . I am to myself sufficient
. . . or do the strains of some timeless sadness keep crowding in,
forever separating one individual from another? He drank his drink,
trying to assuage his loneliness. His head in his hands he stared at
the cracked varnish on the table, and he hated the place and he hated
the people, and their unintelligible conversations, but most of all he
hated himself for not being the person he once was. Drunkenly, he murmured
aloud, "There was a time, when meadow, grove and stream, the earth, and
every common sight to me did seem apparelled in a celestial light." He
couldn't remember the rest, and looked up startled as he heard a voice
continuing. "It is not now as it hath been of yore; -- Turn whereso'er
I may, by night or day, the things which I have seen I now can see no
more. . . ." It was Max Bronson who had silently returned. He smiled at
Yale and sucked on an unlighted cigar. "Wordsworth? A bit sentimental
tonight?" he asked, smiling.

 

 

"My underwear is showing," Yale said, and pushed the bottle at him. "Have
a drink." He crumpled the picture of Cynthia into a tiny wad, and rolled
it around in his hand.

 

 

Bronson told the waiter to bring a glass for him. He poured it half-full
of whiskey. "Your friend, the Major, . . . he likes feminine company?"
Bronson's eyes twinkled. "He went off with not one but two of the girls."

 

 

"He's probably got a two-headed prick," Yale said sourly.

 

 

"You . . . you don't care for women?"

 

 

"I prefer quality to quantity." Yale shook his head when it appeared
that Bronson would be glad to find him "quality."

 

 

"Sorry, I'm too damned tired."

 

 

"I was under the impression," Bronson said, "that you might be interested
in somewhat larger financial transactions than that of the Major." Yale
stared at him, wondering if he were playing the odds too far. Here he was
in a joint where for all he knew he might end his days. This Max Bronson
with his closely clipped hair and jowly face looked like a Hollywood
casting man's idea of the perfect Nazi. What the hell, Yale thought,
the plane to Cairo may crash, too. The multiple if's would nag you to
death if you let them.

 

 

"If I am interested, it will be at a better rate than forty-two francs
for a dollar," Yale said. "I'd prefer to think in terms of say, sixty."

 

 

Bronson looked at him calmly. He lighted his cigar. "How many francs
are you interested in buying?"

 

 

"About a million or so at sixty for a dollar."

 

 

Bronson puffed his cigar reflectively, showing no surprise. "I see you
wear the diamond insignia of a paying officer."

 

 

"Don't worry. Any negotiations will be with my own money," Yale said
sharply. "The U.S. Army won't be involved. What's more, it will have to
be accomplished within twenty-four hours. I'm on orders to India."

 

 

"Do you have the dollars with you?"

 

 

Yale looked at him with raised eyebrows. "Do I look stupid?" He could
feel the money belt tight against his middle. He had an odd sensation
that Bronson was looking right through his shirt. It was stupid, he
thought, and Bronson knows it, to take a chance like this . . . to even
discuss such a large sum with a stranger. He looked around, uneasily,
thinking that probably at a nod of Max's head, the life of Yale Marratt
would end. He wondered how the Army would report his disappearance.

 

 

"Do you know," Bronson said, laughing, "I have the impression that you
feel you have fallen among thieves. I saw a movie sometime ago about
Casablanca with your famous star Bogart . . . filled with very sinister
characters . . . a typically American idea of a foreign land." He looked
at Yale mockingly. "Call me Max, please. I am a friend. I like Americans!"

 

 

"You mean you like their dollars."

 

 

Max shrugged. "Really, I enjoy Americans. They have incredibly flexible
moral standards. They should understand the German mentality better.
Take you, for instance. You obviously have eighteen or twenty thousand
dollars. You are hoping to pull a fast coup and double it. You tell
yourself this is your money. Maybe it is, but if you succeed in buying
francs you are going to have to use U.S. Army funds to get out from
under. Isn't that so?"

 

 

Yale didn't answer.

 

 

"You know it is so," Bronson continued. "Without knowing how you plan
to do it, I know the only possible way is through a U.S. Army Finance
office. There are no other sources for dollars in Casablanca at the
moment. You will cash your francs in at the official rate of twenty-five
for a dollar. A magic multiplication that will make you a rich man. Did
you ever stop to wonder who will pay for your wealth?"