The Med (8 page)

“Be careful of your watches,” Harner said, startling them all.

“Left here?” said Liebo, turning halfway around. Washman pulled out his page and they studied it on a corner, looking for an orientation point. Several boys offered to guide them. When the marines ordered them away they left, slapping their arms in a gesture Will thought picturesque. The smallest, a shaven-headed runt of five or six, tagged after them, making motions for a smoke. At last Harner gave in and tossed him a Marlboro. Then he wanted a light.

“Aren't you a Wop, Dippy?”

“Fuck, no, man. Liebo's a good Portuguese name.”

“Think we turn left here, huh?”

“Why didn't you get some street names from the squid?”

“Let's ask this kid where the station is.”

“Hey, man, where's the station? Railroad?”

“Compre'?”

“He don't talk English, man.”

“The railroad, kid. Choo-choo. Ding, ding,” said Liebo. When the others laughed he reddened. “Hey, you fuckers try to talk to him, then.”

“Estacion-ay fairo-veree,” said Will, on an impulse. The boy brightened and pointed to the left. Harner gave him another cigarette.

They turned left. “Pretty slick, there, Will,” said the sergeant. “Where you pick that up?”

“The exec said that at formation this morning.”

“He did? I dint remember that. You must have a natural gift for languages, Private Givens.”

“Ah, I just picked it up,” said Will, pleased.

“Marlboro,” said the boy. Harner looked at Silkworth, who shrugged, as if to say, if we don't some other guys will. He ain't our responsibility. He shook one more loose and held it out. The boy snatched the pack, his motion so quick he left Harner holding out his hand, and melted toward an alley. “Eh, fuck you, marines,” he said.

“Jesus Christ,” said Washman.

“They grow up fast back here,” said Dippy.

“Maybe he's one of the sergeant's,” said Washman. They laughed. “No, too goddamn polite,” said Silky solemnly, and they laughed again, louder because it was Silkworth who said it.

“That must be the station.”

“And there's the Shore Patrol,” Liebo said. “Just like the man said. Fade, Sarge?”

“Stand easy,” said Silkworth. “We're still legal. They can't touch us on this side of the line.”

Harner pulled a spare pack from his sock and they lit up, standing on a corner, watching the two sailors roll back and forth in front of the station. They wore white bellbottoms and caps cocked forward, white belts slung low against weighted nightsticks, and blue brassards like mourning on their sleeves. They glanced at the marines, but made no move toward them. After several minutes they strolled on, past the station, and disappeared around a corner.

“Let's go,” said Silkworth, flipping his butt to the pavement.

“They won't come back?”

“Not if they know what marines eat for lunch, Will.”

Past the limit the streets looked just the same, or maybe a little narrower. They came to the T the gunner's mate had described and headed right. A little grocery was just where he had described it, and a bar, Judito's, was across from it, as he had said. Two women leaned against the entrance, looking toward them. “Here?” said Liebo, brushing at his shoulders, straightening his tie.

“No,” said Silkworth. “I remember now. I went in there once on my first float. I didn't know nothing then. Those babes were all over me, back in this dark booth. Real jealous bitches. I didn't figure it out till I tried for a feel. Man! I like to shit. She had a bigger dick than mine. I was just a private then. One of them kissed me, too, before I caught on.”

“Did he kiss good, Sergeant?”

“There was no goddamn difference, Dippy. None at all. That was what was so fucken weird about it.”

Now the street became an alley. Their footsteps bounced off old stucco, off cobblestones strewn with trash, broken glass, a kid's doll. Givens thought: We've left Palermo. This was a place all to itself. Not even the junkyard cars came by, only once in a while a battered, mufflerless Vespa, piloted by boys in black jackets who did not look at them. Over their heads, outside shuttered windows, lines of clothing hung motionless in a dim cathedral light. A baby wailed somewhere, and tinny music beat time to their steps. He looked over his shoulder, and caught Washman doing the same thing. They grinned at each other uneasily.

“That's it,” said Silky. “Lily's. Was that the place he told you guys about?”

“I think so, Sarge. He dint remember the name but he said—”

“Yeah, good steer. I been here before, too. It ain't cheap, but it's clean, and they don't rip you off. At least that's the way it was then. Must be four, five years ago now. Jesus. Here, it's this green door.”

Will paused. He had not meant to come here. Walk around, see the city, that was all he had intended. He had not wanted to start drinking, but all the others had. He had promised himself not to participate in anything worse. But he did not feel like waiting alone in the empty street. Not in this part of town.

He joined the others inside the door.

He had expected a stinking interior, but they had stepped into a garden. Real grass, trimmed and wet as if it had just been watered. Four wrought-iron chairs sat round a glass-topped table. In the middle of the lawn a blue-and-white Virgin stood in a grotto decorated with marbles and bits of mirror. He looked suspiciously at the statue. A Catholic country, the lieutenant had said.

“Hey. Nice,” said Liebo.

Will had thought the walk was cement, but when he looked carefully it became mosaic, hundreds of square tiles, red and blue and white, glazed porcelain, set with care. Not a square was missing or even cracked. He felt awkward walking on it, even with polished shoes.

When he looked up the others had gone on ahead, and he hurried to catch up. At the end of the garden a stone stairway curved up to the second floor of a house, stucco like the outer wall, but unchipped and clean. Silky led them up it. On the porch he raised his hand to knock, then paused.

“You men armed?”

“What's that, Sarge?”

“You bring your shit?”

They looked at him blankly. After a moment he unbuttoned his blouse and reached inside, shaking his head. “Here, children,” he said, and handed them out the flat packs of prophylactics, two each.

“Thank you, Sergeant,” said Harner.

Silkworth knocked. The marines shuffled their feet and looked down at the garden, the statue; then the door swung open.

The Italian was old, white-haired, and unimpressed with them. He motioned them in wordlessly.

It looked like a living room. A dark television sat against the wall. Four rubber plants stood around it, as if it had been camouflaged. The old man shut the door and they became abashed, as if their grandfather had met them. “Who's he?” Liebo whispered. Silky shrugged.

He came back to them as they stood half at attention, and stepped up close to Will. Givens looked down at the opaque eyes, the pink scalp that showed through thin hair. The old man said nothing, just stood close for a moment and then moved to Liebo. When he came to Hernandez he looked up for the first time.

“You go,” he said.

“What? Hey, why, man? I'm okay.”

“He don't like the way you smell, Hernandez,” said the sergeant.

“Well, so what?” The private took a step back, toward the wall. “I'm stayin', man.”

“You leave,” said the old man. “Or everybody goes. Sergeant, you tell him.”

“He thinks you been drinking, Hernandez. Guess you bite the wiener. Don't wear so much cologne next time.”

“Shit, man!” said Hernandez. He stared around at them belligerently, then seemed to wilt. “Okay, okay. You guys have a good time. Can I wait in the garden?”

“Sure,” said the old man. “Just leave here.”

“Here, man, hang on to my camera for me, will you?” said Washman.

“Okay now,” said the old man. “Wait here. I get the girls.”

“Oh, man,” muttered Liebo. He shifted from leg to leg, looking toward the curtain at the far end of the room.

“Uh, I better go,” said Givens then.

“What? We just got here, Will.”

“No. I mean … I'm going to wait, too.”

“You're okay. He passed you.”

“It ain't that. I—”

“Come on,” said Silkworth. “Don't get cold feet now, Givens. Just stay put.”

He was about to protest, but something held him. He stared helplessly at the curtain. I should leave, he thought. I should leave now.

But he didn't. His knees began to tremble.

There were four girls in nightgowns. He was suddenly glad he'd had the beers at the pier. The fattest one picked out Silky at once. “Hey. I know you?”

“You know me,” said Silkworth, grinning.

“You come for short time?” she asked him. “Twenty dollars, short time. For you, old customer, fifteen. You men pay me.”

“This here is Lily.” Silkworth grinned. “She wants the money now. Lil, you still got wine in back?”

“Sure. Got nice Chianti. All cold. You want some?”

“You bet,” said Silkworth. He reached for his wallet. “And the same for my men, here.”

“You bet.”

*   *   *

It seemed to him that he had spent a long time in the blue bedroom, on the sagging, too-soft bed. But when he staggered out, with a headache from a bottle of wine on top of the beer, he found he had finished before the others.

He sat drained in one of the plastic chairs, waiting. Gradually it dawned on him that he should have stayed for seconds. He still had one of the rubbers in his sock. Lita had been nothing to write home about, but his last time had been too long before to remember. It was—no, it was even before they'd convoyed down to Morehead for onload, way back in April. He remembered now, through the alcohol haze, better than he could have sober. A chick he'd met in a dance place outside the LeJeune gate. He got up twice, half-minded to go back, but sat down again. The others would be out any minute.

No, that wasn't really it. He was afraid she might ask for another twenty dollars. He hadn't taken much cash ashore. He was still paying off a dead horse he'd drawn for his PFC drunk. And then, there was his secret. It was something he had never told the others, but he was saving money for school.

He slumped, studying the glossy toes of his shoes and wishing he'd had either more to drink, or less. He realized now, too late, how far he had fallen. He felt sick and sad. No, he thought,
There is none righteous, no, not one.

At least she hadn't said anything about his color. Maybe Italians didn't care. She had smiled when he showed her the rubber. He wasn't taking any chances, not with all the scuttlebutt. But the Navy condoms were thick as fire hoses. You had to work, and work … he had to repent, cease following the way to damnation … his mind droned on like an uncoupled motor, fueled by alcohol.

A while later Washman came out, face flushed, and sat wordless beside him. They stared together at the dead television. “You make out okay?” Will asked him.

“She was awful fat. But I needed that bad, man.”

“It isn't our fault. They keep us at sea too long.”

“No shit, man. Any longer and I would of butt-fucked one of those whimpy squids.… You got your other one, Will?”

“Other what?”

“You know. Your rubber.”

“Oh. No, I used 'em both.”

“Me too. If I had another one I could go back.”

They stared at the television and the potted plants. Will suddenly got up. “I'm going down and keep old Hernandez company.”

“Yeah. Good idea.”

They found the small marine squatting on the grass. They sat at one of the tables for half an hour before Silky and Liebo and Harner came down the stairs, their ties loose, laughing. Silkworth saw them and came over. “Well, is my squad satisfied? Bores clear?”

“Rounds complete, target destroyed, Sarge.”

“Let's get something real to drink, then.”

Suddenly noisy, caps canted and ties loosened like Sergeant Silkworth's, they ambled down the street. Liebo suggested Judito's, but after a couple of turns they discovered that they were lost. Silkworth seemed unworried. “The whole fucken Med's built on a slant,” he told them. “Any port in it, you get lost, just walk downhill and you'll hit water. It's real convenient when you're shit-faced.”

“But we ain't drunk nothin' yet,” said Harner.

“We'll get you screwed up as a sprayed roach, Kentucky Buck. How about that place on the corner, there?”

“With the commie posters all over it?”

“They're all over Italy, my man. Don't sweat it. Wops love marines.”

There were a dozen men in shirtsleeves and black trousers outside the bar. They stared at them as they approached, taking their hands out of their pockets.

“Wait a minute,” said Will, stopping. “This don't look right.”

“It's a bar, fella. These guys are just waiting around for something to do.” Silkworth seemed to be right; as he approached the door the loungers parted, glancing at one another. The other marines followed him. Just inside, though, the sergeant paused. Past him, in a smoky light, Givens saw a man speaking in front of a red flag, saw sweating faces turn. When he looked back the Sicilians were closing in.

“I think we just fucked up,” muttered Liebo.

Givens never saw who swung first. Two men came for him, he was hammerlocked and punched. Hernandez was shouting in Spanish. The street staggered; there was a crunching sound, and he tasted bricks. Then combat training took over. He kicked out, hooked a man, and got halfway up before Harner tripped over him, knocking him down again. A Sicilian tried to run and he grabbed him around the waist and got a couple of shots to his back before he broke free.