Still, Munich freed him. He went in with Godchaux sometimes though usually Godchaux had a date. One night he met a woman who was divorced and had lived in the States and even for a while had a job there. She was a fabric designer and shared an apartment with her mother. The mother was not in the apartment that night. They sat on the couch—it was actually a daybed with small pillows—and talked. Suddenly she leaned over and kissed him as a man might do. Cassada was a little drunk—they’d met in a bar. He felt her hand slip inside his clothes. He said nothing.
“You’re very excited,” she whispered.
It was silent for a while. He began hurriedly to unbutton her dress but suddenly it was too late. She made a sound like inhaling and withdrew her hand.
“Do you have a handkerchief?” she asked.
He’d seen her several times after that though he was not really attracted to her—she talked only about her mother and herself—and then near the end of an evening in a place called the Elysée he stood near a girl at the top of the stairs that led down to the Damen and Herren. She had a Slavic face though he did not recognize it as such, wide across the cheeks, and cropped dark hair. He stared at her.
“You probably don’t speak English, but so what?” he said impulsively.
She looked at him.
“My name is Robert. I just thought you look great standing there and you have a terrific face.”
“You, too,” she said.
He was stunned into silence, but something had happened. It was as if they were at a dance, she seemed to accept his invitation, to nod yes. Her face was singular. It possessed a light or perhaps it was clarity.
“I didn’t know you understood what I was saying.”
“If you knew, what would you have said?”
“I’d say, I hope you’re not leaving. I… I’d like to listen to you for a while.”
“To listen to me?” She gave a slight smile. “That wouldn’t be so interesting.”
“I’ll make a bet.”
“A bet?”
“It’s too hard to explain. You live in Munich?”
“Yes.”
“Me, too.”
“In Munich?”
“Well a little outside Munich. Fürstenfeldbruck.”
“So, you’re a pilot.”
They were words Cassada loved. Everyone that didn’t know anything about this.
“Yeah. I’m a fighter pilot.”
“Maybe I could guess it.”
“How could you guess it?”
She shrugged.
“So, listen. What’s your name?”
“I don’t think so,” she said.
“No, what is it, really? Tell me. I’m absolutely serious, you have the face I’ve been looking for.”
“It’s no good to tell you my name.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Karen.”
“Karen,” he repeated. “Are you married? You’re not married or anything?”
“You’re so intense.”
“No, tell me.”
“What do you want to know again?”
She was very good-looking, her cheekbones and white teeth.
“Where’d you learn to speak English?” he said and before she could answer, “That’s really lucky. But you know something?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Yes, what?”
“I know something.”
She smiled and Cassada did also. It was a pleasure to talk to her. She spoke the same language, exactly. It would go back and forth between them. He would know her. Someone was coming up the stairs then—Cassada barely noticed—until an arm was put through hers, a man’s arm.
“Hey,” Cassada protested and then saw in disbelief who it was. He was unable to speak.
“Ready?” Isbell said to the girl.
“Wait a minute,” Cassada said. “What’s going on?”
“We’re leaving.”
“I mean, what is this?”
“What is it? What do you think?”
“No, no. I was here. I met you, didn’t I?” he said to the girl. She gave a slight laugh.
“I’ll see you, Robert,” Isbell said.
“Hey, Captain. This is not on duty.”
“Duty?”
“You can’t pull rank.”
“I don’t have to.”
“Let her choose.”
“You’re out past where you should be,” Isbell said calmly.
“No, no. Oh, no.”
“Let’s go,” Isbell said calmly to the girl. “See you later,” he said to Cassada.
Cassada stood there. The one woman in Munich, he thought, the one woman in all that time. He felt sick. He could not believe it. He went out to the street after them, almost trembling, but too late, they were gone, the red taillights leaving him behind.
Chapter IX
A lieutenant named Myers had been killed near Toul. The paper didn’t give his name, just his group, but someone had learned it. It was the second accident of the week. There’d been a bailout over Kaiserslautern a few days before.
“Myers,” Godchaux said. “I knew him. He was in my class in flying school. Good pilot.”
Harlan was reading the paper.
“They all are,” he said from in back of the pages.
“All are what?”
“Good pilots. Whatever happens to the lousy ones? That’s what I wonder.”
It was one of the reasons to read the Stars and Stripes, starting in with a kind of sweepstakes excitement, wondering if there’d be one and if it would be anyone they knew. Harlan wasn’t that far off—it was sometimes the best ones. The best or the worst.
There was a wind blowing, a strong wind keening under the eaves and making a sound like a prayer call. Isbell stood by himself at the window. He could see the wind in the clear air and the shifting tone of the grass. Six planes were up and he was waiting for them to enter traffic. Not far from him Abrams sat squinting at the tape in the adding machine, printed with hour upon hour of flying time rich with error.
It was not that he was indifferent. He worked diligently, even after hours, round face shining with effort. Isbell had made up his mind more than once to get rid of him. It was hard to do. Some kind of lazy loyalty had crept in.
In the hangar birds nested in the rafters, skimming in and out the wide doorways. Isbell met Dunning there.
“Swallows,” Dunning said.
“Is that what they are?”
“That’s what they are, all right.”
They were curving out into the brilliant day, swift, barely missing.
“They’ll be crapping all over the windshields,” Dunning commented.
There were a few planes there that maintenance was at work on. Dunning stood peering up into the shadows.
“I’ll have to get down here with a shotgun,” he said.
“Wickenden could probably do it.”
“I don’t want anybody blowing holes in the roof. I’ll do it myself,” Dunning said. “Well, they’re after us again. We have to send two pilots down to Tripoli. It’s part of a meet to decide which team from Europe will go to the States.”
“To Vegas?”
“Yeah.”
“We haven’t practiced.”
“We’re not even in it,” Dunning said. “It’s a two-group shoot-off.”
“Which ones? How’d they pick them?”
Dunning was patting his pockets, looking for something.
“They did it from the gunnery scores,” he said.
“And we’re not in it?”
“Yeah, I’d like to see the scores.”
“I can’t believe it. They were probably punching holes in the targets with a screwdriver. I’ve seen that.”