Chapter 2 No.2

The Ermenonville rain was a cold autumn rain, falling out of a dull sky, slanting in a light wind.

Orville stood beside the grave of his father, weather streaks across the red granite tombstone, across Robert St. Denis, and the dates: 1893-1921. Orville warped his hat to shed the rain and tried to button his makeshift coat closer, broken umbrella hooked over one arm, umbrella and coat from a Paris flea market. He had left Paris early in the morning, on a heaterless bus, a trip of delays and Nazi harassment.

When he started to walk to his dad's grave the sky had been bleak but not threatening. Maybe the sky was trying to flip its calendar, turn it back to another rainy day in June, when Robert had been wounded at Bermicourt, his little Renault tank exploding from a direct hit, on that muddy battlefield of World War I.

Orville was peeved that the rain had caught him; he had wanted to sit on the grass and think of other times in Ermenonville. He noticed other graves in this family plot, those of Aunt Irene, Uncle Mark, his cousin, Marcel ... graves under leafless Lombardies. The rain made him resentful of the place and of death. The ground was spongy; the sod could absorb little more; he kicked at weeds with a quick kick. Through the poplars he observed the Petit Lac, its placid water grey: the small poplar covered island, at one side of the lake, with its carved Rousseau tomb, seemed adrift in the falling rain.

Well, here we are, father and son, in the rain. I wish we could have shared our lives. You might have been a pretty fair provincial lawyer. The rain has had you a long time. If I'm killed in my tank I'd be carted here ... I guess we like it in Ermenonville.

So long, Bob.

He had never called his dad Bob. He had no memory of him except from photos: one of them came to mind, young face, maybe like his own. Moustache. Blond moustache. A tall man, lean, a horseman, dead for twenty-seven years. Tall man who had taken years to die the invalid's death.

So long ...

A swan, on the little lake, close to the poplar planted shore, moved without any apparent effort, its reflection now bright, now dark, now in the rain, now in the clear.

There were swans here when Jean Jacques Rousseau lived here ... swans ... chateau swans ... and when Rousseau said we should return to nature, had the swans influenced him?

Walking toward his aunt's house, Orville felt undercurrents as a boy in E, when the wind vane on Lautrec's house had thrilled him, when the spire on the stone church had prodded more than clouds. In those days there had been frogs to spear in the Nonette, kites to fly, boats to sail on the Petit Lac.

He passed the bronze statue of Rousseau in the village, a rain beaten thing. Cobbled streets fanned out from the figure. The statue was unchanged. The cobbles were the same. Smoke from peasant houses climbed as it had years ago.

The rain was coming down as it had years ago: a beautiful scene.

He tried to raise his umbrella but had no luck; it banged against his leg as he began to walk faster, hustling into the wind, his aunt's home a few blocks away.

Old Claude Bichain, the family servant, opened a side door; he had been watching for Orville, his bearded face close to a window. Orville, glancing at the rambling breaktimber house, saw his face and, cane-like, lifted his umbrella.

"My, you're soaked! Mon dieu, Orville, come in..."

"I shouldn't have tried ... but it's not far to the cemetery," Orville said, and handed Claude his umbrella and hat, shedding his coat in the doorway.

"I came in the back way ... the front lawn's flooded."

"Yes, it's a heavy rain. The gutters are poor ... we haven't been able to find anyone to repair them. Come with me," Claude suggested. "I have a fire in the kitchen."

Orville followed him through the butler's pantry, perturbed by the house, somehow stiff, apart, unfriendly. The weather, no doubt.

"Change here ... it's the warmest place. I'll bring your clothes, the things that you left here ... we've kept them for you."

"Claude, how has life been?

"Ah, well enough, I guess ... well enough."

"You haven't gotten married again?"

"At my age!"

Orville enjoyed his laughter, the restrained laughter of old age.

"And you?"

"Me ... I'm glad to be here. Seven years since I was here ... seven or eight."

Bichain nodded, remembering.

"And the war?" he asked, unsure of himself, trying to interpret Orville's sad face.

"It goes on and on ... I sometimes..." but he stopped.

"I'm glad you made it ... your bus was late, but buses are always late now ... let me get your clothes ... I put some pots of water on the stove ... you see the boiler isn't working for the bathtub." He found it hard to speak: he was troubled by Orville's greasy mechanic's clothes, his bearded face, his staring eyes, grim mouth.

Orville found it comfortable washing himself by the cast iron stove--polished as always. Copper pots and copper spoons decorated a wall. The fire was crackling in the stove; there was plenty of hot water, Claude had stacked several towels on a chair. Cakes of soap.

The rain guttered down the windows.

Orville stood on a braided rug, probably braided by Annette long ago. He appreciated Claude, so thoughtful, respectful: his beard was longer and whiter. Annette was in the village but what had delayed the Rondes? Where was Jeannette? On duty at the hospital, no doubt. He wondered whether the hospital was overrun with wounded.

It was a long way in space and time, from Africa to London, to Ermenonville's kitchen: that bombed railway station, that taxi ride through bombed streets, past the British Museum spewing books and walls, blocking the street, one siren triggering another until the city howled like dying children. It had taken some doing to locate Jeannette Hitchcock, at the Dalton Street Red Cross station.

Opening the stove door, Orville poked the fire and shoved in a couple of sticks: the light played on his naked body. Dumping dirty water down the sink he poured himself a hot pailful. Soap and hot water relaxed him as he washed his legs and thighs.

Claude had his arms full of clothes; stopping in the doorway he envied Orville his hard, white body.

"Can't find anyone to repair the heater," he said.

"This is fine ... I guess this is where I scrubbed when I was a kid."

"Use all the hot water."

"Will Aunt Therèse be home soon?"

"I think so."

"I'd forgotten it could rain so hard around here."

"Where did you get off the bus? Did they let you off at the wrong place?"

"No ... I got off in the village..."

"You shouldn't have gone to the cemetery. Not today."

"No matter ... I wanted to look around ... to think..."

Claude spread Orville's clothes on the kitchen table, arranging them carefully--the valet's touch. He hoped everything would fit. Orville hadn't put on weight. Was I ever built so well?

He limped away and Orville saw his hand on the closing door, remembering it as a boy, the red "v" on the back: it wasn't so much the redness, it was the ragged shape of the thing. Bichain had the face of a Pole; his Cracow ancestor's grey eyes that faded into nothingness, his beard went to his chest, the hair was always brushed and immaculate.

As he toweled, Orville glanced at the scars across his stomach, where he had been burned by an engine explosion during training at camp. It was pleasant picking up his clothes from the table, holding them up, remembering. He thought everything would fit. Socks first. That old crew neck shirt from mom.

He was eager to telephone Jeannette.

The trousers were okay ... Claude had remembered his belt.

By god, maybe it was going to be good after all, this leave, this Ermenonville, his Jean.

Somebody ought to shut off the rain.

It was growing dark: the eye of the fire poked across the door. Across the braided rug.

The phone was at one end of the long living room, unless someone had rewired it. Without switching on lights or lamps, he walked across the room, hoping it had not been altered: the phone ... he lifted the receiver and waited:

"What number, please?" a pleasant voice asked: the voice was Ermenonville French and yet Orville thought of a girl in Ithaca, a face with yellow hair around it, a happy face.

"Can you get me the hospital?"

There was a pause as if the operator was trying to identify Orville or was puzzled by his accent.

"One moment, please."

Then the hospital responded--someone, a man, spat through an earful of static:

"What do you want?"

It was the voice of war, with a German accent.

"This is Claude Bichain," Orville lied. "I want to speak to Mlle. Jeannette Hitchcock," he said. "She may be on duty."

"If she's on duty, I can't call her."

"It's an emergency ... damn you!" he snapped out. "Important ... get it? Important!" He hated the guy.

"You'll have to wait ... I'll call you back, M. Bichain. Are you at the residence?"

Orville waited on the tapestry upholstered telephone chair; listening to the rain his mood began to adjust: drops were racing down the French doors: Claude was switching on lamps, tending a fire in one of the fireplaces. Firelight blurred the walls. It was an elegant room. 1788, he recalled. The Rondes had purchased the property from some member of their family. He couldn't remember who the builder was.

Both fireplaces were constructed of yellow glazed brick, their white mantels rested on rococo Caen stone pillars. The furniture, of several periods, blended well, touches of ormolu, marquetry, rosewood, mahogany.

The phone jangled.

"Hello ... hello ... is this M. Bichain? This is Jeannette Hitchcock."

"Hi, Jean?"

Orville had to bring himself round suddenly, snap into the present.

"Hi, darling!"

"Orv, Orv ... oh, it's you. How's everything?"

"Fine. And you?"

"Fine ... Orv, you're here, you're safe!"

"When am I going to see you?" he asked, excited now, wanting to see her at once. "Can I see you tonight?"

"Not tonight, darling." Her voice trembled. "Can't be tonight. I'm on emergency shift. Surgery. Maybe for three hours ... a bad case. I don't want to see you when I'm tired. We've waited ... I can't spoil it."

"When?" he asked.

"Tomorrow morning. I'll meet you anywhere you say. How about that, Orv?"

"Can a hospital car bring you here?"

"But I don't want to be with your family. Not now. When did you get here?"

"On a late bus ... I have gotten into some clothes ... get a lot of rest, turn in early, if you can. I'll come in the morning." He wanted to say it's marvelous, hearing your voice, being in Ermenonville; she was already saying good night, and he heard himself saying good night with woodenness; then the phone went dead in his hand--the crude, dumb thing.

Hardly had he placed the receiver on its hook when the phone rang. Picking it up indifferently, he said:

"Hello."

"Orville, it's you! How nice. Oh, Orville, I'm so glad you are home. When did you get home? I've been trying to get you, but this wretched phone..."

"Hi, Aunt Therèse! I got here an hour or so ago. You sound far off or the connection's bad. Where are you?" He dropped into her kind of French, the kind she had taught him, Ermenonville's patois.

"I'm out in the country about ten or twelve miles, at a horrible, dirty farm. Our car has broken down ... I'm afraid I won't get back till late. Maybe not till tomorrow. Lena and I are here--we're so disappointed not to be home ... to welcome you. Tell Annette to fix a supper. Claude will look after you..."

Therèse's effusiveness annoyed him but he sent his love to Lena and assured them that everything was all right.

" ... Lena's fine ... we got awfully wet because we had the top folded down, and we couldn't get it raised again. Such a muddy road. And then our engine had to act up. Have you seen Jeannette? Have you phoned her?" She was sputtering. Orville remembered her volubility; she went on chatting about nothing, Orville nodding, smiling.

"Their car broke down ... they won't be back until late or tomorrow," he explained to Claude, who was offering a pack of cigarettes. "They're at Placiers."

Bichain nodded.

"Anything you want?"

"No ... I'll let Annette know."

Orville walked about the elegant room. Yes, it had been seven years since his last visit: he and his mother had stayed several weeks during that summer. During those seven years he had ample time to finish high school, enroll at Cornell, make the crew, go to war!

In front of the alabaster bust of Chopin he shoved his hands into his pockets. Chopin's face seemed more poetical than he remembered it. The man's eyes stared absently into his eyes. The lips had their absinthe smile.

No, the furniture had not been changed; of course the settees, sofa and chairs had been reupholstered with the identical pattern of pomegranate flowers: that was Therèse's way. The woodwork had been dusted and polished two thousand times and Claude had waxed the parquet--over and over. Parchment lamp shades seemed to be new. He bent over a cloisonné vase: its birds and flowers were in the same Kyoto greenery. He glanced up: ah, it was there, the gold and silver and green fresco of oak and laurel leaves, twined in their ceiling wreath.

Dark red curtains ...

Tired, he dumped himself on a settee, his thoughts reverting to his trip, a sick and quarrelsome woman, the SS troopers playing poker, a boy begging for food ... a half hour slipped away.

He absorbed the quiet. Had the rain stopped? He hoped so. The fires in the twin fireplaces spread their warmth. Maybe the war was ending ... maybe it would end while he was home; certainly it was the right place. Yet assurances were missing.

Shall I go upstairs, to my room?

He closed his eyes as he sensed the firelight.

Claude woke him to say that supper was ready.

Colonel Ronde's meticulous oil portrait dominated the wall alongside the dining table: the gold fame was heavy and ornate: the Colonel was wearing his 1918 captain's uniform, a trench helmet and a pistol, and a pair of grey gloves lay on a table beside him: he appeared to be a reticent, egocentric, stupid man. Orville remembered how dictatorial he had been: you kids get out of the greenhouse ... you kids are not to ride your bicycles through the garden ... you kids must come to dinner punctually ...

Orville was relieved that the old boy was not around: the portrait's frame was tarnishing: pigment was flaking: the Ermenonville forest background was fading: good.

Orville fiddled with the table silver, idly aware of the monogram, the crystal candleholders, the cut glass sugar creamer: three days ago, less than seventy-two hours ago, it had been hell itself at the front: fooling with his knife, eyeing its ornate handle, he wondered where it had been crafted; he sampled the entrée, glad that Annette was putting herself out to please him.

When will I be eating alone like this, in such middleclass pomp!

Annette served roast duck, stuffed artichoke, creamed parsnips, and buttered carrots. Finger rolls were a specialty of hers. He recognized the dry local wine ... he imagined, as he tasted it, the wines, brandies, liquors inside that inlaid buffet ... Therèse would soon be insisting. He would come across some favorites.

The kitchen door widened a crack.

"Everything all right?" Annette asked, hands pouching her apron, smiling attentively.

"Just great!" Orville said. "It's a treat, having you and Claude look after me ... like old times. Where's the Colonel these days?"

"He's in Marseilles."

"Good ... then he's not caught in the thick of it."

"But he's, ah, on duty ... he's ... well, you know how it is."

The door shut but not before he realized that Annette could lose twenty pounds across her stomach and another five through her breasts. Obviously, she knew how to provision her Ermenonville larder.

The dining room was a cluttered place: it reflected neglect or unconcern: unmatched chairs rectangled an ormolu table of cherry, the antique silver service on the Louis buffet represented several periods: the flowered wallpaper and a bevy of melancholy still lifes in oil were unharmonious. Orville could not remember the room as it had been years ago but felt it was quite different.

He heard Jean's voice. "What a surprise!"

"Hi, darling...."

Jumping up, he buried his face in her neck; he kissed her passionately; she seemed to taste of everything good, smell of many perfumes. He helped her remove her rain wet coat, slowly folding its red lining ... his eyes never leaving her.

In the living room she made a little speech, ridiculous words; she hugged him and kissed him on the sofa, the fire glow on her face and hair. He fussed with her hair, smiling.

"Orv ... where's everybody?"

"I thought I told you ... everybody's in the country ... their car broke down.'"

"So that's why you were eating alone! Then they won't be back tonight?"

"Not tonight ... I guess they'll phone again."

"Swell ... gee, it's our place."

He kissed her, with a long, seductive kiss, easing her against the cushions, her breasts swelling: not since London ... tonight ... tonight ...

"My god, the months!" he blurted.

"I'd almost given up."

"So had I!"

"Your letters ... you don't say much."

"Or you ... Wasn't that the telephone?"

She was playing with the ring he had bought her in London: her fingers slid the crudely faceted amethyst round and round: her mind followed it; then she sought his mouth.

Raising his head, Orville saw Claude Bichain, standing by the piano, one hand on top.

"Your aunt just phoned again ... she's staying at M. Placier's ... she was worried ... she thought..."

"Thank you, Claude."

"I'm glad," Jean said.

"Let me get something to drink."

Orville wanted to explore the buffet: together, they knelt on the floor, both doors open: they nodded: there were vintages and brands across the years: Orville selected a Charpentier brandy.

"How about this?"

"Good," said Jean.

A gust shook the French doors and windows, it was raining hard once more. When they returned to the living room, Claude was adding wood to the fires: he wanted to keep both fireplaces burning, celebrant: for love, he thought, as he laid oak slabs over a pair of iron griffins.

"To us," she toasted, lifting her glass.

"To us ... to your loveliness."

"To your luck!"

On a settee, close to one of the fires, she burrowed against him, tasting his brandy lips, her fingers searching between his legs.

"God, I love you..."

"Tonight."

"Yes..."

"Sip it slowly..."

"I am..."

"Like it?"

"Yes ... yes..."

"Should we drink everything in the buffet?"

"Of course..."

"Why not?"

"Sure, why not ...?"

"Are there more wonderful girls in Wisconsin?..."

"No," she kidded.

"I believe that."

"Let me undress you tonight."

"Maybe I won't be able to wait that long."

"Or I."

Shoulders and head against the settee, she told him how grateful she was to be in Ermenonville ... I escaped from old London ... I love the Petit Lac ... I love the gardens ... the forest ... the shrines ... I've seen Jean Jacques' ghost ... oh, yes, at the Lac ... ah, you and Colonel Ronde, to work things out for me here ... the hospital staff tries, tries very hard to favor me sometimes ... so many wounded ... but I think ... no, no, don't stop kissing me ... what difference does all that make? I'll stop talking ... now ...

With refills, they contemplated the fires, drowsing, yet wholly alive, eager, stalling like animals, happy animals, sure of themselves--anticipating through the medium of the firelight, each other's faces, each other's hands.

He thought of the freckles on her shoulders ... thought of her lovely breasts ... her perfumed skin.

"Shall we go upstairs?"

"Yes ... but..."

"I know..."

"Yes, it seems..."

"But it's my own room ... my old room..."

"Yes."

"When do you have to return to the hospital?"

"About eleven, I guess."

"Stay all night with me."

"I want to, darling."

"Then..."

"It's not so easy..."

"Cases?"

"Kiss me ... let's not think ... go on kissing ... unbutton my dress ... kiss my breasts..."

Snuggled together, they listened to wind and rain attack windows and doors and roof. Claude checked the fires, and said good night. They were, for all their passion, fighting mental fatigue, fatigue that had been accumulating for months.

"Let's lie on the floor near the fire," he suggested.

"No ... we'll go to your room..."

"Put your head on my lap..."

"Bend over..."

"Now..."

"Yes..."

"Okay..."

"Hmm ... more..."

Silence!

His hand cupped a breast; she ran fingers through his hair; shall we ever marry? In some architectural office will he bend over blueprints, and then pick up his phone and say ...?

We'll never have a house like this one--not seven bedrooms. Ours ... three bedrooms, $24,000. That would be okay.

She thought of her life: her dad had been a dirt farmer plus rural teacher, he had never had much time for home; his health had failed under demanding jobs: skinny, hard featured, hard headed ... Orville must never get like that. I must get him out of the war, somehow, somehow!

As they kissed, the room came back, his smiles, his hands, his love.

"Another brandy?"

"No."

"We'll do better tonight than we did in London."

"That was awful that awful room..."

"Shall we go upstairs?"

"Yes."

She was standing by a mantel, her hair against the intricate carvings on the Caen stone: she was taller than he thought.

"When it's eleven o'clock?" he queried. "Will you?

"Don't think about it."

"There's no taxi at that hour."

"Then we'll walk ... there's no curfew is there?"

"No."

Upstairs, up the dimly lit stairs, he opened the door to his room: a fire was burning in his fireplace.

"Claude made a fire," Orville said, chuckling.

"How nice."

She hugged her coat against her breasts as she glanced around shyly. Peering into his mirror on his chest of drawers she saw the gun rack, rifles, shotgun, fishing rods, botanical prints ... a mounted bass over his bed.

"What a funny thing to make love under," she kidded.

"I've made a real catch this time."

"Oh, darling..."

She touched the feather-light quilt, admiring its floral pattern: wasn't one almost like that in a room at home?

"It smells nice in here," she commented.

"It's the pine wood."

Firelight followed their nakedness as they lay facing each other on the quilt; they were afraid to move: they wanted a moment of serenity before love making, to see one another: then she smothered her mouth with his and his tongue probed inside: she sensed the hardening of his belly muscles: he rolled her over completely, both of them laughing. She stroked him--cooing, pushing him away to prolong their joy.

Yes, this is the place to have a woman: eyes slit, he glimpsed his rods and guns. Kneeling in front of her, he dragged her against him. They tottered to one side. They slipped from the quilt onto the floor, giggling.

Her breasts rounded to his fingers: they felt cool, wonderful: she was marshmallow white.

He stood up and she stood and then she jumped against him, swung her legs around him, clamped her arms about his neck. His hands cupped her feet. She kissed him, holding their kiss. To feel his strength--his arms, his belly, his chest.

"No ... no ... not now ... on the bed."

Though he held Jean surely, they swayed and slid to the floor again; once more on their bed he crawled over her, saying:

"I'm coming in, Jean ... coming..."

"Okay."

Mouth to mouth they made love, her stomach pushing, his flattening, the bed squeaking: his penis felt hot to her, her vulva felt warm to him; her perspiring body was in accord with his; he clasped his fingers over her narrow buttocks; their mutual orgasm began, stopped, then flashed again and again: Jesus, Jesus, dearest, darling ... yes ... yes ... oui ... your mouth now ...

She lay back.

"It's ours, my dear," she laughed, "the prix de Rome!"

"I accept," he laughed. "We've earned it ... double award."

They never got to the hospital until early morning, she and Orville striding together, the sun brilliant; after good-byes, after lingering kisses, he walked away, walked about the village before returning home for breakfast. After breakfast, he commenced a letter to his mother, to inform her of his leave. As he wrote on an old leather writing pad, sitting by his bedroom window, Aunt Therèse knocked, and called his name.

She had aged: her features were reddish and swollen, pudgy contours that were somehow childish. The mouth smiled and yet there were wrinkles in the way of her smile. Seven years had done this. They kissed dutifully.

"I'm sorry," she wheezed. "We just got here, just now ... Claude said you were upstairs. I'm sorry ... I'm so upset."

"No, no! There's nothing to be upset about. Sit down."

"I think Lena's caught cold ... another cold ... she has too many of them ... you see we got soaking wet, couldn't raise the top of the car ... that awful downpour ... oh, we had to borrow clothes last night ... we had to go to bed early!" Orville grinned, in spite of himself.

Hands fluttering in her lap, she continued: she was sixty-seven or eight, padded at waist and breasts, rings underneath her eyes, her glasses rimless and dual-lensed, her hair a series of grey-white streaks. Orville knew she often spoke without pauses, blurring her words, but now her voice had become harsher and the blurring often made it difficult to understand her.

Someone tapped on the door.

"Come in," Orville called: he was pleasantly surprised by Lena's beauty, her athletic body: her face had assumed an esthetic quality; she wore her black hair combed close to her skull--quite Spanish.

"Hi, Orv!"

"Hi, Lena ... you look great!"

"It's good ... it's good to see you!"

They kissed like kids.

She had always liked or loved him: she admired his masculinity: their old rapport returned at once: arms around each other they grinned happily, sheepishly.

"How was your supper last night?" Therèse asked.

"Great," Orville said.

"It was probably dreadful. Annette can be so careless. And here you are, writing a letter, when you should be horseback riding or playing tennis. Mon dieu--this is your leave! What are we thinking about!"

Orville and Lena laughed at her.

"Come on, we'll go for a walk, then we'll have lunch," Lena said. "Orv ... you and I ... Mama, talk to Annette: let's have something special."

The sun had ducked under and both fireplaces were burning in the living room. Claude, at the front door, was admitting several people, women and men laughing--a bass voice saying:

"Take my hat, Claude ... old man, my hat."

"It's Thomassont and some friends," Lena explained, going to greet them.

Orville was introduced to Arthur Thomassont, Celeste de Ville, Pierre Valeriaud, and Jean Piccard. Piccard pumped his arm, swaying an alcoholic sway: "I remember you at school ... do you remember me?" Orville saw from his aunt's face that Lena's friends were tight. In a moment Pierre buttonholed Orville, cork colored eyes blurred, his goatee bobbing. Playing with an unlighted cigarette, he said:

"So you are fighting for us ... how noble. Our legionnaire. Well, our Renault plant has blueprints for bigger, more sophisticated tanks ... when the war is over. We have an unbeatable staff ... de Gaulle will get the Nazis out..."

He blinked at his cigarette and blinked at Orville, stepping back, a little embarrassed by his own verbiage.

Pierre crumpled onto the piano bench, talking to Mme. Ronde, vehement about the theater, the Parisian theater, its control by the Nazis: such biased censorship.

Baldheaded Thomassont poked through magazines; Lena, dressed in a sedate brown skirt and yellow blouse, chatted softly with Celeste, a pretty woman wearing lavender trimmed with squirrel: her serious face was painted dramatically over the eyes; the cheeks were ivory white, her mouth sensual. Presently, she approached Orville.

"Is it like home, coming back?" she asked; she held out a cigarette.

"A little that way," he said, flipping his lighter for her.

"We came by to ask Lena to a party we're giving at my place in Senlis. I'd like to have you come; we can drive over and pick you up. It's my birthday."

"When is your birthday?"

"Next Friday."

"My leave will be over by then ... I'll be in Germany."

"Oh ... I'm sorry." She took his hand to say good-bye. "It's risky, bypassing the Nazis ... I despise them ... my brother has been imprisoned ... my mother's Jewish ... I hate all this ... Paris is dreadful ... I wish you luck."

"The war will be over in a day or two," cut in Thomassont, waving a magazine.

"Good-bye, Orville ... Mother knows you ... you see I was in Switzerland when you were here ... we're pretty drunk; next time when we come..." She smiled a sincere, warm smile.

She was speaking English.

"Goodbye," Orville said. "I wish you luck ... you and your family," he responded in English.

"Then you'll be with us on my birthday, Lena?"

"Of course I will."

Lena tapped Orville's arm.

"Take Piccard to the bathroom," she said. "He has to vomit."

After helping him to the bathroom, Orville waited outside: so this is why we're fighting a global war: is this why the Russians are staging an all out defensive last-ditch stand?

At the front door, Valeriaud praised the great tank corps: ah, yes, the French, the British, the Americans! He opened his fly, scratched, yanked his zipper half way. Orville went into the living room.

"I attended school with his mother," Therèse said to Orville, joining him on a settee. "She's dead ... a good woman ... he's the only son ... quite spoiled, spoiled but a superb pianist."

The guest car plunged away--with a rasp of gears.

"Valeriaud manages to obtain gas when we can't buy a gallon ... he works for a construction company, he's a friend of the Nazis. He's building a house outside of Ermenonville, mansion, I should say. He has a famous collection of Rousseau letters and manuscripts. He has the whole of Emile written on foxed sheets. He wants me to sell the collection. I may buy it to keep it from going to Germany."

At lunch, the three ate without chatting freely, disturbed by the visitors; it seemed their family reunion was already becoming commonplace. Therèse fussed at Annette. She mumbled about food shortages, prices. Lena mentioned movies and plays--entertainment current in Paris, things she wanted to see. Therèse questioned Orville about ready-made clothing in the U.S. Was it reasonable? There were nervous remarks about Piccard and Valeriaud.

As soon as possible, Orville excused himself and went off to finish his letter, shave, dress, and meet Jeannette. In spite of yesterday's rain it was balmy and he opened his bathroom door that led onto a balcony and with his face soaped, lingered there, thinking of Jean and their love making.

The shaving brush was not his but his uncle's: Lucci-Milano was stamped in gold on the handle: revolving the brush pensively, he recalled details of Milan, the shops there, pigeons swooping from rooftops, the great mural by da Vinci! What was it like after the bombings? He wanted to see the mural with Jean, wanted to rendezvous old places with her.

He shaved gingerly, wasn't there too much hot water? And the towels on their racks, weren't they a little too luxurious? He studied the delicately painted rose buds on the basin: still the same. But the silver soap tray? The porcelainized towel rods. In Ithaca their bathroom was plain--nothing to distinguish it from hundreds.

Yet, outside their home, a stream gushed through a rocky glen, and there were grey squirrels.

Ithaca will be all right ..I'll have my office on State Street ... I'll obtain contracts for homes overlooking Lake Cayuga ... I'll manage trips to New York ...

When he finished shaving he held a towel against his face for several moments.

Ermenonville's narrow streets were almost deserted as he walked leisurely toward the hospital, thinking of the cobbles, the shop signs, weathered doors, the plants in windows and window boxes. E. would always be a core for him, a nucleus rooted in Jean Jacques, microcosm, reflection of a concept: and cobbles, tiled roof, the church, the Nonette, converging, spreading. At a certain intersection he imagined meeting former friends, schoolmates. He had rejected any renewal of relationships: what have they for me or I for them? He hoped nobody would visit him at the Rondes'. He had phoned Jean so there would be no hitch, and she was waiting for him in the hospital garden, her coat over her arm, bareheaded. The garden, a neglected X of paths, smelled of damp and earth and carbolic acid. A bird whisked into a chestnut. Poplars made a line behind the rambling building that was hunch-backed with age at one end. Honeysuckle-vined where Jean waited.

As Orville entered the garden, a tall man appeared on one of the paths: he shook hands with Jeannette, a wrinkled, white haired, cane-limping man.

"Orville," she called. "I want you to meet Dr. Cartier."

Cartier turned, turning on his cane, to stare at Orville.

"My friend, Orville Dennison."

"Ah."

"I'm on leave, doctor ... it's good meeting you."

"On leave here?"

"My father was Robert Saint Denis..."

"Of course, of course ... now I place you. We're old friends, you and I ... I've changed; so have you--welcome back!" He bowed a little, professionally.

"Are you in charge ... the director?"

"Yes ... some say that I am ... is that right, Jeannette?"

Laughing, she said, "Of course."

Dr. Cartier used his cane to pin down a leaf.

"We have too many cases ... compulsory cases ... just flooded."

"Jean has mentioned the problem..."

"More than that," exclaimed the doctor, beginning to walk away, "more than that ... I could use ten nurses like Jean ... we lack equipment. So, so you came back to France to help! My best to Mme. Ronde, and remind her of our dinner engagement tomorrow night. She works with my wife ... more problems. It's a time of problems, as you know."

"Be careful." He stopped walking to emphasize his warning. "There are many who want to talk, who make trouble." He smiled a smile at himself, a sad smile, and turned away.

Orville kissed Jean, encircling her in his arms. Remember her perfume, something said. Remember!

"Darling," she said.

"Do you like Dr. Cartier?"

"Yes ... I assume he is very capable?"

"Yes ... he's our Albert Schweitzer."

At one side of the garden they found a rusty wrought iron bench beside a hedge, half-dried daisies around them, the flowers shredded by the rains, a puddle holding a single maple leaf, skiff-like, near their feet.

"How was your day?"

"Many wounded youngsters. We have to put them in the hallways ... all kinds of cases ... Have the Rondes returned?"

"They came this morning; we had lunch together ... I've been writing a letter ... as I came here Aunt Therèse stopped me on the stair, saying Lena is ... is with the Maquis."

"She confided that to me ... others know."

"It seems that Therèse's worried."

"I guess she is."

Nurses passed through the garden, a few of them saying "hello."

Someone's footprint was filling with rain water and Jean stared at it vacantly, then buried her mouth in his hair, fingers on his face, wondering, vaguely, stupidly, what was going to happen to everyone: the nurses seemed an extension of that everyone.

"I knew you'd like Ermenonville," he said.

"Do you still like it, Orv?"

"I guess I always will."

"Without war..."

"You know, it was hard for Mom and me to move to the States--but a job is a job ... and Cornell pays well enough..."

"I'm grateful to your uncle ... he manipulated strings to get me here..."

"Your French has improved."

"I hope so."

"It's your accent..."

She laughed.

"Let's go for a walk," he suggested.

"Let's ... I brought my coat, just in case."

"Oh, it'll probably rain."

They passed the hospital, passed a grove of pines, the path strewn with muddy needles: he stopped by a new sundial surrounded by dried flowers: hand in hand they read the Falsum Stare non Potest and laughed because they couldn't translate. The chateau's four stubby spires and slate roof were wet, forlorn, seemed misplaced history: the chateaux and the war were millennia apart; so were the swans unreal as they fed close to the shore of the Petit Lac.

Face uplifted to his, she said:

"I come here sometimes ... to rest ... to think of you."

"Lonely, that's it."

"There's something here..."

"Before the war ... but now."

"Just getting away..."

"I used to fish with Marcel ... we had a boat, made it ourselves, kept it hidden. We'd sneak off and paddle the Nonette. Such fun!" He ticked off the years since Marcel's death. His past became too remote, too clumsy. It had to be bypassed--through Jeannette.

"Have you ever gone out to the island where Rousseau was buried?"

"No ... how could I?"

"A rowboat, a punt ... you know my dad's buried near here in Ermenonville."

"I didn't know that."

"He was injured in a three-man tank ... in 1918. The tank was blown up but he had to wait years to die. And so I got born."

"Orville!"

"That's how it was, Jean. As for the tanks ... father and son ... you'll see."

"Don't say that ... that's plain dumb!"

They were walking along the shore of the Petit Lac, swans paddling close to the shore, the greenery of the shoreline greener than the water.

"You and I ... what a joke ... we've got the war around us, the entire world at war!" He was unaware of his change of mood--his fumbling.

"It takes two to face the world," she said. "There's a way for us ... I believe that!"

They walked a short distance, still following the shore of the lake: kids were romping on the cut grass: girls had a goat on a rope and they were urging him along, his bell tinkling: they seemed to be headed for the nearby chateau, visible through the groves: a bunch of boys were throwing stones and sticks into the Lac to annoy the swans.

The tall poplars on the island bent in the wind and their movement seemed to impel the island, transform it into a ship: it was headed into the western sun, leaning somewhat to the starboard.

As Jean and Orville wandered through the park, she told herself she must have faith: last night's love-making said so. Orville struggled with mistrust, concentrating as much as possible on the things around him. Fumbling back to the days in London, Jean heard Orville say, in the threatened Red Cross building:

"So ... you're Chuck's sister ... let me show you your photo ... it's in my billfold ... Here, he gave me your address ... want to see the snapshot?"

"Sure, let me see it."

"Okay."

"But look ... what's happened to your leg? Don't you know that it's bleeding?"

"I hadn't noticed. That flak sure gets around."

"Sit down ... right here!"

"Sure."

As she medicated and bandaged his leg they talked about Chuck's blindness, when and how it happened; she had to attend other wounded, but Orville was able to give her details.

For an hour or more the blitz thundered over the city, damaging buildings on Dalton Street, reverberating, flinging dust and sewer stench. Orville hated the place, this Red Cross hive of death.

"I've got to check in," he said, after the hell had died down; yet next day he was back, bringing her a potted azalea.

Here comes America ... here's somebody who knew Chuck ... somebody who cares ... tell me ...

"I've been thinking how we met," she said, as they walked.

"Yeah ... bad place."

She agreed.

"Better forget it," he said.

They walked to a diminutive temple under pines, beach and ash trees eighty or ninety years old. The temple was a semi-circular building of limestone, a soft brown limestone shell, its roof and pillars in a bad way; a couple of the pillars were lying on the ground, pigeons sitting on curving pediments, weeds among the floor stones.

"It's Rousseau's Temple de la Philosophie ... yeah, but it's falling down ... I used to play here. See that stone slab, lying at the entrance, you can read the inscription."

They bent over the stone but were unable to read the words for weeds and rubble.

"Was the temple made for Rousseau?"

"No ... it was made later ... he lived in the pavilion of the chateau."

"I've been here lots of times..."

"Have you visited the chateau? Is it open these days?"

"Lena took me ... it's closed ... but we got to see the place, the wonderful tapestries in the salon ... remember we don't have many chateaux in Wisconsin."

"Canoes," he said. "Canoes instead of chateaux."

"Are you good with the paddle?"

"Yes ... yes, I am ... and you?"

She nodded.

Separation, mustering out pay, back-pay, travel allowances: they could go to Wisconsin, New York, California. But when would mankind return to nature? Rousseau had said ... let nature repair mind and body ... who remembers? We're lucky to survive these days!

Lucky ... lucky to have Jean ... to be in E ... lucky to be on leave ... to walk in the park ...

As he kissed Jean good-bye at the hospital gate, he tried to summon an optimistic word. Something, during the last half hour or so, had come between them, as if they both admitted they were pawns, as if the miles across the Atlantic already separated them.

Her hair's exquisite copper gleamed in the light: fog was behind her hair: fog was flowing across the countryside, puffing, swirling, smoking in from the Nonette river, fog that smelled of newly mown clover.

"I'll see you tomorrow ... about two. If there's gasoline I'll come in the car ... if I can borrow the car." He smiled.

"Good night, darling." Then a long pause.

"Sleep well."

"See you."

To reach home, Orville followed a short-cut that bypassed the Petit Lac and its island; the path was weed choked: burdock, thistle, artichoke, and mustard. All were rain wet, fog wet. From a rock wall fence he took in the spires of the Ronde place, fog crawling over them, the fog in the pines and chestnut and elm toward the chateau, now fogged out. Crossing a bridge over the Nonette he found the fog thicker, smokier, on the bridge itself it seemed stuffed into the cracks of the 13th century masonry.

In the cemetery he paused by his dad's grave, weedy and foggy. Lighting a cigarette he felt the fog nip at his lighter flame.

You're buried there ... if I'm killed in the war what then? If all of us die ... not a bad idea. Not a bad idea!

He shrugged his shoulders and the shrug brought back painful memories of tank fatigue.

He blew smoke into the fog.

Lights in the windows of the Ronde place--vague in shape and size--recalled his Ithaca home: his dad's insurance policy had made it a reality.

Orville picked up a stone, considered it, dropped it.

I can arrange my papers ... Jeannette will be the beneficiary ... she can purchase a house in Wisconsin, for Mr. William J. Bruce, geometry teacher, football star ... three bedrooms ... split level ... nice ... or nice Ithacan place, by the wine dark sea!

What was that in the fog? Was it fear?

Fear gleaming out there?

Jean has faith, faith in man, faith in us. Lena has faith in the Maquis. Therèse has faith in the past.

Maybe we ask too much of life.

Freedom?

What sort of freedom?

Rousseau's?

He flipped his cigarette into the fog and heard it spit derisively.

He walked until late and Lena was sitting in the living room, when he returned.

"Join me, Orv. Have something with me. Mom went to bed a long time ago ... I've been sitting here, reading. Cognac? Cordial? Whiskey?" She regarded him intently, his fog wet hat and jacket. "I guess it's still very foggy," she said, stroking her cat, wanting Orville to sit down next to her.

"It's getting foggier," he said, standing in front of her, removing his hat and jacket.

"I don't like foggy weather," she said. "The airmen ... their missions--you know."

He dropped hat and jacket on a chair.

Lena and her angora, cousin Lena in yellow sweater, Persian slacks, a bird-pin at her throat, barefooted, ponytailed: she smiled the smile of long ago. But there was no turning back.

"I wish we hadn't changed," she said.

"Yes, of course ... but we've changed," he admitted.

"What can we do?"

"Nothing ... but if we could..."

"I was sixteen when you were here last. I was just a kid. Seven years ago ... a hell of a lot of years, with a war tossed in."

"I wondered about coming back ... about us."

"Who escapes change? Half the time Mama's disoriented ... Papa isn't the same..."

"I hear that you're one of the Maquis."

"Maybe better than a convent," she jibed. "More exciting ... do you disapprove? An honest answer."

"I disapprove of a lot of things but it doesn't matter in the least," he said, sitting beside her, making the cat relinquish a little space.

"Your girl is a fighter," Lena said.

"Fighting for men's lives."

"We Maquis fight for men's lives!" she exclaimed, her eyes glassy, and narrow-slitted: she was recalling her last parachute drop. "Better than capitulation! Better than fraternization!"

"I know, I know ... a great job! A tough job. I've heard some things! Without you ... it would be that much longer ... cost more lives ... I know!"

She puttered with whiskey that Claude had brought in. Standing in front of Orville she noticed that his wet clothes made his sex conspicuous. She felt his equal, as friend, as lover. As friend and equal she could confide her Maquis experiences: as part of the Ronde family, its military background, she admired his "uniform": they had much in common: she had been his Amélie.

"Take off your wet shoes ... don't you want to change? How about something? ... Your favorites are ready." Stooping, she touched his shoulder, her fingers moving along his collar, moving to his face. "Let's try to go on as we were ... We read our Atala and René by the lake. So, we lived two hundred years ago, climbed the hills, sailed our lake ... ours was all sweetness, as Chateaubriand would say."

Yet as she said this she wanted Orville naked, wanted herself naked, both of them lying by the fire. Lifting the cat onto her lap, she folded her feet under her skirt, and said:

"How's Jean?"

She was annoyed and amused by her own contradictions: perhaps it was two hundred wars ago they had been Chateaubriand's characters. Atala, a foolish fabrication. For that matter, so was the Rousseau legend: there had been little in that man's philosophy for her these last few years.

"How's Jeannette?" she repeated, envious of their love affair.

"She's okay ... do you see her now and then?"

"Now and then."

"Like her?"

"Not really."

"Are you away from Ermenonville a lot?"

"Yes ... and I don't know much about Jeannette ... she has her job."

Sipping his whiskey, he let his eyes wander: the Chopin bust, the tapestry, the books, the fireplaces, the girl. Bending forward, he wet his lips with his tongue.

Raising her glass, Lena began to sketch in the Maquis she worked with: she found them eccentric, unscrupulous, some of them capable, some over-dedicated: as she talked she appreciated Orville: he was Orv: most everything about him pleased her, his unbuttoned shirt, his wet clothes, the way he smoked, the way he talked, his family accent.

Impulsively, in a gentle voice, she began sharing her own life, her life in Paris:

" ... When I'm in Paris I stay most of the time at the Maison Croix ... no suspicions there ... part of the old place has been converted into a hospital ... ambulances ... men coming and going ... doctors ... Maquis ... I was in Marseilles for about a month, stayed with Dad. In Paris I usually stay with a fellow ... we share ... Charles Chabrun ... we sleep together..." She laughed at herself: it was a little like telling him that she had grown up.

The rose-grey Bravort rug stretched out from under her and her angora, its weave intricate and worn, a thing of flowers and wandering blue. Behind her, framed in narrow gold, matted in grey, was a 17th century Chinese waterfall, pointed rocks, clouds. Beyond it the tapestry from boyhood days--Galahad and the Grail.

Orville felt some of these things and they seemed a part of her face, part of her eyes (as he listened), her guilty eyes, the eyes of war. When she brought a tray of food and knelt in front of him he bent over and kissed her passionately.

Aware of his luck, he avoided, with the grin of a hypnotist, the words he could never say, both rapport and frustration.

"Lena?"

"Yes..."

"Can I have your car tomorrow ... Jean and I?"

"Of course you can. Claude will have it fixed I'm sure. It must be difficult to get away from the hospital these days ... so many wounded."

Did he know about the gas chambers at Auschwitz? Did he know about Dachau? We Maquis know ... we ... could he guess how often I cried after he left E ... does he know? ...

"Tomorrow," he managed to say, but now he was afraid, afraid of himself, ambivalence taking over, he continued eating goodies from the tray but the break had come.

She noticed his twisted mouth, his uncertain fingers.

"I'll find us some dance music ... I'll turn on the radio ... dance with me, Orv." Then, she blurted: "Orv, are you really in love with her?"

"I helped get her out of London ... Uncle Victor helped me get her out ... we couldn't leave her to those blitzes. Do you love ... do you really love anyone, Lena? Do any of us really love, any more? Hasn't life become rotted?"

"What are you saying?" she asked, evasively.

"Nothing ... nothing..."

He put down his glass and got up and went to the piano; he had not touched a piano for over a year and he had no notion of touching this one; he wanted to be near it, thinking, for the moment, as he stood by it, of his mother, missing her. In Ithaca their piano had become impotent, had given way to the radio. Unsatisfactory--like altering one's name.

He rubbed his face with both hands.

(Landel had said ... Zinc had said.)

Without seeing Lena, he walked about the room, hesitated by the Chopin bust, lingered in front of the fireplaces; then, rubbing his hands together roughly, shrugging his shoulders, he said, "Good night."

From the stairway, he called:

"See you tomorrow."

That wasn't his voice, Lena told herself. She listened to his steps, going up: two, four, five, eight: life was that way now: automation: death. The click of his bedroom door was the click of Amélie's door: with cold hands she fondled her cat, speculating about tomorrow, the uncertain tomorrows, if there were to be many of them? Softening the radio music, she remained on her knees, fingering dials, longing for Orville.

Orville switched on his bed lamp, and the rack of guns, the fishing tackle, the mounted bass over his bed appeared with a kind of jabbing abruptness. Jean had laughed at his trophy--his Nonette prize. He wished he had her in his room, had her sexiness.

Copies of Le Matin and Combat lay on the bed table and he rustled through them, sitting on the side of the bed, seeing Lena's body catwise. What changes. What irony. Something like double laughter ran through his brain.

He began undressing.

He called himself a fool.

A Rousseau thought came to mind:

"The innocent plans of the good hardly ever find fulfillment." Was that how it went?

Innocence in E?

In Ithaca, life had been innocent enough. Back there, there were thoughts of office plans, gas station blueprints, residential plans. At Cornell, he had a few things pretty well figured out. Not pat, yet ... well ... that new system for track was a good system, based on a series of camera studies of runners: position of the hands while running, the length of the stride: careful correlation had to be established: the same sort of studies for the crew, each oarsman photo fixed, the angles of his oar ...

He dropped his socks on the carpet.

When I was a freshman I used to wear a copper medallion with Rousseau's face stamped on it.

A news sheet fell on the floor and he kicked it aside; at the bottom of the page, in large type, he noticed war news of his arena.

No ... it's my leave ... goddamn the war!

Let them blow themselves up!

All the tanks can go to hell!

Zinc and Landel!

I've got a girl ... a redhead ... calm face ... freckles on her shoulders!

He felt her hand between his legs.

In bed, the lamp out, he saw the fog creeping along the Nonette, he saw a man walking along the river, he saw ... a door banged on the floor below and everything became more illusive, with the radio playing faintly.

Perhaps in the morning ...

Perhaps in the afternoon ...

In the afternoon he called for Jeanette, the gas tank of the old Renault half full; it was a warm, sunny afternoon, more summer than autumn; Bichain had tuned, washed, and polished the car. Agreeing with his suggestions, Orville was to drive a certain route (no Nazi interference). The car buzzed along and then, at the hospital, it refused to budge another inch.

Mme. Ronde, who spent many hours caring for the wounded, appeared on the hospital steps; she said:

"You two walk a while ... be together ... that old car! But you know it's going to rain soon ... when it rains come to the house ... we'll have tea."

And it worked out like that.

She was a true provincial: she had to show Orville that she was more than his aunt, that she was an all-out American:

"Jeannette, you from Visconseen ... I know where 'tis on our maps," she said, in her rough English. With her effusiveness she asked about Wisconsin, the winter sports: was it true the state had so many lakes: was it true that it got fearfully cold there in winter: was the snow deep?

As they drank tea in the living room, Orville sank into himself, the women talking E talk, a silver bowl of dahlias between them: a sense of vacuum haunted him: naked superficiality seemed to surround until scalding tea soaked into his body: the dignity of the old room came to his rescue.

When the phone jangled, he jerked about in his chair.

"When our phone rings it bothers me too," Jeannette said.

Mme. Ronde answered the ring, saying it was Pierre Valeriaud.

"Pierre wanted to apologize for being intoxicated when he was here--he's a pretty nice man." As she lifted her cup, her facial expression became set, almost pained, as if this was something medicinal she was drinking.

In her ladderback chair she seemed to overfill it: for a while she had nothing to say: drinking her tea, biting sandwiches, she might have been a peasant overwhelmed by work or tragedy. When Claude entered and announced three priests, Mme. Ronde was displeased:

"They're men who help with refugees!" she exclaimed, and stalked off. "Have them sit in the dining room ... I have to go upstairs for a list."

While she was gone, Orville found Claude and asked him about the bikes: were they stored in the barn, in the house? Have they been used a lot?

"We've been using them ... there's not always gasoline ... I'll get the key. They're in the linen room. The tires are new. Lena has used one bike for a while. I guess a little oil might help--if we can find any oil."

Key in hand, Claude led Jean and Orville to a small windowless room, behind the kitchen; as Bichain unlocked the door, Orville felt her face against his; his mouth sought hers. The door unlocked with a pop, letting out the smell of soap and fabric.

"We kept our bikes in our barn," Jean said, following Orville inside.

"Big barn?"

"Three cow barn."

Bare light bulbs illuminated shelves of household things.

"There they are," said Claude.

"How are the tires?" Jean asked. "Enough air? Hmm, this one's hard enough."

"How about the rear wheel?" Orville asked. He checked the tire and checked the hand brakes as Claude tried another bike, other tires.

"Let's go," Orville said.

"Where?"

"The park ... along the Nonette."

"Okay."

As he wheeled a bike outside, Orville put together other rides, alone, or with Lena, or with Marcel or some school pal ... no details, just the realization that there had been so many pleasant rides, sun and countryside, picking apples, birds in hedges, chickens and dogs.

"I've got a good bike," Jean said.

"I don't want a girl's bike," Orville said.

"Okay."

Laughing, she mounted and was first away from the house, wishing they could ride a dozen times, ride to nearby places, Senlis maybe: France was bike country: and war controls were lax around Ermenonville.

"I'll lead the way," she sang out.

"Let's ride along the Nonette, to the forest..."

He had a British bike, hers was Swiss; both were scarred, squeaky at the fenders, slack-chained; with worn hand grips. They rode side by side down a slight slope, willows along one side, the four turrets of the chateau visible. The Petit Lac winked a blue wink. Tiled roofs sloped about a stand of chestnuts; a weather vane rose above trees; someone, at a dilapidated farm, had a pen jammed with swine and the swine squealed as the bikers rode past.

The Nonette's rows of willows appeared copper grey--cloud shadowed. The river had a few white swans at a curve and beyond the curve some men were rowing in a white rowboat. The water slid under a stone bridge and they biked across the bridge and followed a cobbled road.

"It's rough," Jean said. "Ride slowly."

"It's the best we can do."

On the bike road the wagon-car-truck ruts had tall grass between them; the surface was smooth; his handlebars looked down on her squatty ones as they peddled. He thought her dress amusingly sedate, hardly a dress for cycling, but then she hadn't planned to ride.

"When did you ride a bike last?"

"I dunno ... years ago, I guess."

As they rode she felt more and more at ease: it was fun knocking at weeds and grass with the pedals: all of a sudden France became USA, became Wisconsin, not foreignness, not isolation. The rooster on a fence, the dog barking at someone's gate, crows flying: weren't they home?

"This way, darling. Our path ends at a farm."

"Coming."

The sun was out now.

Someone's windmill squawked rustily as their route narrowed and ended at a barbed wire fence: the windmill vanished behind trees, behind time.

Orville got off his bike alongside a stile and laid the bike on the road; Jeannette leaned her handlebars against the wire of the fence. Beyond them, a field of grass stretched to another fence line, a smooth, green field, anchored in space by a red mowing machine deserted for the season.

"I used to mow hay in this field," he said.

"By hand?"

"Sure thing."

She climbed onto the stile and sat beside him, the weathered planks shaky, beetles crawling about under the bottom step ... Chuck had collected beetles as a kid ... Chuck would like it here, sitting in the sun.

"Now ... now where?" she made herself ask.

"Across the field," he said.

"Your aunt said it may rain."

"We can't let a little thing like rain stop us."

"I'm game."

"Give me your hand."

"What about our bikes?"

"Nobody will bother them."

"Wait ... not so fast. My skirt's tight."

"Jump."

A field of grass: after the tank corps any field was inviting. In Ithaca, fields had extended toward the lake, downslope, fields between residences and groves: High above Cayuga's waters ... the Cornell song twanged for an instant.

He led the way.

Jeannette thought him handsome in his floppy trousers, tight striped jacket. How far off the hospital and its wounded! Orville, she said to herself. "Orv, Orv!" she said, as they walked through grass. Rushing forward she grabbed him, spun him around, and kissed him.

"You'd make a good tackle!"

"On your team."

He gestured:

"Over here there's a shed, if it hasn't been torn down ... see, there it is. That's it."

The shed was three-sided: a cattle feeder and temporary shelter, made of discarded timber and mismatched shingles, something flung together years ago, just high enough to walk under. As Orville and Jean stepped inside swallows flew away.

"It's nice and dry," Orville said. "It would be swell if we could picnic here ... there's a little spring nearby ... I like it here."

"I like it too."

Someone had left a horse blanket rumpled on the bench; straw and hay littered the floor, the place smelled of timothy and clover and cattle.

"You can stand there if you want to," she said. "I'm sitting down ... taking off my clothes." She was laughing at his expression, laughing with anticipation. "I'll get my clothes off before you get yours off. Do you want us to be sedate?"

As she undressed she noticed a pencil of clouds, the scattered hay and straw, the horse blanket: she knew how she was going to spread the blanket, where there was a little sun.

She wanted to say, darling, I love you, but busied herself with her clothes.

He had nothing to say: there was something in this nudity, this love-making, that perplexed him, annoyed him: as he took off his clothes he felt he was some sort of damn puritan: lying beside Jean he was more interested, for a moment, in the swallows as they returned.

Picking up a straw he stuck it between his teeth; he picked up a straw and stuck it into her mouth. Giggling, she took away his straw and substituted her own. Bending over him; she said:

"Bite it."

He bit the straw, staring into her face.

"Now."

She bit the straw and he pulled.

The game was on. They had to stifle their own laughter. Straw and hay got onto their bodies. Straws caught in her hair and fell on her shoulders, freckles and straws ... he was captivated ... his mouth covered hers. She rolled him off. Her fragrance came to him as he lay on her.

"Here's where a mosquito bit you," she said.

They were lying side by side.

"Here's where a flea bit you," he said.

The sun blinked out as they played.

He imagined her in Switzerland, at St. Peter's, old Rome's St. Peter's: domes, arches, pillars and bleeding crosses: they were camped on tiny St. Peter's island: silence, meadows, woods ... where Rousseau had been happy ... where ...

"You're lost to me ... you've drifted away ... where were you?" she objected.

"I was thinking of a trip with you ... Switzerland ... look, look there's a wad of hay in your belly button." And he crumpled some hay and filled her button.

"Love you ... love you ... love you!" she exclaimed.

Queer, he thought, queer about Lena, about us. We used to have fun. Did a lot of wacky things. At school together ... played ... sang together.

"How long will you be with me, Orv?"

The question troubled him.

"Two more days," he said. "Almost two days..."

"I didn't want to ask ... but..."

She avoided his eyes--faced the extensive field.

She felt herself fall away from him, fall through the present, parachute into far, nobody left, only the wounded, her drab quarters in the hospital: wash basin, neglected walls, dirty windows, cracked door, outworn throw rug.

He thought of Lena:

"She has a lover in Paris," he said.

"Who has?"

"Lena..."

"But we have each other ... so..."

"We have forty-eight hours ... ah no ... it doesn't do to count ... We..."

"Can't you stay longer?"

"You know I can't--it's impossible! And Lena ... she wants me to sleep with her." He half heard his own words, resenting them, resenting Lena's influence.

"Who does?" Jeannette was stalling: trying to erase the fact.

"Lena."

"Orv ... you're kidding..."

But she knew he was not kidding. But now, now she wanted to put on her clothes, the playful sex mood was over, she wanted to take her skirt and blouse off the nail, hide her sex. The hay and straw became ugly: why was she such a fool, risking pregnancy again? And in this stable! At this time! She was the biggest ass in France! Then, in spite of herself, in spite of her reasoning, she yanked her body over his and hugged him desperately, kissed him desperately, aware of the weeks ahead without him.

Like Chuck ... another blindness!

All right, then another blindness.

Chuck, Chuck, where are we?

"Hold me, love me love me," she begged.

He cuddled her, mouth to her shoulder, fingers exploring, enjoying her warmth, fumbling at the same time for something had spattered in his brain: a voice, then, a roar, the pressure of fighting, Landel at his cannon, Zinc and his machine gun, all the impotence of violence.

He watched her get dressed.

She was no longer his.

Buttoning the cuff of her blouse, she asked:

"Where will you be fighting ... your Corps?

"Germany."

Eyelids pinched tight, as she slipped on her skirt, she tried to pray, a prayer from her childhood, a prayer her Lutheran pastor had taught: nonsensical, not labelled for adultery, unlabelled for war.

"Will your hospital job get any easier?" he asked, pulling on his sock, sitting on the bench.

"I hope so..."

Dear Orv, I want to be your wife, I want to give you everything you want. Orv, I want to make things easy for you. I want us to have kids. I want us to be happy. It might really happen to us ... we can't tell. Maybe a farm, a Wisconsin farm, nine acres, white house, red barn, maple trees, pines, birch.

"There's a lot of hay in Wisconsin," she said, in a strained voice, wishing to say something amusing, maybe something sensible.

Orville nodded.

He was slipping on his shirt.

Crows specked the sky ... the swallows were above the field. The sun was much cooler, ready to blink out behind clouds.

I'll take her to Ithaca, to Mom's house--for a few days. Mom will love her. We'll hunt for an apartment. I'd rather get started in Ithaca than anywhere else. There used to be a little apartment on Landfair ... pretty good place ...

He was purchasing his ticket for the train to Paris, he was showing his fake ID, answering questions. The ticket agent was saying ... Kissing Jean, he forced himself to memorize her overcoat, its scarlet lining, the row of crummy buttons; he made himself memorize her rundown shoes, her wrinkled felt hat ...

Lena and Aunt Therèse were standing close to the scaled walls of the depot, smudged plaster, egg yolk plaster: they were standing side by side, Therèse crying.

"Write to me if you can," Jeannette said.

"I will."

"Take care of yourself.'"

"I will ... you, the same ... good-bye..."

"Au revoir."

His brain was scrambling words in French and English, asking questions: wasn't there something more he should tell Jeannette? Wasn't there something he could say to Lena? Wasn't there a word for Therèse?

Astride a shabby suitcase, hating the Nazi uniforms around him, inside the beat-up train, he gazed at tiny E through filthy windows: the locomotive jerked pathetically, jerked faces, cobbles, swastikas, and tiled roofs.

* * *