Cassada (22 page)

“Oh,” she says, “I wanted to ask you something.”

“Me?” Frank says, pointing at himself.

“Me,” Barnes offers.

A slight intake of breath,
ja.
She nods her head. “You're not a pilot, are you?”

“Yeah, we are.”

“From Furstenfeldbruck, the airfield?”

“That's right.”

“Yes. I wondered. I heard planes flying over all day. You're not from the group up by Trier?”

“The 5th?”

“Yes.”

“No, we're from France. Chaumont. What's your name?”

“But perhaps you know something. The other day there was an accident . . .”

“We heard about it. Two planes. The ops officer of a squadron and another guy.”

“The 44th Squadron,” Frank puts in.

“And were they . . . they were both killed?”

“Just one.”

“Oh. Which one?”

“The wingman, I think. Why, did you know them?”

“Yes, maybe. Thank you,” she says and quickly goes out.

“Hey, wait a minute!”

She is almost running to a car at the curb. As she gets in, it drives off. The two of them watch it go.

“Barnes, you're unconscious,” Frank says.

“What do you mean?”

“You're just unconscious.”

In the car Barnes sits with his legs doubled up in front of him, knees touching the dashboard.

“Who do you suppose she was looking for?”

“What makes you think she was looking for someone?” Frank says, turning the ignition switch. “She was looking for you, you unconscious bastard.”

“No, she knew somebody. I could tell from her eyes.”

“Her eyes? Is that what you noticed?”

They drive past endless blocks of apartments, every window dark. On the hidden streets there are countless others. The city is unknowable. They think they know it, they will always say they do.

“I wonder if I'll ever see her again. Probably never will.”

“Who knows? With your luck . . .”

“If I wasn't expecting to, I might. Isn't that the way it always is?”

“How would I know?” Frank says.

“She looked Russian or, you know, from somewhere.”

“I don't think you'll find any Russians around here.”

“Way back, I mean,” Barnes says.

Grace and his wife left in March, Phipps and Julie a few weeks after. Everyone went down to see them off. It was a regular thing, very much like a funeral except for the champagne. They stood around bundled against the cold, the women gossiping. Finally the train pulled out, everyone waving.

A month later it was the Isbells' turn. The grey of winter had vanished, the sky was bright. One for the road, they kept saying to him as they poured. Marian was sipping hers, talking and holding her hand over the top of the paper cup whenever someone tried to fill it, turning her head every so often to check on her children.

“Come on, Captain. One for the road.”

“Yeah, one for the railroad.”

Finally all the faces were looking up at them from the platform, faces they knew well and new ones that would slowly take over. So long, see you in the States. Don't be like everybody else, now; don't forget to write. A few waves and then the irrevocable, the train began to move. Isbell and his wife were waving. He held a daughter up. Marian lifted the other. They all waved.

The train went along the river, one steep bank of which was in sunshine. They sat watching the vineyards and small towns pass. Isbell felt drowsy. A warm square of sunshine was drifting across his lap. His eyes began to close. A paper cup was rolling around beneath the seat every time the train swayed a little. It hit something, lay still, then rolled back the other way.

His eyes opened sometime later when they began to slow. Coblenz, where they were to change. Marian stood up and began to put coats on the girls as the train rattled over switches. Slowly they came into the station. Marian herded the children down the aisle in front of her.

“How do you feel?” she asked, turning to Isbell.

“Thirsty.”

He followed along, struggling with the bags. The platform was crowded. The car had been hot; it was different outside. The air smelled fresh. Faces bright and smiling. He took some deep breaths. The day felt better.

There was a fifteen-minute wait. Before long the train appeared, a big, blue one, the engine gleaming. The cars floated by.
BREMEN EXPRESS
, the plaques on them read,
KÖLN, DÜSSELDORF, ESSEN, DORTMUND, HANNOVER
.

“Here it is, Daddy!” The older girl jumped up and her sister began squealing, too, waving her arms.

“I don't think this is ours.”

“Here it is!” they cried.

Marian took their hands. “All right,” she said, “ssh. Be still.”

“Isn't it ours?” they pleaded.

“No, not yet. Are you sure?” she asked Isbell.

“Pretty sure.”

“You could ask somebody.”

The train was still moving past. The
Speiswagen
eased by, slowing, little chimneys on the roof, white tablecloths within. Part of the crowd moved along as it stopped, flowing to where the doors
would be. A good-looking woman in her thirties got on in front of where Isbell was standing. He saw her appear in the corridor and then sit next to the window. His thoughts turned to Munich, the times there.

“Hold your daddy's hand for a minute,” Marian instructed.

Isbell reached out. A small hand found his. Marian was searching in her handbag for a Kleenex.

“When will ours come, Daddy?” An adoring face was turned up towards his.

“Oh, in a few minutes. Keep your eyes peeled.”

The perfect father, suitcases surrounding him, tickets in his pocket. He glanced towards the window where the woman was sitting, well-groomed and alone, as the car began to move, bearing her off. This time of year in Munich the Isar was racing under the bridges, rushing pale green, bringing the city to life. What did they feel flying down, seeing the last snow of winter in seams along the ground? Then coming in high over the blued city, the countless streets, the anticipation, the joy. They were dancing at the Palast, faces damp and youthful, streets at midnight, Sunday afternoons, the way those times the breath began to pour from her, the first
ja.
The Express was gliding faster. She was going away.
Ja. Ja. Ja!

Not long after, the second train came, exactly on time. The enameled sign on the side of the cars read,
FRANKFURT
(
M
).

“This is ours,” he said, gathering the luggage. Marian took the children's hands.

Aboard, it hardly seemed a minute before they were moving. Isbell sat watching it all for the last time. They curved through switchyards and down along the Rhine. He could see the wind blowing outside, warm and full of good things. The forked-end flags in all the river towns were waving. Couples strolled along the shore. Beneath the trees the bicyclists flashed, passing through sunlight and shade.

I was afraid you had been killed,
she said.

It would take more than that.

Who was it, then?

Do you remember the lieutenant who fell head over heels in love with you that night?

That nice one?

Yes.

Him.

It was too soon for him to reappear, that would come years after when all of it was sacred and he had slipped in with the other romantic figures, the failed brother, the brilliant alcoholic friend, the rejected lover, the solitary boy who scorned the dance. It is only in
their
lives they die. In yours they live to the end.

The photograph Isbell remembered was of wildebeests coming down a steep embankment, hundreds of them in the dust haze that was their life, leaping, plunging into the shadowy darkness, the young ones with them, running, leaping, blood rich with excitement, among them the one who might lead one day. And in that one wild heart, everything.

You're going back to the States, then?

Next month.

So, I don't see you again.

I don't know. You'll see me again.

No. Never.

Well, anyway not for a while.

It's hard to live like that.

For me, too.

For you it's different.

Ja. But you never know. Maybe sometime.

Good-bye, Tommy.

The river was wide. On it the boats were moving, the big white sightseeing boats, the side-wheelers and barges. Memories seemed reflected from the shining water.

“Are you sleepy, dear?” Marian asked.

“What? No. Just thinking.”

“I guess we're going to miss it.”

“Yes.”

It was all passing, for the first time as well as the last. His eyes devoured everything yet hardly made things out. He did not know what he was thinking. It all seemed a long struggle which he could not decide if he'd won or lost. Parts of it he could hardly remember. The rest was still clear. But it was all back, falling behind. There was no use trying to save anything. After a while you began to understand that. In the end you got on a train and went along the river.