James Benn: Rag and Bone

“What gives, Kaz?” I said as I collapsed into a chair. “You turning yourself into a pug?” Kaz liked American slang, and I was sure I hadn’t taught him this one.

“A dog?” He toweled himself off and sat on the edge of the bed. “That can’t be right.”

“A boxer, or maybe somebody good with his fists.”

“Ah, pug. Excellent,” he said, savoring the new word. “It is good to see you, Billy.”

“Same here, Kaz. Are you sure you should be doing this? With your heart condition?”

“Billy, after seriously considering the alternatives, I have decided life is to be lived. Fully.” He got up and took a drink of water, setting the glass down hard, the noise clear and sharp. It fit the new Kaz before me. In his eyes I saw the first acknowledgment of his penchant for taunting death. He looked in the mirror on the table next to me, his gaze lingering there. He touched his scar absentmindedly, drawing his finger from his eye down his cheek, tracing it as if it were a map to lost fortune.

“In this war, one must be strong,” he said, moving away from the mirror. “I have decided to strengthen myself. There once was room for a weak, studious man in the world I used to know. That is why my father decided I should come to England to study, that a quiet life with books would be the best for me. But he is gone, and so is that studious boy, who lived for words. I believe that is why I was careless of my own life, because I felt so adrift from everything. Family, country, and finally even the woman I loved.”

“I think about Daphne all the time,” I said. “I half expect her to walk through that door.”

“Yes, I know,” Kaz said. He sat on the bed again, unable to keep his gaze from the entrance to the room. He was sad, but didn’t look as hopeless as he once had. “Daphne is gone, my family is gone, all dead, everything ruined by this war. Even my face.”

We sat for a while in the quiet, the rumble of traffic a faint reminder of the great city around us. The sun was setting, and Kaz stood to draw the curtains. All over London, people were doing the same, shutting in the light, trying to live with the blackout and the threat of death, the reality of it.

After a minute of silence I said, “You were never that good-looking in the first place.”

Kaz laughed. “Billy, that is one reason why I missed you! You remind me not to take things too seriously.”

“Glad to help, buddy. It’s good to see you smile. So you’re lifting weights, doing push-ups, what else?”

“The army won’t let me train, because they know of my heart condition. So I do what I can here. I’ve started to jump rope, which is very challenging. And I walk in the park at a fast pace, whenever I have time. The only thing I have left-besides you, my good friend-is the hope of a return to my country when the war is over. It will take more than scholars to accomplish that, I believe.”

I glanced at the pile of books on Kaz’s nightstand. He hadn’t exactly given up on his studies; there were several tomes in foreign languages among the foot-high stack of books and reports. With whatever the Polish Government in Exile had him doing, and his workout routine, I doubted he’d been having any fun.

“Why don’t we both get cleaned up and go out? We can catch up over dinner.”

“We can go down to the dining room or have room service bring something up if you’re too tired.”

“No, I want to stretch my legs and take a look around.”

“Very well. You’ll see London has changed since you were last here. There hasn’t been a Luftwaffe raid in months.”

I washed up, got into my Class A uniform, and showed off my first lieutenant’s bars to Kaz. He pretended to be impressed, but he was a baron, so I shouldn’t have expected much. As usual, he managed to outdo me in his hand-tailored dress uniform, making me look like a rumpled bumpkin. I rubbed my shoes on the back of my pants leg, hoping for the ghost of a shine.

We left the Dorchester amid greetings and tips of the hat. The main door was held open. Kaz was popular with the staff, not because of his status as a permanent guest, but due to his reason for staying there. Everyone knew the story of his family, and took pride in his dedication to the memory of their home away from home. It made everyone feel special to be associated with that. It was part of Kaz’s charm, and the shared suffering of the war that he embodied. It was as if, having failed to protect Poland, this little bit of England had decided to protect Kaz as best it could.

We walked through Berkeley Square, and I felt the return of the easy familiarity Kaz and I had shared, here and in Algiers. The square was swarming with GIs, sailors, and the occasional English soldier. Most were Yanks, laughing loudly, whistling at the few young women out on their own, living life, killing time. Generally, when we passed a group of them, they ignored us, but every now and then one guy would salute, and we’d have to respond.

“If it wasn’t for the extra pay and better food, I’d hate being an officer,” I said.

“You wouldn’t be a very good enlisted man either, Billy. Tell me, how is Diana? Have you seen her lately?”

I told him about our little boat ride to the Isle of Capri. It had been two days ago, but already it felt like forever.

“Is her mission on?” Kaz asked in a whisper.

“Yeah. I think it’s the Vatican,” I said, lowering my voice as well. I don’t know whom I expected to overhear us, but I couldn’t help it. I told Kaz about my brilliant guesswork, and Diana’s reaction.

“Sometimes, I think for a smart detective, you are quite stupid.”

“Geez, Kaz,” I said, steamed at the remark. But then I thought about it, and found it hard to debate the point. “I do always seem to put my foot in it with Diana. We’re OK, though. I think.”

“Good. Women seem difficult to understand for Americans. Or perhaps you understand American women better than others?” Even in the dark of the blackout, I could see Kaz smiling.

“Yeah, I got them nailed, no problem. Hey, watch out.” We’d turned onto Regent Street, where the sidewalk was blocked by a neat stack of bricks. The pile was shoulder-high, and stretched along the road, broken every ten feet or so by a narrow passage to the vacant lot beyond. The smell of smoke and dust lay thick upon them. Beyond the bricks was a gaping hole where a building had once stood.

“The remains of homes and shops,” Kaz said. “Everything but the bricks bombed and burned away. All this once held life.” He trailed his fingers along the bricks, and I found I had to touch them as well. They were rough to the touch, and the smell of years of London’s coal smoke, the grit of collapsed buildings, and the soot from raging fires lingered on my hand. The odor of the Blitz. We passed another long row of empty spaces and more of the tidy piles of bricks salvaged from the rubble. Some of the lots had been cleared and planted with gardens. It was a warm December, at least by Boston standards, and I wondered if they had any winter crops still in the ground. I remembered my mother saying she liked to keep parsnips in the garden past the first frost since it made them sweeter, and suddenly I could see her hands cradling the good china, placing a steaming bowl of mashed parsnips on the table at Thanksgiving.

“Billy, we are here,” Kaz said, standing by the restaurant door. I had walked several paces on.

“Sorry,” I said. “Daydreaming.” I followed Kaz into Bertorelli’s, where of course the headwaiter knew him. I tried to shake off the visions of home but they stayed with me, an insistent ache I couldn’t dismiss. I had been away almost two years now, and I’d begun to wonder how long it would be before I returned.