Irwin Shaw - The Young Lions

"It is your Lieutenant," the girl said. "I need some translation. He wants something, and I am not quite sure what it is. I think he wants to be whipped, but I am afraid to start unless I know for certain."

"Begin," said Brandt. "That is exactly what he wants. He is an old friend of mine."

"Are you sure?" The girl looked at both of them doubtfully.

"Absolutely," said Brandt.

"Good." The girl shrugged. "I will essay it." She turned at the door. "It is a little strange," she said, a hint of mockery in her voice, "the victorious soldier… The day of victory… A curious taste, wouldn't you say?"

"We are a curious people," Brandt said.

He stood up and Christian stood with him. They walked out.

It was dark outside. The blackout was thorough and no lights were showing. The moon hung over the rooftops, though, dividing each street into geometrical blocks of light and shadow. The atmosphere was mild and still and there was a hushed, empty air hanging over the city, broken occasionally by the sound of steel-treaded vehicles shifting in the distance, the noise sudden and harsh, then dying down to nothingness among the dark buildings.

Brandt led the way. He was wobbling slightly, but he knew where he was and he walked with reassuring certainty in the direction of the Porte Saint Denis.

THE radio dominated everything. Even though it was sunny outside and the Pennsylvania hills were green and crisp in the fair June weather, and even though they kept saying the same thing over and over again in the little static-tortured machine, Michael found himself sitting indoors all day in the wallpapered living-room with its spindly Colonial furniture. There were newspapers all around his chair. From time to time Laura came in and sighed in loud martyrdom as she bent and ostentatiously picked them up and arranged them in a neat pile. But Michael hardly paid any attention to her. He sat hunched over the machine, twisting the dial, hearing the variety of voices, mellow and ingratiating and theatrical, saying over and over again, "Buy Lifebuoy to avoid unpleasant body odours," and "Two teaspoonsful in a glass before breakfast will keep you regular," and "It is rumoured that Paris will not be defended. The German High Command is maintaining silence about the position of its spearheading columns against crumbling French resistance."

"We promised Tony," Laura was standing at the door, speaking in a patient voice, "that we'd have some badminton this afternoon."

Michael continued to sit silently hunched up, close to the radio.

"Michael!" Laura said loudly.

"Yes?" He didn't look round.

"Badminton," Laura said. "Tony."

"What about it?" Michael asked, his forehead wrinkled with the effort of trying to listen to her and the radio announcer at the same time.

"The net isn't up."

"I'll put it up later."

"How much later?"

"For God's sake, Laura!" Michael shouted. "I said I'd do it later."

"I'm getting tired," Laura said coldly, tears coming to her eyes, "of your doing everything later."

"Will you stop that?"

"Stop shouting at me." The tears started to roll down her cheeks and Michael felt sorry for her. They had planned this time in the country as a vacation during which, without telling each other, they had hoped to recapture some of the old friendship and affection they had lost in the disordered years since their marriage. Laura's contract had run out in Hollywood, and they hadn't taken up her option and, inexplicably, she couldn't get another job. She had been quite good about it, gay and uncomplaining, but Michael knew how defeated she felt and he resolved to be tender with her during the month in the country in the house that a friend had loaned them. They'd been there a week, but it had been a terrible week. Michael had sat listening to the radio all day and hadn't been able to sleep at night. He had paced the floor downstairs and sat up reading and had gloomily stalked around, red-eyed and weary, neglecting to shave, neglecting to help Laura with the work in keeping the pretty little house in order.

"Forgive me, darling," he said, and took her in his arms and kissed her. She smiled, although she was still crying.

"I hate to be a pest," Laura said, "but some things have to be done, you know."

"Of course," Michael said.

Laura laughed. "Now you're being noble. I love it when you're noble."

Michael laughed too, but he couldn't help feeling a little annoyed.

"Now you've got to pay up," Laura said, under his chin, "for being nice to me."

"What now?" Michael asked.

"Don't sound resigned," Laura said. "I hate it when you sound resigned."

Michael controlled himself purposefully and listened to his own voice being polite and pleasant as he spoke. "What do you want me to do?"

"First," Laura said, "turn off that damned radio." Michael started to protest, but thought better of it. The announcer was saying, "The situation here is still confused, but the British seem to have evacuated the greater portion of their Army safely, and it is expected that Weygand's counter-offensive will soon develop…"

"Michael, darling," Laura said warningly.

Michael turned the radio off.

"There," he said, "anything for you."

"Thanks," said Laura. Her eyes were dry and bright and smiling now. "Now, one more thing."

"What's that?"

"Shave."

Michael sighed and ran his hand over the little stubble on his jaw.

"Do I really need it?" he asked.

"You look as though you just came out of a Third Avenue flop-house."

"You've convinced me," Michael said.

"You'll feel better, too," Laura said, picking up the newspapers around Michael's chair.

"Sure," said Michael. Almost automatically, he sidled over towards the radio and put his hand down to the dials.

"Not for an hour," Laura pleaded, holding her hand over the dials. "One hour. It's driving me crazy. The same thing over and over."

"Laura, darling," Michael said, "it's the most important week of our lives."

"Still," she said, with crisp logic, "it doesn't help to drive ourselves out of our minds. That won't help the French, will it? And when you come down, darling, put up the badminton net."

Michael shrugged. "Okay," he said. Laura kissed his cheek lightly and ran her fingers through his hair. He started upstairs.

While he was shaving he heard some of the guests arrive. The voices floated up from the garden, lost from time to time in the sound of the water running in the basin. They were women's voices and they sounded musical and soft at this distance. Laura had invited two of the teachers from a near-by girls' school to which she had gone when she was fourteen. They both were Frenchwomen who had taught her and had been good to her. As Michael half-listened to the rising and falling voices, he couldn't help feeling how much more pleasant Frenchwomen sounded than most of the American women he knew. There was something modest and artful in the tone of the voices and the spacing of the words that fell much more agreeably on the ear than the self-assured clangour of American female speech. That, he thought, grinning, is an observation I will not dare make aloud.

He cut himself and felt annoyed and jangled again as he saw the small, persistent crimson seeping under his jaw.

From the large tree at the end of the garden came the cawing of crows. A colony of them had set up their nests there, and from time to time they clacked away, drowning the other and more gentle noises of the countryside.

He went downstairs and stole quietly into the living-room and turned the radio on, low. In a moment it warmed up, but for once there was only music. A woman's voice was singing, "I got plenty of nuthin' and nuthin's plenty for me," on one station. A military band was playing the overture from Tannhauser on the other station. It was a weak little radio and it was only possible to get two stations on it. Michael turned the radio off and went out into the garden to meet the guests.