“What about the others?”
“Upper crust lads, all of them. That fat hairless bugger, th-th-th-the one, he pocketed an important paper, top secret and all that, from his old man (the pater familias is on the Council of State) and gave it to a spying bitch in exchange for a bit of the other. Luckily enough, the counterespionage blokes caught him at it, sent the bitch to the slammer and himself to his Daddy. Daddy thought it best to have him do his National Service, ‘He’ll come to his senses in the army,’ like, and here he is, coming to his senses. Little Guy’s the son of a lady-in-waiting — or ex-lady-in-waiting, that is … They called her the Guards’ Pompadour. She never said no to anyone from private to major; upward from there, it all depended on how influential you were. They say the lad’s father is a hot-shot crazy general … well, you saw it — he’s some kind of mad psychologist himself. But the fourth, ‘The Parisian,’ he’s got the most clout. His old man’s … well, nobody even knows what he is; lives abroad; imports weapons, they say. The boy only came back to do his student stint in the service — he’ll be going back to Daddy afterward as his assistant, to help with the war effort if things come to a head. Everyone doing their bit, as they say. They’ve all got their suitcases packed, my old friend, and their passports ready in hand. That’s why they call it the Diplomatic Room.”
“You seem to know everything,” said Melkior diffidently. “So how did I end up there?”
“How?” Mitar raised his head as if about to crow forth some weighty truth, but changed his mind: “You can thank God and the Major …”
“But I don’t even know the Major!”
“Well, that’s it, just because you don’t. When you get to know the Colonel, you’ll get to know the Major too. The Colonel’s Head of Department, a soldier and a patriot.”
“Meaning the Major isn’t a patriot?”
“Course he is, who says he isn’t? You’re asking an awful lot of questions,” and Mitar gave him a suspicious look. “I’ve told you too much as it is.”
“Well, why did you? Perhaps I, too, am a …”
“You?” scoffed Mitar. “I’ve had a look at your papers, my man. Do you think I’d be talking to you like this if I hadn’t?” Mitar slapped the white coat pocket into which he had dropped Melkior’s money. “You’re exactly the kind the Major has a soft spot for. That’s why he put you in here with this lot. He’ll never be a success — he’s not the army type.”
“Why not?”
“Where will it get him, standing up for you?” cried Mitar angrily. “He’d kick all four of them out of here and back to the barracks if he had his way, he’d only keep you in. You think that’s the way to build a career?”
“Why doesn’t he resign his commission, then?”
“In the old army his father was in command of the entire Medical Corps, a general, he was in the retreat across Albania in World War I. Old King Petar’s personal physician. Old school. That’s how the doc brought up his son,” Mitar gave a pitying smile. “The Medical Corps, sure, fairness and justice, the whole bit. … It’ll all go to hell one day, see if it …” but Mitar suddenly cut it short: he realized he was still holding the glass aloft in a “formal toast” and laughed. “A nice place we’ve chosen for a … And me holding your champagne here … Right — take care now; off to bed. There’s the morning rounds coming up in a minute. You’ll have the honor of meeting the Colonel. He’s going to have your hide, of course, because you’re ‘the Major’s boy,’ get it? You just grin and bear it, and look at him with respect and fear, as if you’ve just shit in your bed, get it?”
“Will the nurse be there, too?” Melkior couldn’t help himself.
“You mean Acika? Fancy her, eh? Well, you might as well forget about that, you’ll find no joy there.”
“I’m not expecting any. Just asking.”
“I’m not blaming you — she’s quite the looker, she is.”
“Yes, she sure is pretty,” sighed Melkior. “Has she got someone?”
“Search me. She’s nice to everyone, you can’t tell whether she’s really like that or just playing a silly game. An odd sort of girl. Right, see you.”
An odd sort of girl, you say, Melkior kept repeating in his bed, covered up to his chin. But he was saying it mechanically, there was no thought behind it at all. His body was hobbled by a tinge of apprehension. Slight tremors had started from his chin downward to his belly and legs, and suddenly developed into uncontrollable feverish shivering. Look, my teeth are chatter-tattering, he attempted a joke, but it only produced nervous spasmodic yawns along with deaf-and-mute mumbles.
“Did you say something, Meteor?” asked Menjou benevolently.
“Nuhhing,” he managed to articulate in his wide-open mouth. But the brief contact with the “outside world” greatly relieved his internal tension: the shivering suddenly stopped, his body felt much more secure in the favorable climate of the bed.
The door opened soundlessly, with due respect. A white procession filed into the room solemnly and mutely, as if in a dream ceremony. It was headed by a shortish, lean old man, his goatee white and sternly pointed, his gaze penetrating and sharp, “I’m reading you like a cover page, boy.” Under his white coat moved his thin bowed legs (in high boots), the metal claws on the heels jangling, dandy-style, the fashion of a Royal ball. A white polar bird waddling across ice on black feet was how the man looked to Melkior. That of course was the Coloneclass="underline" a soldier and a patriot.
Behind him walked the Major at a slight distance, thereby emphasizing his subordinate position in the solemn march past. He said, “Good morning, boys,” at which the tip of the Colonel’s commandant-like beard shot upward in surprise. She was next to the Major, sick lists in hand, with an open fountain pen poised above them. She was wholly dedicated to respect for the exalted proceedings and moved eagerly in the solemn march. There were also several youngish, carefully shaven faces attending the pontifical function with clerical patience as unimportant personages. Bringing up the rear was Mitar, but he remained just inside the door like a poor relation at a funeral; he was well aware of his station.
The Colonel proceeded to do the rounds of “his” quartet, stopping at the foot of each bed in turn and inquiring after their good health.
“Well, how’s it going, lad?” he said to Menjou with paternal irony. “Your father’s asking after you — what shall I tell him?”
“It’s getting boring in here, sir,” Menjou replied coyly. “I wish I could go back to the Academy — I’ll fall behind with my studies like this.”
“Health first, my boy!” the Colonel raised his goatee resolutely. “What’s the rush? You’ll catch up with them soon enough. How do you rank in your class?”
“First, sir,” snapped Menjou and clicked his teeth, his heels coming together by themselves in bed.
“First?” said the Colonel in feigned marvel. “What’re you complaining for, then? Not to worry, it’ll be a snap for you to catch up. I’ll say hello to your father for you,” he tossed off before moving to the next bed.
“If you please, sir,” and Menjou gave a brisk nod by way of saluting.
“What about you, diplomat?” he asked Tartuffe. “Any news from your father? Did he get safely over to England?”
“Safely indeed, sir … at the last moment,” added Tartuffe with a confidential smile. “The Germans had already taken Bordeaux …”