David Mitchell - The Cloud Atlas

“Catholic,” I said quietly.

Gurley looked around as if to call someone else’s attention to the zebra that had just walked into the room. “ Catholic , then,” he said, and knocked on the bar, signaling something to the bartender. “My family always, and I mean always , had Catholic servants. But that was us. Only the best. Silver spoon in my mouth and all the rest.”

The bartender brought over a bottle of Canadian Club and a glass. Gurley nodded at him. The man poured. Gurley picked up the bottle, sniffed it, and set it back down.

“Go,” he said, and the bartender was gone before I’d swiveled back around. He looked to me. “It’s true. My mother had a preference for them-and so did I.” I lowered my eyes. “Catholic girls, Belk,” he said, and inhaled. “Are you Irish?” he asked.

“No,” I said, and started to say something else.

“Alas,” Gurley said. “There might have been the chance I’d ravished-fucked-a cousin of yours. Perchance a sister .” He looked at me. “Quite sure?”

“Captain,” I began, eager to stop him before his claims progressed.

“Sergeant,” Gurley began again, and then changed his mind. “But you must excuse me. I am better bred than my babbling tirade betrays.” He stopped. “Do you know what tirade means?” I nodded anyway. “Ah,” Gurley said. “I see two things. One, that you do not know the word’s definition, and two, that you are a pitiable liar.” He drained his glass, then poured himself another two fingers and downed that, upper lip drawn back like he was swallowing vitamins. “So, knowing this, I am pleased to proceed with my experiment. Ready, Sergeant?”

“Captain,” I said again, and that’s all I said, because I was a kid and scared. I tried to think about what Sergeant Redes would have done. Earlier that day, I learned he had been lost at sea, and now realized some things are just out of our control.

“Are you a good shot?” Gurley asked. I could hardly hear him for my booming pulse. In the meantime, it was as if he’d invisibly handed something over, some sort of false courage that ran through me and made me want to deck him, ready to deck him, in fact, if he made one more crack about me or his servants. Before that, though, I’d do myself and my faith proud by being as obnoxious as I wanted. Simple enough.

“I’m a fucking great shot,” I said, my voice bouncing a little less higher over the profanity this time. Then I leaned forward like I had a secret. “Sir,” I added with a small grin.

Gurley broadhanded me with such force that I barked back into the bar and then to the floor, knocking over both stool and whisky.

“You fuck,” Gurley said. “Pray that the vessel containing that most precious elixir is not broken.” He kicked me-gently, I suppose, for him. “Do go and find out.” I looked up at him insolently-I had so much still to learn-and I could see he was about to swat me again. But instead, he gave another light kick and went to his glass, looking for another drop or two. Then he leaned over the bar and looked down.

“It’s there,” he said, pointing. “Retrieve.” I crawled to my feet with the help of a stool, and walked around behind the bar. I bent over to get the bottle and almost passed out, but caught myself. I put the bottle on the bar and began walking back around, but he stopped me with a hand. “That’s fine. You’re safer back there, don’t you think? Bar between us?” I nodded. “Thomas Gurley, Captain, U.S. Army Air Corps, late of the O-S-S, Office of Strategic Services.” He winked and held out a hand.

“Louis Belk,” I mumbled. “Sergeant, I guess.”

“My word, Belk, be sure about some thing.” He examined his empty glass and then me. “Good. So you’re a good shot, you daresay.”

As I’ve explained, I was a terrible shot.

“Let’s see if you can hit this glass,” he said.

“With what?” I asked.

“With your gun , Belk,” Gurley said. “Or-whatever. Your forehead. You seem like a bright lad.”

“I’m not-I’m not going to fire a gun in here,” I said.

“Of course in here. That’s why I cleared the bar. So we could talk. Get to know each other. Kind of an entrance exam for your position. Includes a little target practice. Ready?”

“But I don’t have a gun, not here,” I said. I didn’t have one anywhere.

“What?” said Gurley. “Maybe they didn’t make it clear back in basic training-this is, in fact, a war”

“A war,” I repeated.

“A holy war,” said Gurley, “a crusade, if you will.” He unsnapped his holster and pulled out his gun. He laid it on the bar. “Lesson one,” he said. “Gun. Colt M1911. Forty-five caliber.” I looked at it. Gurley leaned across the bar, and before I could realize what was happening, he’d backhanded me again. My mouth was a mush of blood. He regarded this. “Swallow.” I did.

And this is the point, were Ronnie awake, were he ever to awake, he would ask, Why? Never mind that avoiding that question is why most people come to Alaska; never mind that few questions are less answerable in Alaska: Why did I let Gurley abuse me so? Because Gurley was an officer? Because I was tired? Because I was a fool?

Why did I do what I did? For the same reason anyone in the army does what they do: because that’s how you’re trained. Now, it wasn’t that I’d been trained to be a coward, and it wasn’t simply that I’d been trained to follow orders.

I had been trained in the art of bomb disposal. Some guys might just take a rifle and shoot at an unexploded bomb to get rid of it, but that was artless (and in most situations, fatally stupid). No, what I did, what I’d been trained to do, was circle, study, plan, and when I was ready, move.

And Gurley, I didn’t know him that well, yet. But I knew this: he could fume and rage and spit, but lay an ear to him and you’d hear it- he was still ticking. He hadn’t gone off, not really, not yet. To haul back and hit him would have been like aiming that rifle and pulling the trigger. And then what would you have? What you always got when you didn’t think ahead. Body parts, all over.

“Pick up the gun, Belk.” And I did, though doing so gave me an almost physical sense of things flying out of control. I blinked, hoping to regain my balance, but it only made me dizzier.

“Now we’re going to shoot.”

I was surprised, and disappointed, that he was so obviously not worried that a man he had just struck, twice, might be interested in shooting him.

He held up the glass, and looked at me until I returned his gaze. “A moving target.” Then he pointed down the bar. “Ready?”

I nodded, adjusted my grip. Circle, study, plan.

Gurley made as if to toss the glass in the air, but then rocketed it down the bar, a line drive. It shattered against a far wall before I had a chance to do anything, let alone shoot.

“You didn’t even fire, mon petit ami ,” Gurley said with a smile. He knocked the bar. “Another glass.” I drew a breath, found a glass, set it up. “Ready?” he said. I nodded and raised the gun. Another line drive down the bar, even faster this time. I almost squeezed the trigger, but held off when I realized I was far too late.

“C’m’ere,” said Gurley. I leaned over. He took the gun from my hand and, holding the barrel, smacked the side of my head with it. For a second I couldn’t see, and when my vision finally blinked back, I realized my right eye was already swelling shut.

“Second lesson,” Gurley said. “Are you looking at me?” I assumed I was, and stared more intently. “Second lesson,” he repeated. “Never, never let a man take your gun.” He gave it back to me, and raised his hand to strike again. Reflexively I aimed the gun at him. The hell with circling. Training can only take a man so far.