Three Soldiers (41 page)

Andrews did not answer. He was wondering what Geneviève Rod would say when she found out he was a deserter.

“I hate it. … It’s dirty and cold and miserable in winter,” went on Rosaline. “I’d like to see them at the bottom of the river, all these barges. … And Paris women, did you have a good time with them?”

“I only knew one. I go very little with women.”

“All the same, love’s nice, isn’t it?”

They were sitting on the rail at the bow of the barge. Rosaline had sidled up so that her leg touched Andrews’s leg along its whole length.

The memory of Geneviève Rod became more and more vivid in his mind. He kept thinking of things she had said, of the intonations of her voice, of the blundering way she poured tea, and of her pale-brown eyes wide open on the world, like the eyes of a woman in an encaustic painting from a tomb in the Fayoum.

“Mother’s talking to the old woman at the Creamery. They’re great friends. She won’t be home for two hours yet,” said Rosaline.

“She’s bringing my clothes, isn’t she?”

“But you’re all right as you are.”

“But they’re your father’s.”

“What does that matter?”

“I must go back to Paris soon. There is somebody I must see in Paris.”

“A woman?”

Andrews nodded.

“But it’s not so bad, this life on the barge. I’m just lonesome and sick of the old people. That’s why I talk nastily about it. … We could have good times together if you stayed with us a little.”

She leaned her head on his shoulder and put a hand awkwardly on his bare forearm.

“How cold these Americans are!” she muttered, giggling drowsily.

Andrews felt her hair tickle his cheek.

“No, it’s not a bad life on the barge, honestly. The only thing is, there’s nothing but old people on the river. It isn’t life to be always with old people. … I want to have a good time.”

She pressed her cheek against his. He could feel her breath heavy in his face.

“After all, it’s lovely in summer to drowse on the deck that’s all warm with the sun, and see the trees and the fields and the little houses slipping by on either side … If there weren’t so many old people. … All the boys go away to the cities. … I hate old people; they’re so dirty and slow. We mustn’t waste our youth, must we?”

Andrews got to his feet.

“What’s the matter?” she cried sharply.

“Rosaline,” Andrews said in a low, soft voice, “I can only think of going to Paris.”

“Oh, the Paris woman,” said Rosaline scornfully. “But what does that matter? She isn’t here now.”

“I don’t know. … Perhaps I shall never see her again anyway,” said Andrews.

“You’re a fool. You must amuse yourself when you can in this life. And you a deserter. … Why, they may catch you and shoot you any time.”

“Oh, I know, you’re right. You’re right. But I’m not made like that, that’s all.”

“She must be very good to you, your little Paris girl.”

“I’ve never touched her.”

Rosaline threw her head back and laughed raspingly.

“But you aren’t sick, are you?” she cried.

“Probably I remember too vividly, that’s all. … Anyway, I’m a fool, Rosaline, because you’re a nice girl.”

There were steps on the plank that led to the shore. A shawl over her head and a big bundle under her arm, the old woman came up to them, panting wheezily. She looked from one to the other, trying to make out their faces in the dark.

“It’s a danger … like that … youth,” she muttered between hard short breaths.

“Did you find the clothes?” asked Andrews in a casual voice.

“Yes. That leaves you forty-five francs out of your money, when I’ve taken out for your food and all that. Does that suit you?”

“Thank you very much for your trouble.”

“You paid for it. Don’t worry about that,” said the old woman. She gave him the bundle. “Here are your clothes and the forty-five francs. If you want, I’ll tell you exactly what each thing cost.”

“I’ll put them on first,” he said, with a laugh.

He climbed down the ladder into the cabin.

Putting on new, unfamiliar-shaped clothes made him suddenly feel strong and joyous. The old woman had bought him corduroy trousers, cheap cloth shoes, a blue cotton shirt, woollen socks, and a second-hand black serge jacket. When he came on deck she held up a lantern to look at him.

“Doesn’t he look fine, altogether French?” she said.

Rosaline turned away without answering. A little later she picked up the perch and carried the parrot, that swayed sleepily on the crosspiece, down the ladder.

“Les bourgeois à la lanterne, nom de dieu!” came the old man’s voice singing on the shore.

“He’s drunk as a pig,” muttered the old woman. “If only he doesn’t fall off the gang plank.”

A swaying shadow appeared at the end of the plank, standing out against the haze of light from the houses behind the poplar trees.

Andrews put out a hand to catch him as he reached the side of the barge. The old man sprawled against the cabin.

“Don’t bawl me out, dearie,” he said, dangling an arm round Andrews’s neck, and a hand beckoning vaguely towards his wife. “I’ve found a comrade for the little American.”

“What’s that?” said Andrews sharply. His mouth suddenly went dry with terror. He felt his nails pressing into the palms of his cold hands.

“I’ve found another American for you,” said the old man in an important voice. “Here he comes.” Another shadow appeared at the end of the gangplank.

“Les bourgeois à la lanterne, nom de dieu!” shouted the old man.

Andrews backed away cautiously towards the other side of the barge. All the little muscles of his thighs were trembling. A hard voice was saying in his head: “Drown yourself, drown yourself. Then they won’t get you.”

The man was standing on the end of the plank. Andrews could see the contour of the uniform against the haze of light behind the poplar trees.

“God, if I only had a pistol,” he thought.

“Say, Buddy, where are you?” came an American voice.

The man advanced towards him across the deck.

Andrews stood with every muscle taut.

“Gee! You’ve taken off your uniform. … Say, I’m not an M.P. I’m A.W.O.L. too. Shake.” He held out his hand.

Andrews took the hand doubtfully, without moving from the edge of the barge.

“Say, Buddy, it’s a damn fool thing to take off your uniform. Ain’t you got any? If they pick you up like that it’s life, Kid.”

“I can’t help it. It’s done now.”

“Gawd, you still think I’m an M.P., don’t yer? … I swear I ain’t. Maybe you are. Gawd, it’s hell, this life. A feller can’t put his trust in nobody.”

“What division are you from?”

“Hell, I came to warn you this bastard frawg’s got soused an’ has been blabbin’ in the gin mill there how he was an anarchist an’ all that, an’ how he had an American deserter who was an anarchist an’ all that, an’ I said to myself: ‘That guy’ll git nabbed if he ain’t careful,’ so I cottoned up to the old frawg an’ said I’d go with him to see the camarade, an’ I think we’d better both of us make tracks out o’ this berg.”

“It’s damn decent. I’m sorry I was so suspicious. I was scared green when I first saw you.”

“You were goddam right to be. But why did yous take yer uniform off?”

“Come along, let’s beat it. I’ll tell you about that.”

Andrews shook hands with the old man and the old woman. Rosaline had disappeared.

“Goodnight. … Thank you,” he said, and followed the other man across the gangplank.

As they walked away along the road they heard the old man’s voice roaring:

“Les bourgeois à la lanterne, nom de dieu!”

“My name’s Eddy Chambers,” said the American.

“Mine’s John Andrews.”

“How long ’ve you been out?”

“Two days.”

Eddy let the air out through his teeth in a whistle.

“I got away from a labor battalion in Paris. They’d picked me up in Chartres without a pass.”

“Gee, I’ve been out a month an’ more. Was you infantry too?”

“Yes. I was in the School Detachment in Paris when I was picked up. But I never could get word to them. They just put me to work without a trial. Ever been in a labor battalion?”

“No, thank Gawd, they ain’t got my number yet.”

They were walking fast along a straight road across a plain under a clear star-powdered sky.

“I been out eight weeks yesterday. What’d you think o’ that?” said Eddy.

“Must have had plenty of money to go on.”

“I’ve been flat fifteen days.”

“How d’you work it?”

“I dunno. I juss work it though. … Ye see, it was this way. The gang I was with went home when I was in hauspital, and the damn skunks put me in class A and was goin’ to send me to the Army of Occupation. Gawd, it made me sick, goin’ out to a new outfit where I didn’t know anybody, an’ all the rest of my bunch home walkin’ down Water Street with brass bands an’ reception committees an’ girls throwing kisses at ’em an’ all that. Where are yous goin’?”

“Paris.”

“Gee, I wouldn’t. Risky.”

“But I’ve got friends there. I can get hold of some money.”

“Looks like I hadn’t got a friend in the world. I wish I’d gone to that goddam outfit now. … I ought to have been in the engineers all the time, anyway.”

“What did you do at home?”

“Carpenter.”

“But gosh, man, with a trade like that you can always make a living anywhere.”

“You’re goddam right, I could, but a guy has to live underground, like a rabbit, at this game. If I could git to a country where I could walk around like a man, I wouldn’t give a damn what happened. If the army ever moves out of here an’ the goddam M.P.’s, I’ll set up in business in one of these here little towns. I can parlee pretty well. I’d juss as soon marry a French girl an’ git to be a regular frawg myself. After the raw deal they’ve given me in the army, I don’t want to have nothin’ more to do with their damn country. Democracy!”

He cleared his throat and spat angrily on the road before him.

They walked on silently. Andrews was looking at the sky, picking out constellations he knew among the glittering masses of stars.

“Why don’t you try Spain or Italy?” he said after a while.

“Don’t know the lingo. No, I’m going to Scotland.”

“But how can you get there?”

“Crossing on the car ferries to England from Havre. I’ve talked to guys has done it.”

“But what’ll you do when you do get there?”

“How should I know? Live around best I can. What can a feller do when he don’t dare show his face in the street?”

“Anyway, it makes you feel as if you had some guts in you to be out on your own this way,” cried Andrews boisterously.

“Wait till you’ve been at it two months, boy, and you’ll think what I’m tellin’ yer. … The army’s hell when you’re in it; but it’s a hell of a lot worse when you’re out of it, at the wrong end.”

“It’s a great night, anyway,” said Andrews.

“Looks like we ought to be findin’ a haystack to sleep in.”

“It’ld be different,” burst out Andrews, suddenly, “if I didn’t have friends here.”

“Oh, you’ve met up with a girl, have you?” asked Eddy ironically.

“Yes. The thing is we really get along together, besides all the rest.”

Eddy snorted.

“I bet you ain’t ever even kissed her,” he said. “Gee, I’ve had buddies has met up with that friendly kind. I know a guy married one, an’ found out after two weeks.”

“It’s silly to talk about it. I can’t explain it. … It gives you confidence in anything to feel there’s someone who’ll always understand anything you do.”

“I s’pose you’re goin’ to git married.”

“I don’t see why. That would spoil everything.”

Eddy whistled softly.

They walked along briskly without speaking for a long time, their steps ringing on the hard road, while the dome of the sky shimmered above their heads. And from the ditches came the singsong shrilling of toads. For the first time in months Andrews felt himself bubbling with a spirit of joyous adventure. The rhythm of the three green horsemen that was to have been the prelude to the Queen of Sheba began rollicking through his head.

“But, Eddy, this is wonderful. It’s us against the universe,” he said in a boisterous voice.

“You wait,” said Eddy.

When Andrews walked by the M.P. at the Gare-St. Lazare, his hands were cold with fear. The M.P. did not look at him. He stopped on the crowded pavement a little way from the station and stared into a mirror in a shop window. Unshaven, with a check cap on the side of his head and his corduroy trousers, he looked like a young workman who had been out of work for a month.

“Gee, clothes do make a difference,” he said to himself.