“Destiny,” I said.
She shrugged. “Laugh. It doesn’t bother me.”
“I’m not laughing. Wondering.”
“All I know is what I feel,” she said. “It’s in the stars, somehow. The DNA. I can’t explain it any better. This goddamn war. I hate it, I do hate it, but it’s what I’m here for. I hate it but I love it.”
She swiveled out of bed and went to an open window. For several minutes she simply stood there, framed by the future, whatever it was.
Then she sighed, squatted down, and pulled a pillowcase over her head.
“A long time ago,” she said, “I told you something. I want to be wanted. By you, by Interpol. Those handsome dudes on the FBI—doesn’t matter, just wanted. Do you see? I need that.”
“Of course.”
“Here, too. They want me.” She made a broad gesture with her arm. “What I’m trying to say is, I mean, I’m not the strongest person in the world. I get overwhelmed by all this. You know, this Red connection, Cuba and all that. I don’t know where it’s headed. Guns or jail. I’m committed, though, and it’s necessary, but sometimes I get the creeps, I get scared. You understand? Part of me wants to run away. Like to Rio, or anywhere. Have babies and clip coupons. Be your wife, maybe—something normal—anything.”
I smiled at the pillowcase.
“Except?”
“Yes,” she said. “Except there’s still that ladder I told you about.”
“And me?”
“You.”
“No grand destiny, Sarah. A guy on the run.”
“Agreed.”
“So where do I fit?”
She waited a moment. Outside, there were crickets and night birds.
“Difficult question,” she said. “There’s always Sweden or Hudson Bay, right? Hide your head. Cover your eyes and wish the war away.”
“I didn’t say—”
“William, listen to me. I love you, you know that, but sometimes—lots of times—I can’t help wondering about your backbone. All that bullshit about a dangerous world. The bombs are real, la-di-dah, but you don’t ever do anything, just crawl under your Ping-Pong table. That jellyfish attitude, I despise it. Despise, that’s the only word. I love you, but the despising makes it hard.”
Sarah turned and made her way toward the bed. She was attractive, I thought, in her chrome bracelet and white pillowcase.
For a few moments we lay still.
“Involvement,” she said. “In a day or two, I’m afraid, it’ll get very rough around here, and if you can’t hack it—”
“A warning?”
“No, just a statement. Love and war. Sooner or later you have to choose sides.”
Six splendid days.
On the seventh we were roused a half hour before dawn.
A bell, a shrill whistle. “Up, up!” someone yelled, and then another voice, much louder: “Haul ass!”
We assembled in the courtyard.
A single rank, stiff at attention. All around us were khakied soldiers with heavy boots and bad tempers. “Freeze!” someone shouted, and we froze.
Dream time, I decided.
I concentrated on the sounds. Across the courtyard, in shadows, a door slammed shut. There was the squeal of a bullhorn.
We stood with our backs to a tile wall.
At noon we were still there.
Near midnight Tina said, “Wow,” then smiled and collapsed. But infirmity was not allowed. After a moment one of the soldiers hoisted her back to a standing position. No explanations, just blood in the feet. Speech was prohibited. Eighteen hours, I thought, then later I thought: twenty hours. Mostly, though, I tried to keep from thinking. Don’t think, I’d think. Then I’d think: this world of ours. But I refused to think about it. A matter of moral posture. Shoulders square, spine stiff. I calculated the precise specifications of pain, quantifying things, squaring off the roots, letting the numbers pile up as a kind of insulation.
And then the zeros came. Blank time, nothing at all. When I looked up, it was full daylight.
Two men stood staring. They were dressed identically in combat fatigues, jungle boots, and black berets. Their skin, too, was black, and their eyes.
“Oooo, lookie,” one said, and smiled.
The other did not smile.
They surveyed us for a time, then the first man—the smiler—stepped forward and said, “Hi, there, kiddies. Welcome to camp.”
His companion snorted.
The smiler kept smiling. It was an extraordinary smile, sharp-toothed and wolfish. He prowled back and forth, gracefully, stopping once to wipe sweat from Ollie’s forehead, once to inspect the fat at Tina’s stomach.
“These campers,” he said gently, “are in sore need of outdoor recreation.”
“Bullshit,” said the second man.
The first man chuckled.
“Pitiful, I concur.” He smiled and make a tsking noise. Stooping, he ran his hand along the surface of Tina’s stomach. Then suddenly he stopped smiling.
“My name,” he said, “is Ebenezer Keezer. This here gentleman is Nethro.” He paused to let these facts take shape. “So let’s everybody get acquainted. Real loud an’ happy. Say hi to my pal Nethro.”
“Hi,” we said.
“Loud, children.”
“Hi!” we shouted.
“Bullshit,” said Nethro. “Can’t hear nothin’.”
“Volume, people. Blow it out. On three—ready?”
On three we yelled, “Hi!”
Nethro shook his head. He was a large, unhappy man. “Fuckers forgot my name. They s’posed to say, Hi, there, Nethro.”
“Legitimate truth,” Ebenezer said. “Repeat them your name.”
“My name,” said Nethro, “is fuckin’ Nethro.”
“Again,” said Ebenezer.
He counted to three, and on three we shouted, “Hi, there, Nethro!”
Nethro seemed unimpressed.
“Nobody waved.”
“Beg your pardon?” said Ebenezer.
“Didn’t wave,” Nethro said. “Not one wave in the whole bullshit crowd. My ego’s hurt.”
Ebenezer Keezer sighed. Carefully, he took off his beret, inspected it for dust, put it on again, then stepped up to Ned Rafferty and stared at him with an expression of solemn perplexity. His nose was a half inch from Rafferty’s forehead.
“A level answer,” he said softly. “You forget to wave?”
“I guess.”
“Oh, you guess,” Ebenezer purred, smiling again. “First day at camp an’ you don’ display no fundamental politeness. Where’s your salutations, shithead?”
“Sorry,” Rafferty said, and grinned.
“Oooo! Man’s sorry, Nethro.”
“I overheard.”
“Man claims sorryhood.”
Nethro shrugged and scuffed the toe of his boot against the courtyard tiles. He seemed genuinely aggrieved.
“Sorry don’ do it,” he said. “Don’ help the hurt none.”
“Shitheads,” said Ebenezer Keezer. “What they require, I submit, is politeness practice.”
“Let’s practice ’em,” said Nethro.
There was distress in the courtyard. Reality, I surmised, was passé. Here was a new dimension. Over the morning hours we engaged in supervised waving practice. “Hi, there!” we yelled, and we waved with both hands, vigorously. The courtesy was painful. I could feel it in my throat and shoulders. Nethro counted cadence, Ebenezer Keezer smiled and offered instruction in matters of form and posture, schooling us in the complexities of camp etiquette. It was a kind of basic training, clearly, but with numerous innovations. Standing there, waving, I recognized the diverse and intricate plenitude of a world on tilt.