The Rebellion of Yale Marratt (44 page)

 

 

Trafford rocked with laughter. "I bought a book about a guy like him
once.
Candide
. Candide didn't know there was a war on, either. He
didn't know which end was up!"

 

 

Yale grinned. "Was it an illustrated copy?"

 

 

"Sure," Trafford said, lighting a cigarette. "I bought it for the dirty
pictures. Very edifying . . . women with their guts hanging out or their
tits cut off." He smirked at Anne, obviously trying to horrify her. "You
amuse me, Marratt. You're worried about my morals. If you love men so much,
why don't you worry about that Arab you murdered."

 

 

Yale noticed Anne Wilson's shocked expression. He was half angry with
Trafford for bringing it up. He knew that with an audience he couldn't
explain what had happened. Even worse it was impossible to tell how badly
he did feel. He wondered, thinking back on it, how it might have been
avoided. Perhaps if he had not reacted with such fear for his life,
the Arab might be alive.

 

 

"It was a reflexive action," Yale said, wondering what Anne was thinking.
"I had a feeling it was his life or mine."

 

 

"Now you're cooking with gas," Trafford laughed. He jerked his thumb
in the direction of Europe. "You can sit here and philosophize with
your full belly, you can worry why men don't love each other . . .
but if you were over there in France, you'd be sweating your balls off,
figuring it was your life or some Nazi's. What's one greasy Arab more
or less? In this world, friend, it's every man for himself!"

 

 

"I think this little Cook's Tour we are having is educational," Al Kanachos
interjected. "Major Trafford is right in a broad sense. The nature of man
is to dominate and master his fellow men, if he can. Bill and I took a trip
in the New Medina yesterday . . . what they call the Walled City. Believe
me, it was like something out of the
Arabian Nights
."

 

 

"We took a tour of an Arab whore house," Bill Stevens said enthusiastically.
"The girls are sold into it, I think. Then they eventually can buy their
way out on money saved from their earnings, or they can get out by
marriage. You have a new idea of how the other half lives when you see
that place. Women are kept in an animal existence."

 

 

"We were walking along seeing the sights. Lovely girls, a little on the
dark side." Al Kanachos grinned apologetically in Anne's direction.

 

 

She shrugged at him. "Don't let me dampen you. I've heard all the dirty
words."

 

 

"Yeah, well, you never saw anything like this, sister. One of the babes
standing on a sort of a dais without a damned thing on kept yelling
'Cigareet, cigareet,' at us. The Arab guide said to give her one, which
Bill did. This babe lights it and then starts yelling, 'Dix francs. Dix
francs.' What the hell, I handed her ten francs. Then she walks up and
down rubbing her pussy and jerking her boobs around. . . ." Kanachos
blushed and looked at Anne again.

 

 

"Go on," Anne said, sarcastically. "Can't you see the lieutenant's and
the major's mouths are open . . . they're breathless to hear the rest."

 

 

"Well, this babe finally bends over backward shoving her hairy little
delta right in the air. Then with one hand she sticks the cigarette in
it, wiggles a bit and blows out the nicest smoke rings out of it you
ever saw."

 

 

Trafford roared with laughter. "Jesus, a human smoke stack. That babe
must be a sensation. She could probably use it for a vacuum cleaner, too!"

 

 

"So you see, Lieutenant Marratt," Anne said, looking slyly at Yale,
"there isn't much to idealize about sex, really. A good vacuum cleaner
and all's well with the world."

 

 

"I guess you're right," Yale said. He looked out the window. Below them
the desert stretched to the horizon, not bright and yellow as he had
imagined it, but dull and grey. That's the way reality always seems to be,
he thought, dull and grey. For himself he knew that it would be suicide
to take off the rose-colored glasses. He half listened to Trafford,
Kanachos and Stevens as they talked, letting the conversation pass
him by. Occasionally, he noticed that Anne Wilson was looking at him
thoughtfully. What kind of person was she he wondered? If he searched
forever would he find another Cynthia? Or was Cynthia simply a figment
of his desire to recreate the world in his own image?

 

 

 

 

They landed at Shephard Field, Cairo, at five-thirty, and were told that
priority military personnel to Karachi had usurped their places. The next
A.T.C. flight would be tomorrow. There were no accommodations. They could
eat in the terminal and hang around until morning.

 

 

"Where in hell do we sleep?" Trafford demanded belligerently of the
billeting officer. "I didn't get a wink of sleep last night, Lieutenant.
What the hell kind of a deal is this?"

 

 

The billeting officer shrugged. "The place is jammed. I'm sorry. There's
a war on. There were eighteen men on that plane and one dame. I just took
things alphabetically. Everyone aboard, from A through J, either got out
on the plane to Karachi, or got the last beds here. That leaves Kanachos,
Marratt, Stevens, Trafford, and Wilson who can sleep in the terminal." He
looked at Anne, "I'm sorry. The benches aren't too hard. I'll get you
a blanket. It's only a twelve hour wait-over."

 

 

"Twelve hours, huh," Trafford said. "To hell with sleeping; we might as
well see Cairo. How far is it?"

 

 

"It's about eight miles. I'm sorry there's no transportation, Major. Most
of the places are off limits. The Arabs are not too cordial."

 

 

Trafford leaned over the lieutenant's desk, and said with great seriousness,
"Listen, friend, did you ever hear of General F. Stanley Waite?"

 

 

The Lieutenant shook his head.

 

 

"No? Well, how would you have heard of him? Son, I'll tell you in
confidence that he is responsible for all personnel in the Middle
East Command. Now I can get on that phone and call him, and raise hell
generally. Or you just call the transportation officer and get us a staff
car, real easy, without getting involved with Waite who is an old time
hell-raiser. What do you say, friend?" Trafford's voice was masterful,
inflected with both suavity and forceful command. The Lieutenant agreed
that he could obtain a car for them.

 

 

Driving the staff car toward Cairo, following directions he had obtained
from the Lieutenant, Trafford laughed heartily when Anne asked him if
there really was a General F. Stanley Waite.

 

 

"If there is, I never heard of him," Trafford said, amused. "Funny,
how gullible Americans are. I learned that in an insurance business I
owned back in St. Louis. While I never actually said it, just implied
it a little, that billeting officer has an idea that General Waite and
I are very buddy-buddy."

 

 

Sitting in the back seat with Kanachos, Anne in the middle, Yale could
feel the sway of her body against him. Trafford drove fast, insisting
that they should get into Cairo and find a place to eat before dark.
Al Kanachos suggested that they would probably eat at the Shephard Hotel.
The billeting officer had told them how to get to several night clubs
that specialized in belly dancers.

 

 

Listening to their talk, Anne decided that if this was going to be an
all night affair, she would get a room in the hotel and try to get a few
hours sleep. After inquiring from several Arabs, and becoming the center
of a jabbering crowd all intent on giving unintelligible directions,
Trafford finally located the Shephard.

 

 

An austere clerk wearing a red fez and speaking with a thick British
accent informed them that the dinner was being served in the dining
room. Yale heard the clerk tell Anne that there were no rooms available.

 

 

Trafford and the others had gone ahead to look in the dining room.

 

 

"Why did you want a room?" Yale asked Anne, wanting to talk with her
alone. He wondered if he could ever shake the others.

 

 

"I think this is going to be another night for the Rover boys," she said,
looking at him calmly. "I wouldn't want to get in your way."

 

 

"Listen, Anne. I'd like to talk with you," Yale said hurriedly. "Sometime
tonight, when they start plying the joints, insist on coming back here and
waiting, will you? I'll do the rest."

 

 

Anne looked at him curiously. "What do we have to talk about? If I
gave you the impression I was interested in what happened last night
. . . forget it; I'm not interested."

 

 

Yale noticed Trafford returning, a broad grin on his face.

 

 

"I'm not begging," he said to Anne quickly. "I was just curious to know
whether the beauty of your face is more than skin deep."

 

 

Anne was startled by his reply. She shrugged at him, failing to indicate
by her manner whether she was willing to follow Yale's suggestion. There
was a strange quality about this Lieutenant Yale Marratt that attracted
her, she thought, yet somehow frightened her.

 

 

"We've picked up six bottles of very excellent Scotch," Trafford said
happily. "I'm beginning to like this Army. This is going to be an evening
to remember, Anne Wilson." Ignoring Yale, he took her arm and led her
toward a small lounge. Yale, limping a little, followed them. Kanachos
and Stevens were already seated, smoking, waiting while a somber Arab
opened a bottle of Chivas Regal and poured drinks for them.

 

 

Several drinks later they had finished the bottle and started another.
Trafford sat close to Anne. He put his arm around her shoulder.

 

 

"This is the life," he said expansively. "Why don't you fellows go ahead?
Al knows how to get to that Café where the belly dancers are. Anne and I
will join you later."

 

 

Kanachos and Stevens thought that was a good idea. Yale wondered if
Trafford had put them up to it. He was irritated at the way Trafford was
moving in on Anne. He wondered if Anne enjoyed Trafford's attention. I'm
being childish, he thought. What do I know about Anne Wilson? She's
probably just the type that would go for a Major. What the hell were Red
Cross girls, anyway, but camp followers, or dames looking for a husband?

 

 

"I'm not interested in belly dancers," Yale said. "I think I'll just
stay here and have another drink. Why not eat here? This is the famous
Shephard Hotel. The food should be good." He could see that Trafford
wasn't pleased. Yale looked at Anne to see if she would take the bait.

 

 

She didn't. "Oh, I think we all should see at least one belly dancer.
It's only eight o'clock. We can't sit here all night, and just get drunk,
can we, Lieutenant Marratt? Come on, it will be fun!"

 

 

Yale made no further attempt to talk with her. They ate at the Shephard.
Trafford, leading them, appropriated Anne's arm. He sat next to her at
the table. Together, while the others listened, they kept up a running
conversation of sophisticated wisecracks.

 

 

Later, in a smoke-filled night club, Trafford continued to dominate
Anne's attention. They listened to the never ceasing music of an Arab
orchestra with its exotic quarter-tone scale. Anne said she enjoyed the
insistent beat. Yale shrugged. "Chacun à son goût." She grimaced at him.

 

 

The place was jammed with Arabs, and a Middle East mixture of people with
swarthy, strange faces. With the exception of a few British officers,
Yale guessed they were the only westerners in the place. Every fifteen
minutes or so exotic, heavily mascaraed Arab girls appeared. They gyrated
enticingly to the music, shaking naked breasts and rolling their greased
bellies.

 

 

"American girls could learn a lot from these babes," Stevens said
appreciatively.

 

 

"You mean to roll their bellies like that?" Anne asked. "I don't think
that's so much."

 

 

"You could do better?" Yale asked, mocking her. The noise was so loud
they could scarcely hear each other.

 

 

"Come on, Anne," Trafford said, grabbing her roughly. "Get up and show
'em what you can do." He pushed Anne to her feet, and said to the Arabs
sitting at tables near them, "Hey, you wogs, here's an American girl
says she can shake her ass better than that dame." Trafford swirled his
hips and pointed at Anne who suddenly looked frightened.

 

 

The grinning Arabs caught the idea. They pushed Anne toward the dance floor.
The orchestra leader nodded approvingly. There was a wild applause. Suddenly
Anne grinned and to Yale's astonishment slipped out of her blue-grey jacket,
kicked off her high heel shoes and began to sway suggestively to the music.
Despite the surge of anger he felt at both Anne and Trafford, like everyone
else in the audience, Yale was captured by Anne. Her hair that she had worn
piled in a chignon fell loose over her shoulders. She moved with increasing
speed to the pulsations of the music. It was a breath-taking dance. Eyes
closed, she abandoned herself to sinuous rhythm.

 

 

Leaning back in his chair, Trafford whistled. "Boy, I'd like to dip
my wick into that little tomato. Just shows you can't tell about any
dame. I'll bet half the guys in this joint have a hard-on for her."

 

 

The orchestra continued to play. Yale could see that Anne was getting
tired. She started to walk off the stage and there was a low hum of
anger. For some reason the Arabs expected her to continue dancing. One
big Arab grabbed her and pushed her back to the stage. She screamed.