“My guide?” he proffered.
“Oui—yes. My guide.”
“Lucky you!” said the sergeant. “Can I come along, too?”
“No.” Lili said it with such unequivocal authority, given her age, that David found himself laughing. The sergeant, unamused, mumbled something ending with “bitch,” adding officiously, “We’re leaving Brussels at sixteen hundred hours. By rights I should accompany you — you being a big hero and all. You’re my charge, you might say.”
David wasn’t listening. He was still watching Lili.
“Hey!” bellowed the sergeant.
“I’m a big boy, Sarge,” said David. “You’ve done your duty directing me to HQ. I can find my way back to the station, thanks.”
“Oh — all fit again, are we?”
“Fit enough,” said David.
“Ah!” quipped the sergeant. “You signed up then?”
David stiffened. “What do you mean?”
“Come on, Yank,” the sergeant said derisively. “The bloody commandos. Beret boys. They asked you to sign on the dotted line. Right?”
“You’re in violation of secrecy,” said David, looking anxiously around. “You’re an MP. You should know—”
“Oh, pardon me, Sir Galahad,” retorted the sergeant, buttoning up his greatcoat, one of the blackened brass buttons hanging by a thread. “I didn’t realize you’d taken holy orders. And don’t tell me my fucking job.” He glared at Lili. “Anyway — common bloody knowledge, isn’t it?”
“What?” said David, hard-eyed. He felt Lili’s arm slip through his protectively, and for a second her perfume of roses washed over him and he was transported to a summer with Melissa, a warm breeze bending and teasing the young grass, Melissa’s breasts warm and pliant beneath him. A surge of arousal outstripped his anger and he decided there wasn’t any point in pursuing the question of security with the sergeant. The Brit was a little off the deep end anyway. Lili snuggled closer to David in the rain as the sergeant mockingly answered Brentwood’s question by repeating it.
“What’s common knowledge? For Christ’s sake, Brentwood, anyone with half a brain knows HQ’s recruiting. Fucking Arabs are threatening the Yids, right? Iraq’s going to drop a few CBs on ‘em. Right? So we’re going to send in some of our heros to the rescue. Right? Or aren’t you going?”
Brentwood saw the mad look in the sergeant’s eyes again, remembering the first time he’d seen him bellowing down the canal bank. This time Lili’s grip on David’s arm was one of alarm.
“You’re nuts,” said David before he could stop himself.
“Hey, hey, Yank. Button your beak!” the sergeant hissed. Lili moved in closer against David, holding him in tighter still.
“All right, old buddy,” said David placatingly.
“All right then, eh — eh?” The MP was getting out of control.
“David,” said Lili quietly, “please—”
As they walked off, Lili’s free arm stretching high above her in an effort to bring her floral umbrella over him, the rain was drumming on the canvas canopy of the HQ building, rivulets pouring over the edge, the rain so heavy, it was pitting the snow that still lay in dirty mounds by the sidewalk. The sergeant was shouting after them. “Better come by fifteen-thirty, mate. Or you’ll be fucking AWOL. Understand?”
“He is the nuts!” said Lili, wide-eyed, her bonnet shaking side to side.
David slipped his arm further about her. She told him first she would take him to the Grand Place to show him the four-hundred-year-old gilded Flemish gables surrounding the square; then they would go to the Museum of Art and she would present the “immortal” Rubens. “Do you like the little people?” she asked.
“Little people? Pygmies — in Brussels?”
“No, no, silly. The puppets.”
He didn’t answer, preoccupied with crossing the rain-spattered street in what was now heavy military traffic and still thinking about the sergeant’s blatant breach of security. David hated the idea of fingering anyone but knew he had no option. Too bad the sergeant had cracked, and the Englishman couldn’t know how much David sympathized, but Brentwood knew if he didn’t report what the sergeant had shouted about, a lot of American and British lives might be lost. What, for example, would have happened if Lili Malmédy had been a spy? “What’s that?” David snapped at her.”I mean pardon?”
“The puppets. Do you like them?”
“Yes,” he said. “Sure — I like puppets. I’ll have to make a call, too, okay?”
“Okay.” She said it with delight. “It is all right, we have time. After, we will go to the Toone.”
“Toone?”
“A puppet theater for — how do you say? — adults?”
“I guess.” It made him think of the British Special Air Service captain at the interview saying something about enjoying Flemish girls and what sounded like “Cokes.” He pressed Lili for an explanation.
“The same as in your country,” she answered. “Fizzy drinks.”
“No,” said David. “Way I heard it, I think it must be a Belgian word.”
“Oh — you must mean a Walloonian, not Flemish.”
“Okay,” he said. “A Walloonian word.”
“Then it must be C-O-U-Q-U-E-S. It is a—” she thought for a moment “—A vast cookie.”
“A cookie?”
“Yes. Very large. As big as—” She withdrew her arm from his, holding her hands about two feet apart.
“A cake!” he said.
“No, no,” she answered, “a cookie,” her face suffused with such enthusiasm that momentarily David felt much older. “It is a cookie,” she insisted. “You do not believe me?”
He took her hand and looked at her. “Yes,” he said, “I do,” and her smile told him unequivocally that she loved him.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Rosemary stood on the dockside at Holy Loch watching the USS Roosevelt slip her moorings from the sub pen inside the huge, floating dock and pass her tender, the USS Topeka, as she made her way through the oily calm of the loch past the crushed-stone houses that lined the shore and the magnificent snow-mantled hills of Scotland’s western approaches, heading out toward the rougher water south in the Firth of Clyde.
She knew she might never see Robert again, and yet rather than the overwhelming sadness of saying good-bye numbing her as it had the first time, the clean, wintry smell of the loch, the snow-dusted blue of the hills, and the screech of gulls all came to her aid — their wild beauty enough to make the very idea of war seem momentarily unreal. Besides, the strain of these last few hours together before they’d reached the safety of Mallaig had worn her down so that she felt too tired to weep. In any case, with Robert on the Roosevelt’s bridge, the last thing she wanted him or any other of the crew aboard to see was a woman bawling her eyes out.
It was time to be strong, to return to Surrey, spend Christmas with her parents, and get on with her teaching again at St. Anselm’s in the new term. And to keep herself and “Junior”— Robert still insisted it would be a boy — well nourished, no small feat with rationing becoming more severe, the Allied convoys under constant attack from the Russian subs.
Taking off a tartan scarf Robert had bought her in Mallaig, she waved once more, his captain’s cap no more than a blip on the bridge atop the Roosevelt’s tall, tapered sail.