“Abendsen talks like it’s big issue as to whether U.S. or Britain ultimately wins out. Bull! Has no merit, no history to it. Six of one, dozen of other. You ever read what the Duce wrote? Inspired. Beautiful man. Beautiful writing. Explains the underlying actuality of every event. Real issue in war was: old versus new. Money—that’s why Nazis dragged Jewish question mistakenly into it—versus communal mass spirit, what Nazis call Gemeinschaft–folkness. Like Soviet. Commune. Right? Only, Communists sneaked in Pan-Slavic Peter the Great empire ambitions along with it, made social reform means for imperial ambitions.”
Juliana thought, Like Mussolini did. Exactly.
“Nazi thuggery a tragedy,” Joe stuttered away as he passed a slow-moving truck. “But change’s always harsh on the loser. Nothing new. Look at previous revolutions such as French. Or Cromwell against Irish. Too much philosophy in Germanic temperament; too much theater, too. All those rallies. You never find true Fascist talking, only doing—like me. Right?”
Laughing, she said, “God, you’ve been talking a mile a minute.”
He shouted excitedly, “I’m explaining Fascist theory of action!”
She couldn’t answer; it was too funny.
But the man beside her did not think it was funny; he glowered at her, his face red. Veins in his forehead became distended and he began once more to shake. And again he passed his fingers clutchingly along his scalp, forward and back, not speaking, only staring at her.
“Don’t get sore at me,” she said.
For a moment she thought he was going to hit her; he drew his arm back… but then he grunted, reached and turned up the car radio.
They drove on. Band music from the radio, static. Once more she tried to concentrate on the book.
“You’re right,” Joe said after a long time.
“About what?”
“Two-bit empire. Clown for a leader. No wonder we got nothing out of the war.”
She patted his arm.
“Juliana, it’s all darkness,” Joe said. “Nothing is true or certain. Right?”
“Maybe so,” she said absently, continuing to try to read.
“Britain wins,” Joe said, indicating the book. “I save you the trouble. U.S. dwindles, Britain keeps needling and poking and expanding, keeps the initiative. So put it away.”
“I hope we have fun in Denver,” she said, closing the book. “You need to relax. I want you to.” If you don’t, she thought, you’re going to fly apart in a million pieces. Like a bursting spring. And what happens to me, then? How do I get back? And do I just leave you?
I want the good time you promised me, she thought. I don’t want to be cheated; I’ve been cheated too much in my life before, by too many people.
“We’ll have it,” Joe said. “Listen.” He studied her with a queer, introspective expression. “You take to that Grasshopper book so much; I wonder—do you suppose a man who writes a best seller, an author like that Abendsen, do people write letters to him? I bet lots of people praise his book by letters to him, maybe even visit.”
All at once she understood. “Joe—it’s only another hundred miles!”
His eyes shone; he smiled at her, happy again, no longer flushed or troubled.
“We could!” she said. “You drive so good—it’d be nothing to go on up there, would it?”
Slowly, Joe said, “Well, I doubt a famous man lets visitors drop in. Probably so many of them.”
“Why not try? Joe—” She grabbed his shoulder, squeezed him excitedly. “All he could do is send us away. Please.”
With great deliberation, Joe said, “When we’ve gone shopping and got new clothes, all spruced up… that’s important, to make a good impression. And maybe even rent a new car up in Cheyenne. Bet you can do that.”