«And Victor?» Rick asked. There. It was out in the open now.
«He’s been in Paris for the past month.»
«Still working with the Resistance.» It wasn’t a question.
«Yes.» She took another sip of champagne, then said, «We have a child, you know.»
Rick’s face twitched into an expression halfway between a smile and a grimace.
«She’ll be three in December.»
«A Christmas baby,» Rick said. «Lucky kid.»
Ilsa picked up her glass, but put it down again without drinking from it. «Victor and I … we thought, well, after the war is over, we’d go back to Prague.»
«Sure,» said Rick.
«There’ll be so much to do,» Ilsa went on, almost whispering, almost pleading. «His work won’t be finished when the war ends. In a way, it will just be beginning.»
«Yes,» I said, «that’s understandable.»
Rick stared into his glass and said nothing.
«What will you do when the war’s over?» she asked him.
Rick looked up at her. «I never make plans that far ahead.»
Ilsa nodded. «Oh, yes. I see.»
«Well,» I said, «I’m thinking about going into politics, myself.»
With a wry grin, Rick said, «You’d be good at it, Louie. Perfect.»
She took another brief sip of champagne, then said, «I’ll have to go now.»
He answered, «Yeah, I figured.»
«He’s my husband, Rick.»
«Right. And a great man. We all know that.»
Ilsa closed her eyes for a moment. «I wanted to see you, Richard,» she said, her tone suddenly different, urgent, the words coming out all in a rush. «I wanted to see that you were all right. That you’d made it through the war all right.»
«I’m fine,» he said, his voice flat and cold and final. He got up from the bench and helped her come out from behind the table.
She hesitated just a fraction of a second, clinging to his arm for a heartbeat. Then she said, «Goodbye, Rick.»
«Goodbye, Ilsa.»
I thought there would be tears in her eyes, but they were dry and unwavering. «I’ll never see you again, will I?»
«It doesn’t look that way.»
«It’s … sad.»
He shook his head. «We’ll always have Paris. Most poor chumps don’t even get that much.»
She barely nodded at me, then walked swiftly to the door and was gone.
Rick blew out a gust of air and sat down again.
«Well, that’s over.» He drained his glass and filled it again.
I’m not a sentimentalist, but my heart went out to him. There was nothing I could say, nothing I could do.
He smiled at me. «Hey, Louie, why the long face?»
I sighed. «I’ve seen you two leave each other twice now. The first time you left her. This time, though, she definitely left you. And for good.»
«That’s right.» He was still smiling.
«I should think—»
«It’s over, Louie. It was finished a long time ago.»
«Really?»
«That night at the airport I knew it. She was too much of a kid to understand it herself.»
«I know something about women, my friend. She was in love with you.»
«Was,» Rick emphasized. «But what she wanted I couldn’t give her.»
«And what was that?»
Rick’s smile turned just slightly bitter. «What she’s got with Victor. The whole nine yards. Marriage. Kids. A respectable home after the war. I could see it then, that night at the airport. That’s why I gave her the kiss-off. She’s a life sentence. That’s not for me.»
I had thought that I was invulnerable when it came to romance. But Rick’s admission stunned me.
«Then you really did want to get her out of your life?»
He nodded slowly. «That night at the airport. I figured she had Victor and they’d make a life for themselves after this crazy war was over. And that’s what they’ll do.»
«But … why did you come here? She expected to find you here. You both knew …»
«I told you. I came here to meet a lady.»
«Not Ilsa?»
«Not Ilsa.»
«Then who?»
He glanced at his watch. «Figuring that she’s always at least ten minutes late, she ought to be coming in right about now.»
I turned in my seat and looked toward the door. She came striding through, tall, glamorous, stylishly dressed. I immediately recognized her, although she’d been little more than a lovesick child when I’d known her in Casablanca.
Rick got to his feet again and went to her. She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him the way a Frenchwoman should.
Leading her to the table, Rick poured a glass of champagne for her. As they touched glasses, he smiled and said, «Here’s looking at you, kid.» Yvonne positively glowed.
THE BABE, THE IRON HORSE, AND MR. McGILLICUDDY
As I mentioned in the introduction to «Delta Vee,» Rick Wilber is a writer, as well as an editor and teacher. A very fine writer, as a matter of fact; one of the few true literary stylists in today’s science-fiction field.
Rick is also, like me, a baseball fan. He comes to this genetically, being the son of Del Wilber, a big-league catcher for many years. Thus, when he writes about baseball Rick adds an insider’s knowledge to his formidable writing skills. My knowledge of baseball is strictly from the grandstand seats, rooting for the tragedy-prone Boston Red Sox.
One day we got talking about baseball and, as writers will, we were soon plotting a story that involved Babe Ruth, Lou Gherig (baseball’s «Iron Horse») and Cornelius McGillicuddy, known to the world as Connie Mack, longtime owner and manager of the Philadelphia Athletics.
This story is pure fantasy, of course. I only hope that you have as much fun reading it as Rick and I had writing it.
The Iron Horse uncoiled, bringing the hips through first and then following with the shoulders, those quick wrists, that snap as the bat hit the ball.
It was just batting practice, but Lou felt wonderful, like a kid again, with no pain, with the body doing what it had always done so well. He had no idea what was going on, how he’d gotten here, what had happened. He almost didn’t want to think about it, for fear it might all be some hallucination, some death dream, his mind going crazy in the last moments, trying to make the dying easier for him.
There was a sharp crack as he sent a towering shot toward the center-field wall in Yankee Stadium, over the wall for sure, sailing high and deep. He stood there and watched this one go. It would be nearly five hundred feet before it landed, he guessed.
But the Negro ballplayer roaming around out in center shagging flies did it again, turned his back to the plate and raced away, heading straight toward the wall, full tilt. There was, surprisingly, a lot of room now in center, and the Negro had blazing speed. He somehow managed to nearly catch up with the ball, and then, amazingly, reached straight out in front to make a basket catch over his shoulder. It was a beautiful catch, an amazing one, really, the large number 24 on the man’s back all that Lou could see for a moment as the ball was caught.
Then the Negro turned and fired a strike toward second, where Charlie Gehringer waited for it, catching it on one long hop and sweeping the bag as if there were a runner sliding in. Gehringer whooped as he made the tag, as impressed as everyone else with the center fielder arm. Then he rolled the ball in toward the batting practice pitcher.
On the mound, taking a ball out of the basket and pounding it into his catcher’s mitt, Yogi just smiled. Like everyone else, he didn’t understand how this was happening, how they all came to be here—but he really didn’t care. When he let that last pitch go he’d have sworn he was in Yankee Stadium somehow, but then, looking at Willie chase it down in dead center, it looked for all the world like the Polo Grounds, with Coogan’s Bluff in the background.