«I tried some of those on Paddy, and y’know what he told me?… He told me he’d tell the Lord God himself—face to face, mind you—that if He didn’t want his red-blooded boyos to eat porters, why the hell did He put them creatures on the earth for us to eat?»
«Did your husband ever get an answer?»
«By his lights, he did. Two years ago, thanks to Mr. Pinkus, we visited our roots in Ireland, and Paddy got on his ass and kissed the Stone of Blarney. When he got up he said to me, he said: ‘I got the message, wifey. Where porters are concerned, I’m the exception, and that’s the holy truth!’»
«You accepted that?»
«Come now, lass,» replied Erin Lafferty, smiling sweetly, not necessarily innocently. «He’s my boyo, the only boyo I’ve ever wanted in m’life. After thirty-five years I’m going to question his visions?»
«Then give him his porters.»
«Oh, I do, Jenny, but I cut out all the fat and he screams like hell that the butcher’s cheatin’ us or I’m cookin’ ’em wrong.»
«What do you do then?»
«An extra glass of whisky, lass, and maybe a few strokes where it takes his mind off his mouth.»
«You’re a remarkable woman, Erin.»
«Oh, cut the bullshit, girl!» said Paddy Lafferty’s wife, laughing as she chopped the lettuce for a salad. «When you get a man of your own, you’ll learn a few things. The first is to keep him alive; the second is to keep his batteries from goin’ dead, and that’s all there is to it!»
«I envy you, Erin.» Redwing studied the fine-featured yet fleshed-out face of Mrs. Lafferty. «You have something I don’t think I’ll ever have.»
«Why not, girl?» Erin stopped chopping.
«I don’t know… Perhaps I have to be stronger than any man that wants me in that way—the marriage bit, I mean. I won’t be subjugated.»
«You mean like being below the guy what marries you, no dirty language intended?»
«Yes, I guess that’s what I mean. I can’t be subservient.»
«I’m not sure what sub—subservant means, but I figure it’s like bein’ low class, or no class, is that what you’re sayin’?»
«That’s exactly what I’m saying.»
«Well, ain’t there a better way? Like what I do with Paddy—who I would care to spend the rest of my life with—by tellin’ him that he can still have his porters, but he don’t know I cut off the fat. He gets his steaks—so he stops complaining—but that fat crap goes away until he gets his teeth into the last quarter inch of the bone. Y’see what I mean? Give the gorilla the last small taste on the bone and he forgets the rest. He’s happy.»
«Are you suggesting that we women manipulate our male counterparts?»
«What have we been doing for years?… Until you screechers came along we had it right. Tell ’em anything, but give ’em yer own perfume.»
«Remarkable,» said the daughter of the Wopotamis pensively.
Suddenly, from the huge living room beyond the kitchen door, there were screams of anguish or exultation, or both—it was impossible to differentiate. Jennifer dropped a potato on the floor as Erin involuntarily threw a head of lettuce up into a light fixture, smashing a long neon tube, the glass particles descending into her salad bowl. Desi the First appeared, crashing the door open with such force it slammed back from the wall into his face, dislodging the temporary dentistry in his mouth.
«Chu!» he yelled. «Come out here and look at the teledifusión! Ees loco—ees crazy like vacas with testículos!»
Both women raced to the door, ran out into the living room, and stared in total bewilderment at the television screen. There were six obviously important visitors to Boston, all in formal clothes, some with short, clipped beards, others clean-shaven or with waxed mustaches, and each wearing a black homburg. They were being greeted by the mayor of Bean Town, who was equally obvious in his inability to express the city’s greetings.
«So we welcome you to Bahsten, gentlemen of the Noble committee from Swedeland, and extend to you our haartfelt thanks for choosin’ the great university of Haavadd for your seminal on international relatives and your search for the Soldier of the Century, namely a certain General MacKenzie Hawkins, who you presume to be in our far west frontiers and will hear or watch this broadcast—who wrote this shit?»
«We break away to bring you up to date!» intruded the voice of the announcer as the screen went mute. «The illustrious Nobelll committee has arrived in Boston to participate in Harvard’s symposium on international relations, yet the spokesman, Sir Lars Olafer, stated upon arrival a few minutes ago that a secondary purpose was to determine the whereabouts of General MacKenzie Hawkins, twice recipient of the Congressional Medal of Honor and selected by the Nobel committee as the Soldier of the Century… The mayor’s motorcade will soon be off to the Four Seasons Hotel, where the Swedish committee will reside during the Harvard symposium… One minute, please. We have a call from the President of Harvard University… What symposium? How the hell do I know, you run the place, not me!… Sorry, folks, a minor communications glitch in Cambridge… Now, back to our regular program, a rerun of our most popular program, Watch Your Assets.»
«Somebody send in the dwarfs …!»
MacKenzie Hawkins got out of his chair and roared. «Goddamn, Soldier of the Century! Did you all hear that?… Of course, it had to happen sooner or later, but the fact that it actually did makes me the proudest combat officer that ever lived! And let me tell you, boys and girls, I intend to share this great honor with every grunt who ever served under my command, because they’re the real heroes and I want the world to know it!»
«General,» said the giant black mercenary calmly, even gently. «You and I have to talk.»
«About what, Colonel?»
«I’m not a Colonel and you’re not the Soldier of the Century. This is the setup.»
20
The silence was both electric and affecting. It was as if all gathered were witnessing the pain of a large, faithful animal being betrayed by some unseen master who had cast it aside, leaving it to the murderous whims of a wolf pack. Jennifer Redwing walked quietly to the television set and turned it off as MacKenzie Hawkins stared at Cyrus.
«I think you should explain yourself, Colonel,» said the general, his eyes conveying astonishment and hurt. «You and I just saw a network news program and heard the words spoken by a distinguished foreign visitor, a spokesman for the Swedish Nobel committee; and unless my hearing is beyond repair, he announced that I was to be the recipient of the Soldier of the Century award. Since this broadcast, and the reporting of it, will undoubtedly be seen by millions of people throughout the civilized world, I submit that a fabrication is unthinkable.»
«The ultimate permanent sting,» said Cyrus M softly. «I tried to explain that to your colleagues, Miss R. and Mr. D.»
«Try again with me, Colonel.»
«To repeat myself, I’m not a colonel, General—»
«And I’m not the Soldier of the Century,» broke in Hawkins. «I assume you care to repeat that, too.»