David Mitchell - The Cloud Atlas

In the Alaskan military community, the secrets ran even thicker. So many men were involved in so-called top secret missions that those who weren’t, pretended. Ask a guy at a bar what he did, and he’d more than likely just roll his eyes and shrug. The modest would say something dismissive like “You know how it is;” the vain would look around and then whisper urgently, “It’s top secret.”

A few hours after my encounter with Lily the palm reader, someone was telling me just that-“It’s top secret”-over a beer. We were in an unofficial Army Air Corps club just off base, which officers and enlisted shared, after a fashion-the officers had one side of the room, the enlisted the other. It wasn’t a friendly place; everybody stared at their drinks, until they no longer could stare at much of anything.

I’d retreated to the club not long before. Shortly after arriving back on base from downtown, I’d bumped into a sergeant who recognized me from the daily visits I made to Building 100. My officer was back, he said. My official duties were about to begin; if I was smart, I’d grab a last drink while I could. Who knows where I’d find myself tomorrow. But when I’d asked the sergeant where I could find my CO., he shook his head and said, he’ll find you.

“ Top secret,” the man to my right said again.

I’d wandered in looking for a normal conversation, but was having no luck. My top secret companion at the bar had hands that were rough and callused and creased with dirt. I figured he was probably busy building base housing, and the only secret was when or if they would finish.

“What about you?” he asked.

I shrugged. “I-well, I work with ordnance. Bombs.”

“Goddamn right,” the man said, and pointed at my sleeve. “ Secret bombs?”

I shook my head.

“They’re not secret?” he said.

“I don’t know,” I said, looking around. Try as I might, I couldn’t focus; all I could see was Lily’s dollar, that magic 11, “careful and correct” (jarringly accompanied by a memory of Sergeant Redes), and then Lily, the loose shirt, the bare legs.

“Then that’s a secret, eh?” the man said, and rocked back satisfied.

“What is?” I asked absently.

The man pressed on: “Who’s your C.O.?”

I shut my eyes to erase Lily and opened them on my drinking partner. After a moment spent recalling his question, I answered: “Some captain.” I knew his name well enough, and would be meeting him soon, but I didn’t feel like saying any more than I had to.

“ ‘Some captain’-right,” the man said. “Let’s have it.”

“Top secret,” I said, and looked at the clock behind the bar. It was 9 P.M., but outside, it looked like 9 A.M. Some liked the way the sun shone late into the evenings; I came to feel, and still feel, it made one feel like a drunk. It felt odd to have a drink in my hand when the world outside looked like it hadn’t reached noon yet.

My friend wasn’t bothered by the time or the light. Perhaps he had solved this problem as I later learned some men did-they simply drank around the clock. That way, time and sobriety became irrelevant. “Top secret- right” he said, frowning into his drink. Maybe the time didn’t bother him, but I did. “You’re just fooling with me,” he said.

I stood up and put some money on the bar. “It’s Gurley,” I said. “Captain-Something-Gurley. I’m not sure of his first name.” But it wasn’t enough, or it wasn’t what he wanted to hear-he grabbed up my hand and held tight. What startled me most was not the abruptness of the act, but the gruff tenderness of it.

“Best to keep that a secret, then,” he said finally. He finished his drink and stood up without a wobble.

“Why?” I asked, looking at him intently for the first time all night. A gray hair or two poked out above the collar of his T-shirt.

“You know why,” he said. “Or if you don’t, you’ll know soon enough.” Push any man up here far enough, and you always reached this same blind alley of significant looks and silent lips.

“What the fuck ?” I said, exasperated. But I swore so infrequently- I’m still pretty bad at it, at least in English-that my voice involuntarily squeaked at the novelty. A few people turned around. “Everybody’s got a secret here. Everybody’s a damn spy,” I sputtered, though that’s not what I meant, and my voice went soft as a result.

But the man took no notice, and just shook his head. “We all pretend to be,” he told his empty glass. “He is .”

The door opened with a shout, so sharp and loud I couldn’t make out the word, only the volume behind it.

“And here he is,” he said without turning around.

“Sergeant Belk!” my captain shouted. I had not turned to look at him yet. “Sergeant Louis A. Belk, if you’re on base or in this bar, God help you if I find you before the MPs do.”

My friend turned to me slowly, summoned what sobriety he had left, and squinted at my name strip, which I could tell he couldn’t read. He stiffened up and looked at me. “Be glad you’re not Belk,” he said.

I swiveled around in my chair, and faced Captain Gurley for the first time. “But I am,” I said quietly.

“THIS BAR IS CLOSED,” Gurley roared, his voice more musical than loud. “The hour of judgment is at hand. Be gone, princesses of darkness!” Looks were exchanged, heads shook, but everyone filed out quickly enough. Even the bartender tried to leave, but Gurley stopped him-and me.

He jabbed a finger in my chest. “Belk.” I can feel the force of that finger still; it’s a chronic pain, actually, that flares up in times of stress.

Gurley looked at me carefully. “You’re familiar,” he said.

So was he: he had been Lily’s appointment from earlier. He waited a moment, long enough for me to wonder if he remembered or not. Then he spat out my name again: “Belk!” He frowned, and then slowly knocked on the bar, twice. “That is one fucking lousy name, Sergeant.” He looked for the bartender, and then spun back: “God above, what sort of faithless name is that?”

I said nothing.

Gurley leaned over and grabbed my chin with a bony hand. I later decided his strength was a mystery until you looked closely. He was tall and thin, but more than thin: skeletal, a look that makes some look emaciated and others as though they’d been hammered out of steel. He had an odd way of standing, too: he teetered occasionally, as though he were having trouble finding his footing. I wasn’t thinking about any of that then, though. I was just trying to figure out why I couldn’t snap my head out of his grasp. He kept talking, punching each comma and period: “A question requires an answer, Sergeant, not some subhuman gesture. Speech is what separates us- most of us- from primates. Are you a primate?”

“No,” I said.

“I’m not sure you got that quite right,” he said, somehow managing to squeeze harder.

“No, sir ,” I said.

“Better, but still, not enough,” he said. “Are you a primate?”

“No, sir,” I said.

“As in monkey, chimpanzee, o-rang-u-tan .”

No.

“Mmm,” he said, and then took a step back to regard me. “Lutheran?”

I shook my head.

“Methodist?”

No.

“I’m usually quite good at this…Let’s see… ‘Belk’… Presbyterian?”

No.

“Not-Episcopalian? Couldn’t be.” He frowned, and then leaned close, put his nose at my neck, and sniffed. Once, twice.

“No,” he said, stepping back stiffly once more, eyes wide with mock horror. “Good God, Belk, Catholic?” He looked me up and down. “A papist?”