Sentimental Journey (32 page)

“Of course Arnan Kincaid’s daughter would go to Stanford.”

“That’s not true.”

“It isn’t?”

“No. I could have gone to Harvard.”

“So how about you? Tell me where you learned all those languages.”

“English, no explanation there. Spanish from my grandmother, who was Castilian. French from my mother, whose parents were from the
Loire
Valley
. Latin in high school. German in college.”

“Which college?”

“
West Point
.”

“I should have guessed.”

“So how does the steppe of
Morocco
remind you of
Stanford
University
? Seems like night and day to me.”

“It is. I was thinking about the night before my graduation. A group of us were in the dorm, drinking rum and Coca-Cola—which I’d kill for right now—and there was this huge globe in our room which, from my perspective, was pretty worthless, except as a clothes hanger. That night my roommate Susan taped a pencil to the wooden arm that held the globe in place and we took turns spinning it, the idea being wherever it stopped would be the place of our destiny.”

“No melodrama there.”

“We were young.”

“You still are.”

“Okay, younger. We felt the world was calling us, opening its arms and saying come here. I had such dreams.
Paris
and
Rome
,
Egypt
and
Singapore
.”

“So where’d it land when it was your turn?”

“Wait, you’re jumping ahead. Susan’s stopped on
Copenhagen
. Katie near
Athens
. Joyce in
Tuscany
and
Nancy
got
Buenos Aires
.”

“And you?”

“
Pocatello
,
Idaho
.”

He laughed with her. “They could have been lying to you.”

“They were laughing too hard to be lying. I had the biggest dreams. Besides, they would never take advantage of my blindness. It would have been the last thing they would have done to me as a joke. Susan was a lit major whose dream was to be the next Willa Cather. She said she wanted to visit me there because
Pocatello
isn’t all that far from Ketchum, where Hemingway has a place. She thought he was a brilliant writer. Anyway, as I was walking along, I was thinking this is certainly not
Pocatello
,
Idaho
.”

“No, it’s not.”

“So.” She straightened. “Where are we going, again?”

“There’s a
Vichy
military camp marked here on the map. We should be able to steal a truck and get the hell out of here.” He took her hand. “Eat some more of these dates.”

She ate a few, then dropped the rest into her pocket and ran her hands down her cotton skirt. “How much farther is it?”

“If my calculations are right, I’d say just over that ridge.”

“That ridge?” She laughed, pointing off in one direction. “Or the other ridge?” She turned and pointed in the opposite direction.

“I keep forgetting you can’t see.”

“I take that as a compliment.”

“Good, then let’s go.” He took her arm and they walked straight into the sun.

It was hours later when they stood side by side on what Cassidy told her was an escarpment above the
Vichy
camp.

“Don’t go any farther forward, Kincaid. We’re close to the edge.”

“Do you see anything?”

“Not much. This
Vichy
camp is only one stone building and—” Cassidy paused. “About a hundred yards past it is something that looks like a cross between a lean-to and a barn.”

“No cars or trucks? Nothing?”

“There’s something. One of everything. A car, a couple of tanks, some planes.”

“Great!”

“The car is an ancient Fiat; it’s resting on its bare axle behind the stone building. There’s not a wheel or a tire in sight. The two tanks look like they’re nothing but shells, and the planes are the kind that failed during the Spanish Civil War. Two of them are missing propellers.”

“Why would they only have tank shells?”

“As decoys. This place is no longer an active army camp. The equipment isn’t
Vichy
or German, but Italian.”

Kitty touched his shoulder. “Do you hear that?”

“An engine just started.”

“It sounds like a truck.”

He turned away from her. “Yeah . . . there it is, coming out of the barn, a two-and-a-half-ton truck, and it’s heading for the other building.”

She listened to it rumble along, and moments later she heard the brakes squeal to a stop. A horn honked and there was a pause; then she heard men’s voices and the sounds of them climbing inside the truck. The door slammed shut. The driver ground into gear and drove away. “Where are they heading?”

“Off toward the mountains in a cloud of dust.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“They’re not here, so I suppose that’s good. But I won’t know till I get down there and look around. If there’s only a guard or two, then lady luck’s with us. But if that truck was the only vehicle down there that runs—and that’s how it looks right now—we’re in trouble.” He touched her forearm.

She noticed he did that more and more frequently, gave her a sign that he was there. Funny, how you could know some people for years and they’d never think to show you that one, small consideration.

“I need you to wait here while I go down and see what’s there. I won’t be long.”

“Okay.” She hesitated, then said, “Cassidy?”

“Yeah?”

“What if you get caught?”

“I won’t.”

“But suppose you do.” She waited for his answer, but got none.

He’d already left.

She stood there for a few minutes, then sat down on the ground and stretched her legs out in front of her. Cassidy was interesting. He certainly didn’t have a problem with confidence. Her impressions of him were mixed at first. Stubborn, aggressive, egocentric, all negatives in her mind at first, but were they negatives? Egocentric? Or courageous? Stubborn? Or determined? Aggressive? Or heroic?

He was a stranger who put his life on the line to get her safely home. He’d said he was just doing his job. His job was war. The business of war was not for the weak.

She felt weak, and it annoyed her to no end. To her,
weak
meant
needy.
She disliked needy people. She hated to admit that she couldn’t do things. She’d learned to love her independence, to wear it like a wall surrounding her loss of sight.

But the truth was that she couldn’t see her way out of a minefield.

She couldn’t find a path out of the wilderness of the pre-Sahara.

She couldn’t find food or build a fire, so if something happened to Cassidy, she didn’t know what she would do.

Maybe twenty minutes passed before he came walking back over the ridge, whistling—of all things—”The Lullaby of Broadway.”

“I take it from that happy little tune coming out of your mouth that you found something to get us out of here.”

“Sure did.” He took her arm. “Come on, Kitty. Let’s make like a cat and scat.”

She groaned, but let him tug her along. “There aren’t any guards?”

“Just one. But he’s all tied up right now.”

“You know that puns are the lowest form of humor.”

“Yeah, but they’re damn funny. Come on.” He steered her down to flatter terrain. He moved fast. To stay up with him she had to half run. The ground was hard as cement, but not rocky like most of the land they’d passed. He was running now, pulling her with him. “We’re almost there.”

The cool relief of a shadow crossed her face as they went inside a building that smelled of oil and gasoline and mechanics.

“Here it is. Our ticket home.”

“What is it?”

“A Spanish-built biplane with a Fiat V-12 that purrs around six hundred horse power. It’s the same thing as a CR-32.”

“My eyes are glazing over.”

He laughed. “You don’t know much about planes.”

“All I know is that everyone seems to refer to them by letters and numbers I can’t make much sense out of.”

“It’s called a Chirper, an HA-132-L Chirri. They were used in the Spanish Civil War. Stay here.” He put her hands on what felt like a wing, then jumped up on it. “I’ll have to help you up and into the seat. Give me your hand.” He pulled her up and slipped his arm around her waist. “The upper wing is longer than the lower, so watch yourself. It’s been converted into a two-seater. Lucky for you, bad for me.”

“Why?”

“You won’t have to sit on my lap.”

“Thank God for small favors.”

“Yeah, and after I tried to find a working engine in every single-seater out in that field.”

“Cassidy . . . ”

“What?”

“Don’t start.”

“The question is, will this engine start? Move back two feet and grab the wing support.” He placed her hand on a metal rod. “Steady?”

She nodded.

“Good.” He let go of her, then climbed up onto the fuselage. “Give me your hands and I’ll pull you up and into the seat.” He grabbed her wrists in a tight grip and dropped her into a small cockpit with a low seat.

“Shift your right hip. You’re sitting on the belt.”

She pushed his hands away. “I can get it.” She buckled in.

“Pull your underwear off your head. I have a leather helmet you need to put on.”

“It’s my slip, not my underwear.” She wadded the slip up and tucked it into her belt.