American Romantic by Ward Just Page B

his romance—that was how he described it to himself, a romance—with Sieglinde. That left a dry observation on the course of the war and one or two thoughtful comments about the disarray of the government at Washington and about the weather, hot all day long and into the evening. He said his health was good aside from a rash on his thigh. Now and again he looked up from the letter, thinking about the romance and what the ambassador wanted. Whatever it was, he hoped it would not interfere with his two-week leave. He hauled out the atlas to look up the precise location of the ancient ports so he could discuss plans with Sieglinde.
    At five he went around the corner for a drink with his office mate Ed Coyle, who said he was much missed at Sunday lunch. The Washington supremo wanted to hear about the events in the village, already the subject of lurid gossip, thanks to Sergeant Orono. Sergeant said you got shot at, Ed said. Sergeant said you were a block of ice under fire. That true? Harry told him a little of what happened, the smoldering clinic, the headman and his dead wife—if that was who she was. Harry asked, What did the supremo have to say? How proud they are of us here, Ed said, our hardships and hard times and hard knocks and the rest of it. You’ll be glad to know that hazardous-duty pay’s going up. More staff here. More troops in the field,
many
more troops, and many more ships at sea. We’re in for the long haul. Whatever it takes, according to the supremo. Ed went on to give specific numbers and dates but Harry did not listen closely. He was preoccupied by the clock on the wall. The café began to fill up, mostly Americans from the embassy and the USAID mission nearby, but there were other nationalities too, mainly Middle Eastern and European traders in search of contracts. The atmosphere was one of feral low-stakes conspiracy.
    Harry was at Café Celine most evenings, usually with Ed. They had become friends with the owner, a belligerent Algerian named Yves. Yves had the latest gossip concerning the government and the Americans, who was up and who was down at the presidential palace, and if there had been an atrocity or other incident the previous evening he knew about that also and was eager to share his knowledge. Yves was said to be a valued member of French intelligence and perhaps that was so, despite his frequent and public denunciations of the French government. But then again, he would, wouldn’t he? I heard you had an ugly time the other day, he said to Harry on their arrival. Could have been worse, Harry said, and Yves raised his eyebrows a fraction and made the first round on the house. Yves said quietly, I’ll bet you don’t know that the bastards burned that village, every house. A dozen casualties that we know about. So I think you were lucky. When he saw the expression on Harry’s face he nodded and said, Sorry.
    They drank up and Ed returned to the embassy. Harry strolled through streets crowded with tiny cars, mobile soup kitchens, and sidewalk vendors. He saw a pretty scarf for sale and bought it for Sieglinde. The streets were alive with conversation and music, American pop and French yé-yé. Harry was early for their date at the restaurant and decided to meet Sieglinde as she got off the hospital ship. There was commotion on the dock, one freighter arriving and the other leaving. The one arriving was of Nigerian registry but the skipper was yelling in Italian. Stevedores were everywhere, and here and there a police car with turning blue lights, policemen lounging inside. There were prostitutes and panhandlers and crippled veterans on crutches. Harry sat on a bench and watched the show, thinking about the village and what had been done to it. He supposed the headman was one of the dead. The place would be swarming with press conducting interviews amid the ruins. All the villages in the vicinity would be up-to-date: the assault, who died and by