“The Hostaria…” As with the waiters, it seemed no one heard him. “The Blue Bar. Come on, we’re going to the Blue Bar,” he announced.
Outside the Botanical Gardens, parked in the cold, the small windows of the car frosted, Lang sat. His clothing was open. His flesh was pale in the refracted light. He had eaten dinner with Eva. She had talked for hours in a low, uncertain voice, it was a night for stories, she had told him everything, about Coleman the head of publicity, Mirella, her brother, Sicily, life. On the road to the mountains which overlooked Palermo there were cars parked at five in the afternoon. In each one was a couple, the man with a handkerchief spread in his lap.
“I am so lonely,” she said suddenly.
She had only three friends, she saw them all the time. They went to the theater together, the ballet. One was an actress. One was married. She was silent, she seemed to wait. The cold was everywhere, it covered the glass. Her breath was in crystals, visible in the dark.
“Can I kiss it?” she said.
She began to moan then, as if it were holy. She touched it with her forehead. She was murmuring. The nape of her neck was bare.
She called the next morning. It was eight o’clock.
“I want to read something to you,” she said.
He was half-asleep, the racket was already drifting up from the street. The room was chill and unlighted. Within it, distant as an old record, her voice was playing. It entered his body, it commanded his blood.
“I found this,” she said. “Are you there?”
“Yes.”
“I thought you would like it.”
It was from an article. She began to read.
In February of 1868, in Milan, Prince Umberto had given a splendid ball. In a room which blazed with light the young bride who was one day to be Queen of Italy was introduced. It was the event of the year, crowded and gay, and while the world of fashion amused itself thus, at the same hour and in the same city a lone astronomer was discovering a new planet, the ninety-seventh on Chacornac’s chart….
Silence. A new planet.
In his mind, still warmed by the pillow, it seemed a sacred calm had descended. He lay like a saint. He was naked, his ankles, his hipbones, his throat.
He heard her call his name. He said nothing. He lay there becoming small, smaller, vanishing. The room became a window, a facade, a group of buildings, squares and sections, in the end all of Rome. His ecstasy was beyond knowing. The roofs of the great cathedrals shone in the winter air.
LOST SONS
All afternoon the cars, many with out-of-state plates, were coming along the road. The long row of lofty brick quarters appeared above. The gray walls began.
In the reception area a welcoming party was going on. There were faces that had hardly changed at all and others like Reemstma’s whose name tag was read more than once. Someone with a camera and flash attachment was running around in a cadet bathrobe. Over in the barracks they were drinking. Doors were open. Voices spilled out.
“Hooknose will be here,” Dunning promised loudly. There was a bottle on the desk near his feet. “He’ll show, don’t worry. I had a letter from him.”
“A letter? Klingbeil never wrote a letter.”
“His secretary wrote it,” Dunning said. He looked like a judge, large and well fed. His glasses lent a dainty touch. “He’s teaching her to write.”
“Where’s he living now?”
“Florida.”
“Remember the time we were sneaking back to Buckner at two in the morning and all of a sudden a car came down the road?”
Dunning was trying to arrange a serious expression.
“We dove in the bushes. It turned out it was a taxi. It slammed on the brakes and backed up. The door opens and there’s Klingbeil in the backseat, drunk as a lord. Get in, boys, he says.”
Dunning roared. His blouse with its rows of colored ribbons was unbuttoned, gluteal power hinted by the width of his lap.
“Remember,” he said, “when we threw Devereaux’s Spanish book with all his notes in it out the window? Into the snow. He never found it. He went bananas. You bastards, I’ll kill you!”
“He’d have been a star man if he hadn’t been living with you.”
“We tried to broaden him,” Dunning explained.
They used to do the sinking of the Bismarck while he was studying. Klingbeil was the captain. They would jump up on the desks. Der Schiff ist kaputt! they shouted. They were firing the guns. The rudder was jammed, they were turning in circles. Devereaux sat head down with his hands pressed over his ears. Will you bastards shut up! he screamed.
Bush, Buford, Jap Andrus, Doane, and George Hilmo were sitting on the beds and windowsill. An uncertain face looked in the doorway.
“Who’s that?”
It was Reemstma whom no one had seen for years. His hair had turned gray. He smiled awkwardly. “What’s going on?”
They looked at him.
“Come in and have a drink,” someone finally said.
He found himself next to Hilmo, who reached across to shake hands with an iron grip. “How are you?” he said. The others went on talking. “You look great.”
“You, too.”
Hilmo seemed not to hear. “Where are you living?” he said.
“Rosemont. Rosemont, New Jersey. It’s where my wife’s family’s from,” Reemstma said. He spoke with a strange intensity. He had always been odd. Everyone wondered how he had ever made it through. He did all right in class but the image that lasted was of someone bewildered by close order drill which he seemed to master only after two years and then with the stiffness of a cat trying to swim. He had full lips which were the source of an unflattering nickname. He was also known as To The Rear March because of the disasters he caused at the command.
He was handed a used paper cup. “Whose bottle is this?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Hilmo said. “Here.”
“Are a lot of people coming?”
“Boy, you’re full of questions,” Hilmo said.
Reemstma fell silent. For half an hour they told stories. He sat by the window, sometimes looking in his cup. Outside, the clock with its black numerals began to brighten. West Point lay majestic in the early evening, its dignified foliage still. Below, the river was silent, mysterious islands floating in the dusk. Near the corner of the library a military policeman, his arm moving with precision, directed traffic past a sign for the reunion of 1960, a class on which Vietnam had fallen as stars fell on 1915 and 1931. In the distance was the faint sound of a train.
It was almost time for dinner. There were still occasional cries of greeting from below, people talking, voices. Feet were leisurely descending the stairs.
“Hey,” someone said unexpectedly, “what the hell is that thing you’re wearing?”
Reemstma looked down. It was a necktie of red, flowered cloth. His wife had made it. He changed it before going out.
“Hello, there.”
Walking calmly alone was a white-haired figure with an armband that read 1930.
“What class are you?”
“Nineteen-sixty,” Reemstma said.
“I was just thinking as I walked along, I was wondering what finally happened to everybody. It’s hard to believe but when I was here we had men who simply packed up after a few weeks and went home without a word to anyone. Ever hear of anything like that? Nineteen-sixty, you say?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You ever hear of Frank Kissner? I was his chief of staff. He was a tough guy. Regimental commander in Italy. One day Mark Clark drove up and said, Frank, come here a minute, I want to talk to you. Haven’t got time, I’m too busy, Frank said.”
“Really?”