The Pacific and Other Stories (12 page)

At her landing, she was shocked. She had certainly not ordered a marble
floor, nor the beautiful millwork, nor the pinpoint recessed lighting, nor the coco mat flush with the floor and surrounded by a heavy brass rim. She stared at the door in disbelief. Where once a single door had been was a double door, and she could tell by looking at it that it, like the windows, had actually come from France. She didn’t know what to do, because she hadn’t called for the replacement of the existing door, much less for the opening to be rebuilt, much less for the importation from Paris of a paneled and chamfered walnut door that was so substantial and perfectly crafted that she guessed that it and putting it in could not have cost Fitch any less than fifteen or twenty thousand dollars.

She knocked. Then she saw the doorbell, yet another thing for which she had not asked, and rang it. As she lifted her key to the lock, she imagined that Fitch had spent all her money—then she realized that she hadn’t yet paid him anything—on the roof garden, entry, and windows, and would now extort much more to finish the interior. She was sure that he could not have touched the interior, not in that short time, not with all that had been done on the outside. Holding her breath, she turned the key in the lock and opened the door.

As she walked from room to room, she trembled. This could not be. It was a dream. How could he have worked so fast and so well? She was practiced in the close reading of complicated texts, and here was a work of art, in every detail of which the essential condition of art—as she believed it to be—shone through, and that was a beauty that arose from love. She did not know where she stood, what she had to pay, or when, or how. She did not know why Fitch had done it, or at least she thought she didn’t know. No matter what, it was too much for her now. Fitch was too much for her now. It was too soon.

But then she thought of the child she had seen in the playground, of her innocence, of her eyes, and she thought that for the sake of such a child nothing was too much, nothing was too difficult, nothing was too soon. This made her tremble even more, not helplessly but with something akin to resolve. And then she saw on the mantle—and what a beautiful mantle it was—the Fitch Company bill, standing like a pup tent.

She knew before she unfolded it what it would say, and as she unfolded
it she was calmed. The lettering was unpretentious. It said, “Fitch Co.,” and, in a universal typeface for this word, “Invoice.” Paying no heed to the lines printed on the paper, Fitch had written, “No charge through completion, paid in full,” signed his name, and dated it “Monday, 18 March 2002.” Lilly’s hands fell to her sides, the bill fluttering down with them.

F
ITCH WAS WALKING SOUTH
on First Avenue in pale sunshine that had everything about it of spring about to break the siege of winter. He had many things on his mind. His men were happy and reassured. Now they were working for pay, and they had the quiet power of those who had done right. They knew, as he did, that their work would go beautifully now that they had turned a corner. He himself couldn’t wait to get at the job. Down the long prospect of First Avenue, glittering like mica in the sun, the building was in sight.

He was standing on the northwest corner of Fiftieth and First, waiting for the light, when his cell phone rang. He thought it might be Gustavo, but was not surprised that it wasn’t.

“Fitch,” she said, “Oh Fitch, this is Lilly.”

And then he stood in silence with nothing coming from the other end of the line, but he did not call her name or think that they had been cut off, and when he saw the light change he stayed in place, for he knew that she needed time to regain her composure.

T
HE SUPPOSITION
, reasonable upon its face, was that the enemy would neither suspect a parachutist during a bombing run nor emerge in any case, and that the bombs would have burst before he floated down. Therefore, he would parachute from the last Liberator to have released its ordnance over a town that flowed across a hilltop, on a night with moonlight enough to guide a parachutist’s descent upon a landscape burned into his eyes by flares and explosions. Were he to land safely he would find his way to a high place overlooking the battle and there conceal himself amid rocks and brush to report upon the progress of events below and direct the fire both of naval guns and the allied artillery beyond the river to the west.

He had written himself off and wanted to get it over with. The sooner he could fly out the side door into the darkness, the less time he would have for apprehension. Soldiers who have been blooded know that action is an instant cure for fear, and when battle approaches their experience makes them long for it to come quickly, even if, as in this case, the chances were not the best.

Certainly it was outrageous to parachute into an enemy area during a bombing, gliding amid flack, in the dark, onto rough terrain, but it was a brilliant idea, and it was his own. Even when he had first suggested it he knew that he himself would end up doing it, for he could ask no one else,
and that it was one of those things that, having come into existence, would nag at the imagination of anyone who knew of it, until it was accomplished. How foolish then to have broached it. And how further galling to have to argue for it in the face of opposition, explaining away doubts and portraying the mission as he had designed it, or rather as it had come to him instantly. They had argued that it was an attractive idea, but that it would probably leave him dead, and the staff to whom he had proposed it had asked if he were a pathfinder in a parachute regiment seconded to intelligence, or an intelligence officer seconded to an airborne regiment as a pathfinder. Whatever he was, it would make a splendid show, and the way he thought of it was that, in throwing himself into a night battle, he might by clawing back the curtain as he fell make a track of light like the traces of a shooting star.

Such transcendence notwithstanding, in the Liberator he comforted himself with inventory, counting magazines and rounds of ammunition, noting the position and attachment of a knife, visiting the bulging pockets of his jumpsuit to remember the placement and existence of pouches and bundles, first-aid kit and maps, signaling mirror, flares, telescope, pistol, tarpaulin, and line. And in his pack, food and blankets, a radio, and grenades. Even a Lilliputian book of paintings, and a Bible of the same size. He had passed through university with distinction and had chosen to be a painter, and the Bible was a gift from his father, who had served in the First War. “Take this,” he had said as he gave it to his son, “and bring it back to me.”

But now he dared not think of either his father or his mother. Rather, he considered the design of the moment, the shape and color of webbing and patches, the chance and philosophy that had brought him to look as he did dressed in the uniform of battle. Much had been planned in a great hurry and produced with no less speed. Shortages of materials led to almost bizarre substitutions, and all that was new had the mark of pure function and the feel of emergency, whereas that which had lasted through time and other wars and had been worn smooth had the feel of elegance. A few things made in desperation for this war would last, but just a few, and then they would be antique, and then they would be gone.

Now, however, the things he carried were everything, fresh and new, and he depended upon them. His parachute—the color of mother-of-pearl,
sheer, smooth, soft, and clean—that would in perfection of form billow with invisible air. The cord and webbing, so strong that even in thin sections it could hold the weight of automobiles dangling above the ground. The rifle, and its scope, about which the armorers had said that as long as a shock were insufficient to shatter the glass, it would be insufficient to disalign the one with the other. If the scope were whole and you could look through it, it was properly sighted. Pack, battle dress, helmet, and boots fit him comfortably amid the din of engines as the Liberator made a wide left turn and flew up the coast.

In ten or fifteen minutes, were he still alive, the sounds of engines, guns, and bombs would have been replaced by those of crickets, cicadas, and the flow of the wind. And the moon, in a thin crescent, would be dipping quietly into the sea.

M
IDWAY OVER TARGET
, in the buffeting of flack—after the sudden buoyancy of the aircraft upon releasing its bombs, and its insistent, duty-bound descent to jump altitude—the red light went on, and he stood. A crewman in communication with the navigator listened intently on his headset. Then he raised his hands and pursed his lips as he watched the heavily laden soldier step to the door.

Let’s go
, the soldier’s heart said, and when the signal came he jumped into the night and flew past the plane like smoke. In falling, fear vanished. In its place came alert expectation. Gravity worked with perfection, but his complete surrender to it was also his temporary victory over it as its effects disappeared during a few angelic seconds, only to return in the softest modulation as the chute began to open. Then the slight tug, always less than in the simulator, that signaled the beginning of a smooth descent.

He twisted his head and saw that the Adriatic was covered with light skeins of fog and smoke in which the moon and its weak reflection were tangled and lost. He pulled the lines until he was crosscutting the path of the bomber, as he had wanted, taken by the wind.

To the right, in a crescent south and east of an immense hill, was the port, dimly illuminated in the fires of the bombing, as if by embers. To the left, as
the hill fell back down and curved slightly to the sea, was the “new” town, begun in the days of Rome. There the last of the bombs were falling. First they would flash, and seconds later the shock waves would swing him like a pendulum and tickle the inside of his lungs. Behind him, in the dark, were the enemy lines, between the hill and the river. And beyond the river were the allies: British, Americans, Canadians, Poles, Australians, New Zealanders, Indians, South Africans. Except for the Poles, they all spoke English, and if not invincible they were at least colorful. They were the empire of English-speaking peoples, something toward which since birth he had directed a great deal of affection, and in the contemplation of which he had always found pride.

Ahead and coming ever closer, the ridge at the top of the hill was dotted with clusters of buildings and old fortifications. Beyond, a crescent of beach connected the two parts of the town, and at sea out of range of enemy gunfire was the allied fleet.

The higher on the hill he landed the less walking he would have to do in the dark. But over the top of the ridge, falling away to the beach, were cliffs, and were he to overshoot, not only would he fail to gain his objective, he might be blown over the beach and drowned in the Adriatic. But the wind was just right, and as he calculated and recalculated, working the parachute toggles, the vector of his descent promised impact in a dark patch, probably a ravine, beneath a small saddle at the top.

Ravines were not good cover throughout, as patrols tended to follow the crease while moving up or down them, but the sides of a ravine, if thickly overgrown, were paradise for anyone who might hide. No one walked along the sides: it was unnatural. This place toward which he was heading seemed to him to be perfect, though he knew that all he was doing was moving toward a dark spot on the correct side of a hill.

Cautious by nature, he braced too early for the landing, and then had to relax, brace again, and relax, but he was so close that he could see the outline of the buildings in the saddle, and the shadows of the curbs on the road. He was coming in high, but would still land a hundred and fifty feet or so below the houses. Then he would have to descend to make sure of concealment. At least it was better than going up. Seconds remained. He was coming in
higher than he had thought. He emptied as much air out of his chute as he could, which made him go so much faster that he dreaded the impact against the side of the hill.

Then he felt a puff of air. A gentle breeze ordinarily was a lovely thing as it traveled softly through the night, but not only did this push him forward faster, it rolled up the side of the hill like water overflowing the bank of a stream and lifted him like a balloonist, giddily, until he was higher than the ridge, higher even than the tops of the buildings, and then, momentarily still, like a roller coaster at the peak of its run.

“Oh no,” he said as he began to descend rapidly to the east. Far ahead was the always alluring sea, where his mission would fail and he might be lost. The beach was too narrow, and the part of the town between the base of the cliffs and the strand was heavily garrisoned with Germans.

He pulled vehemently on the toggles to let air out of the chute so that he might land in a safe place, and in the seconds as he descended he realized that he was headed for a building. He would just overshoot it, and its blocking of the wind would then, perhaps, allow him to float straight down onto the road that ran along the top of the cliffs. All he had to do, given his track, was nothing, and it would happen.

But then, instantly, he decided to recast his bad luck and land on the flat roof, surrounded by a low parapet, just ahead of him. From there he would be able to see clearly in every direction, and spot not only for the artillery west of the river but for the naval guns that he could direct onto troop concentrations in the town. He could observe military traffic on all the roads. He could, like an observation plane, but invisibly, relay the exact details of each enemy action.

In a split second he had realized that the inhabitants of this building had to have sought shelter from the bombing, and that therefore no one would hear him land. Perhaps he could last up there for the whole battle, or at least for enough time to serve as intended. He pulled the toggles as if to collapse the chute, so as to be sure he wouldn’t glide beyond the roof. The capture of such an observation post would be a triumph, but as with all things potentially triumphant, there was no way to be sure which way it would go, if his path would slam him against the side of the building or land him neatly on
its roof. There was not enough wind in the game any longer to take him beyond. All he could do was wait, and he didn’t have to wait long.