Griffin W.E.B. - Honor Bound 01 - Honor Bound

He had a little trouble finding her in the church; it was dark inside. And when he did find her, he had trouble finding a seat that would give him a view of something besides the back of her head.

But even that wasn't so bad. He stepped on some old lady's foot and she yelped, and he said without thinking, "Scusi," in Italian, and the old lady answered him in Italian. She said he was a clumsy jackass, but she said it in Italian, and that made him think that maybe the girl also spoke Italian—why not? She had gone into the Ristorante Napoli, and this was an Italian neighborhood. Maybe if he had a chance to say hello to her again, he could try it in Italian and wouldn't sound like the neighborhood idiot trying to talk to her in Spanish.

He said a prayer for his family, and thanked God for not getting caught in Uruguay. And he asked God's protection when they tried to blow a hole in the ship. And then he asked God, "Please let me meet her." And for a moment he wondered if he should have done that, but decided there was nothing wrong with it, he had no carnal lusts for her or anything like that.

Once she turned around and saw him. And even in the dim light—he didn't think there was a bulb bigger than forty watts in all of Argentina, and the ones in here looked like refrigerator bulbs—he thought he saw her blush.

When she stood up and left, walking past him out of the church, she didn't look at him, although he knew damned well she had seen him. He hurried after her, and saw her heading toward the Ristorante Napoli. He waited until she disappeared around the corner and then walked quickly after her.

What the hell, it was three blocks to the ristorante, maybe I can catch up with her.

She turned another corner, a block away from the Ristorante Napoli, and he walked faster so he wouldn't lose her. And in case she went in some house or something, he would know where she lived.

When he turned the corner, she was waiting for him.

"If my father sees you following me, he will cut out your heart with a knife," she said. In Italian!

His mouth went on automatic. He was startled to hear himself say, "Oh, please don't tell your father. I am just a poor Italian boy far from home and all alone."

Boy, did I put my foot in my mouth with that stupid line.

But she smiled.

"You're telling the truth?"

Tony held up his right hand.

"I swear to God!" he declared passionately.

"Where are you from? The North?"

"Cicero."

"Where?"

"Cicero, Illinois. Outside Chicago. In the United States of America."

"You're telling the truth?"

"I swear to God, on my mother's honor."

"I have never heard of Cicero, Illinois," she said.

"It's a nice place. You would like it. You ought to visit there sometime."

There you go again, asshole! Think before you open your goddamned mouth!

"You are an American?" she asked in disbelief.

"I am an American."

"If you are an American, you must speak English."

"I do."

"Say something in English."

"What do you want me to say?" Tony asked in English.

"Say you are a poor Italian boy far from home and all alone."

"I really am," Tony said in English.

"You can't speak English!"

"I am a poor Italian boy far from home and all alone," Tony quickly said in English.

Her eyes widened.

"I think I maybe believe you," the girl said.

"I swear to God."

She smiled and took his arm.

"It is not right to be alone and far from home," she said. "Come, I will take you home with me and we will have a glass of wine for you, and a cake."

I don't believe this! Thank you, God!

She took him to the Ristorante Napoli, which was closed, and through a door that opened on a stairway that led to a little apartment over the restaurant.

Her father—Tony recognized him as the guy who gave him the good meal the first time he went to the restaurant—and her mother and some younger brothers and sisters were there.

Her father didn't recognize him.

Thank God, after that bullshit story I handed him about being from some village near the Austrian border!

The girl told her family they had met in the church and that he had told her he was alone, and she had brought him home for a glass of wine and a cake. Her mother raised her eyebrows the way Tony's grandmother used to raise hers; but her father gave him a glass of wine, and then another, and some kind of pastry her mother said she made special for the family and not for the restaurant. And then everybody just sat there sort of uncomfortable, so Tony took the hint and decided he better get the hell out of there before he made a pest of himself, and started to go.

He shook hands with everybody and then the girl went down the stairs with him to the street, and he gathered his courage and blurted, "I'd really like to see you again."

"Impossible."

"Why is it impossible? We could have a cup of coffee or something. Dinner."

"It's impossible."

"Why is it impossible?"

"I have a job. I work all week."

"You have to have some time off."

"Very little."

"You have to have some," Tony argued. "You're off now, for example. Are you working tomorrow? Tomorrow's Sunday!"

She hesitated before replying, "No. But my family will be visiting relatives."

"All day?"

"From five."

"What about between now and five?"

"It's not a very good idea."

"Please!"

"It's crazy."

"Let me at least buy you a cup of coffee."

"I should not do this, but..."

"But what?"

"You come here at nine-thirty tomorrow. We take the train to El Tigre. We have a cup of coffee, maybe a little sandwich, and then we come back. OK."

What the hell is El Tigre?Tony wondered. "The Tiger"? What the hell does that mean? Who the hell cares?

"Nine-thirty," he said. "I'll be here."

"It's crazy," she said one last time, and then turned and went up the stairs.

[FIVE]

4730 Avenida Libertador

Buenos Aires

0925 14 December 1942

First Lieutenant Cletus Howell Frade, USMCR, opened his eyes and found himself staring at Hauptmann Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein of the Luftwaffe, who was in a khaki uniform. Clete noticed the swastika on his pilot's wings. It made him uncomfortable.

"What the hell do you want?" he inquired, somewhat less than graciously.

"It is almost half past nine," von Wachtstein said.

"What the hell are you, a talking clock? Get the hell out of here!"

"There is an officer here to move me to a hotel," Peter said.

Clete sat up. His brain banged against the interior of his cranium. His dry tongue scraped against the cobblestones on his teeth. His stomach groaned. His eyes hurt.

"What did you say?" he asked.

Behind Peter, he saw Se?ora Pellano carrying a tray on which was a coffeepot, a large glass of orange juice, and a rose in a small crystal vase. She was smiling at him maternally.

"Buenos dias, Se?or Cletus," she said.

Christ, that's all I need. A smiling face and a goddamned rose!

"Buenos dias, Se?ora Pellano," he said, and smiled. It hurt to smile.

“There is an officer here, a Coronel Kleber. He is to move me to a hotel," Peter said. "He claims it is to make me more convenient to your uncle's house. But I think someone finally remembered that you are living here."

"Oh, Christ," Clete said.

"Our armistice is over, I am afraid," Peter said.

"Looks that way."

"I would suggest, Clete, that our armistice be a secret between us; that we both say we were unaware the other was in the house. There are those, I am afraid, who would not understand how it was between us."

"Oh, shit!" Clete said.

"You agree?"

"Oh, hell. Yeah, sure. You're right."

"I thank you for your hospitality, Clete," Peter said, and put out his hand. Clete shook it.