Stephen Coonts - Combat

Frankie hooted, then translated. Scarface chuckled. It was the sound of a forty-year-old Ford starting up.

“He says that’s worse. Lovers need to drink even more than fighters. Women need to be afraid of you.”

A woman appeared in the doorway. Early to mid-twenties, she wore jeans and a purple roll-collar sweater. Dark blond hair fell over her shoulders, and her hair and the sweater glistened from the light rain that had drifted over the village. Even at a distance, Green could see that she wore too much makeup, but so did every woman in the Balkans who didn’t walk with a cane. By any standard, the woman was attractive. She did not look like village goods.

She considered Green, then walked hastily to the bar. Scarface grunted at her, but she ignored him and spoke to Frankie. He shrugged his shoulders, his favorite gesture, and the woman nodded and smiled uncertainly.

She turned toward Green. But her steps faltered. It seemed as if she were giving herself orders to keep going. As though she were afraid. A few feet away, she stopped, briefly met his eyes, then looked down.

Up close, she was genuinely lovely. Green hoped she was not a hooker. He did not want any part of that, and he did not want her to be that sort. There was something about her that made you want better things for her. She did not look strong. And war sent people down ugly paths.

“May I … speak with you?” she asked. Her voice was low, almost masculine in pitch, but it quaked. “I heard that you have come, and wish to practice my English, please.”

Good opening for a hooker, Green thought sadly. But the night wasn’t going anywhere. If she wanted to sit, he didn’t mind the company.

“Please,” he said, rising slightly. “Have a seat.”

She brushed by him and he smelled the musk of her, and the wet wool of the sweater. After she sat down, Scarface and Frankie lost interest.

“I am Daniela,” she said.

“I’m Jeff.”

“Cheff?”

“Right. ‘Daniela’ sounds Italian.”

She smiled. Her teeth were straight and fairly white, a blessing by local standards. Odd, how you noticed different things in different situations, Green thought. In the Balkans, you checked out their teeth.

“I think my parents have taken it from a film. Is it a pretty name, do you think?”

“Yes. Very much so.”

Sergeant Crawley came back in, wet. Green realized the NCO had been checking the lock-up on the Cherokee and getting the last of the gear into their room, which was in a double cabin out back. With a good lock on the door. Crawley had little ways of shaming him by taking care of duties they should have shared.

The NCO did a fast intel estimate and headed for the bar instead of the table. Green heard him ask for another Coke.

“I do not ask about my name’s attractiveness because I seek flattery,” Daniela said. “But for practice.”

“Practice is very important.”

A thick strand of hair fell forward and she flipped it back over her shoulder. The corner of her mouth began to twitch and she quickly set her fingertips over it. Her fingers were rough and scarred, and cuts striped the back of her hand. The sight startled Green. The hand did not match the rest of her.

When she removed her fingers from her lips, the twitch had stopped.

“So … are you a teacher?” Green asked. Trying to figure her out.

She shook her head. “There is no school now. Maybe next year. Do you have a cigarette, please?”

From Belfast to Belgrade, the women of Europe still had not gotten the word. They all smoked.

“I’m sorry. I don’t smoke.”

She looked down, embarrassed at having asked for something, sensing a greater error she did not understand. “I’m sorry. There is no need.”

But Green called to his host, “Frankie? Got a pack of cigarettes?”

“German okay?”

Green looked at the woman. She kept looking down.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said.

“Whatever,” Green said to Frankie. Then he asked the woman, “Would you like something to drink?”

She raised her face. There was a little struggle in her eyes, manners at war with appetite. “I think so,” she said. “Perhaps there is coffee?”

Frankie dropped off a rose-colored pack of cigarettes and a box of matches with Cyrillic lettering. Leftovers. And yes, there was coffee.

Green opened the pack and held it out for the woman to help herself to a cigarette. Then he laid the pack down on her side of the table and lit a match for her.

Those scarred hands.

She closed her eyes and sucked the smoke deep. As if it fortified her.

“You wish to know what I do?” she asked.

“If you want to tell me.”

“But I cannot. You see, there is nothing to do now. I live with my mother. My father is gone. In the war. We do not know any facts about him. But we have hope.” She stilled the twitch at the corner of her mouth again. “I have studied at the university until the war’s beginning. I studied English literature. But I do not speak so well now. There is no opportunity here.”

“You speak English very well.”

“Perhaps you know the books of Mr. George Orwell?”

Green remembered reading 1984 and Animal Farm in high school. But he was not certain he was prepared for a literary discussion.

“I think they are very true, the books of Mr. Orwell,” she went on. “I cannot agree with the people who say 1984 is wrong because the year has come and is gone. The year is not important. I think it is like walking toward the horizon, you see. This 1984 is always ahead of us, no matter how far we go. I think there are always too many people who would like us to behave in such a way.”

Green could only remember Big Brother. And the mask with the rats.

“And I think that Animal Farm is very important. There are many such pigs.”

Green read regularly, but most of the books he chose were histories or biographies. The last novel he could remember reading was a thriller he had picked up in an airport, a story about Washington intrigue and POW/MIAs seized by the Russians during the Korean War. It had not impressed him.

“But I like Mr. Thomas Hardy as my favorite,” the woman said, smoke frosting her thick, damp hair. “He is so romantic and sad. But there is an unfortunate lack of books now.”

“Maybe you can go back to the university?”

She looked into the smoke. “I would like that very much. But it is difficult. I think the war will come back. And only the people who make black-market business have money.” She lifted her head and managed to meet his gaze for several seconds. Her eyes were green, almost gray in their lightness of color. She touched her fingertips to the side of her mouth and looked down again.

“But I think it is not polite to talk so much about my person. We will talk about you now, Mr. Jeff. Where are you from?” She smiled.

“Wheeling, West Virginia, ma’am.”

She nodded. “Wheeling is very beautiful.”

That was news to Green. “Ever been to the states, Daniela?”

She shook her head. A decided no. “But I know it is beautiful, and the people are very happy. Except for the Negroes, who are in the cities. Are there Negroes in Wheeling?”

“Some.”

“Are you afraid of them?”

“Not particularly.”

She considered that. “I think they are violent people. I do not like violent people.”

“Not all blacks are violent,” Green began. “In America—” He caught himself. It was hardly the time or place for Race Relations 101. “Anyway, Wheeling’s not the most beautiful city in the United States. But there’s pretty country nearby.”

“I think it must be beautiful. I would like to see it very much.”