Prologue 9 January 1964—Día de los Mártires

When I heard about the students' action, I was certain we were in for trouble.

—Lyndon Johnson, Memoirs

 

Francisco couldn't believe it. Gently touching his younger brother's bloodied hair, he asked, "What happened to you?"

 

Angel hung his head, slouching on the porch. Francisco had already run inside for bandages.

 

"They're killing us," Angel said, wincing at the sting as the alcohol daubed away the blood.

 

"What happened?" he asked again.

 

"We marched on the Zone. Guillermo started it—we all went. The gringo policia stopped us near the High School. Then the Chief said five of us could go to the flag pole. I saw another student join them, carrying a large ‘Panama Soberana’ banner. They wouldn't let us raise the flag.

 

"A bunch of American students came out, surrounding the flag pole, and started singing the American Anthem. We wanted to go up, but the policia held us back. I could hear shouting, and the students around me started up too, yelling and chanting.

 

"Then the policia started to push us back from the flag pole. I saw students fall.

 

“When we got back, they showed us the torn flag. They said a policeman tore it.

 

"That did it. It was pandemonium. I was swept with a large group that headed toward the Tivoli. The policia arrived. The street was choked with people fleeing the hotel. We were throwing rocks, bottles—someone threw a Molotov cocktail. The puercos ran out of tear gas. Then they fired shotguns over our heads. A girl next to me was hit. I grabbed her, but we were knocked down. That's when I got hurt.

 

"There was more shooting, and large groups charged the Tivoli. The policia beat them."

 

Francisco went to the Canal Zone boundary to see for himself. The American Army had strung spools of concertina wire. There were a lot of angry people there still, but nobody tried to cross.

 

Rioting spread to Colón. Over the next several days, 20 Panamanians were killed, and over 500 were injured. They were already calling it the 'Day of the Martyrs.'

Chapter 1. 23 July 1976—Impossible Eyes

Whoe’er she be, That not impossible she, That shall command my heart and me...'

— Richard Crashaw (Wishes to His Supposed Mistress)

 

"Oui, I'm calling you from Carmel. I'm on Ocean Avenue. I'll be back in an hour."

 

"OK, Clare," Natasha replied, “Look, I know you're mad—your fight over the phone with your mother...”

 

“So what?” Clare snapped.

 

“So...I remember a little of my high school French. Don't you dare sleep with the first man you meet!”

 

“I said marry! And what is it to you?”

 

There was no sound over the phone for several seconds.

 

“You'll do what you want. You always do.”

 

Clare laughed. The sound was bitter.

 

“OK I know you won't do anything foolish.” Putting on her black accent, "we'll leave without you if you're late!"

 

"I know where it is. You go on without me. I'll catch up."

 

The delicate, freshly manicured fingers put the payphone back on its cradle. Taking a quick look in the faint reflection in the glass, Clare admired the stunning ghost peering back at her, then stuck her tongue out.

 

<I need to do that to Mother!> she thought to herself, <Daddy, too!>

 

Gunning the engine, changing lanes to pass the slower cars, Clare's old Mercedes roadster flew up the hill, the wind blowing her hair back in billows . Far from reveling in the exhilarating dash, her face was set, her brow lowered.

 

Suddenly an alarming noise, then white vapor becoming a steaming fog, as her car lost power at the crest. She coasted to a stop along side the highway.

 

"Stupid, unreliable car! Just like my mother to give me her superannuated castoff! I'll…" her thoughts dissolved into inarticulate anger.

 

Getting out, she managed to get the hood up, and gaped at the mysterious metal monster beneath.

 

Driving up the hill on Highway One toward Del Monte Shopping Center, Kurt Retten noticed steam rising from the open hood of the venerable white Mercedes roadster at the side of the road. As he pulled up behind the car he saw long dancer’s legs stretching out from little cuffs of very short, yellow walking shorts. The slim body attached to the legs was leaning over the fender looking in. The left leg was bent at the knee, very expensive flip flops and diamond-studded gold tennis anklet dangling. Hearing him stop, she turned around. Kurt saw high cheeks, soft, pouting lips, and Nefertiti neck, framed by thick mahogany hair which fell in cascades onto tanned bare shoulders. The bloom of youth had not quite left her cheeks. His eyes were drawn to the frilly low swooping halter top. She lifted the custom sunglasses over her forehead, revealing impossibly bright emerald eyes. Her look was entrancing, mischievous, daunting.

 

<'Surely I dream'd to-day, or did I see the winged Psyche with awaken'd eyes?'>

 

“Hi! Can I help you?” he asked, adopting his 'approach the mark' pose, hoping she didn’t hear the catch in his throat.

 

Clare looked at the man attached to the cheery, pleasant voice. He had already looked at her face, her body—that was to be expected—but his expression was benign. He was slim, like a swimmer, a little older than her college crowd. Standing just shy of six feet, his dark hair cut short, with a high forehead, and square chin under lips turned up in a reassuring smile.  His face would look young when he was fifty, but his steel-blue eyes... 

 

She was unable to articulate, instead gestured in exasperation at the disabled car.

 

He took a look, then went back to his car where he grabbed a rag. With it he squeezed one of the water hoses, feeling the stiff, brittle rubber.

 

“I know a bit about cars. I’m not going to get this one back on the road. We’ll need to call your garage...”

 

“I’m not from around here. I don’t know a garage.”

 

Her voice, even in anguish, had a captivating, musical quality. He detected an accent.  <French?>

 

He was close enough to catch a whiff of her perfume. Like everything else about her, its aroma reeked of perfection, and money.

 

“Well, I can look in the book. Get you a tow.”

 

“Oh, just take it to the dealer.”

 

“OK, but that’ll cost you a lot.”

 

“No, it’ll cost my Daddy. He can pay it.”

 

Kurt closed the hood of the car, then reassessed her clothes. Nothing she wore came from a discount store, or a department store, for that matter.

 

<I guess Daddy can afford the Mercedes dealer.>

 

“Lock it up and get in mine. I’ll get you to a phone. There’s one at the mall, just down the hill.”

 

Hesitating, she stepped over to his ten-year-old bright yellow Thunderbird, putting a hand on the door of the convertible. The car was in mint condition, clean, waxed, pampered. The top was down; in the back seat was a gym bag. Burdening the passenger side were books in Spanish, a smattering of other titles, mostly 19th Century literature, and some foreign titles, mainly in German.

 

He came around and opened the door.

 

“Hi! I’m Kurt,” he said cheerfully, extending a hand.

 

“Clare,” she answered shyly, touching his fingers. He noted that her eyes did not match the voice; they were appraising him.

 

As he headed down the hill toward the mall, she was quiet, but fidgety.

 

“Are you missing an appointment? I could…”

 

“No, it’s just my girlfriends. They’ll wonder what happened. We were supposed to go out together tonight.”

 

“When we get to the mall, you can call your friends. Then I’ll drive you over.”

 

"That's not necessary. They'll come for me."

 

"It's no trouble! Where is it?"

 

"We’ve taken a beach apartment in Pacific Grove."

 

“I live nearby—well, in the slums, higher up the hill. You call your friends and I’ll drop you off.”

 

“Oh, you’re from here?”

 

“No, I’m at the Presidio Monterey, taking Spanish for my next assignment.”

 

She nodded, distracted.

 

“There’s a nice little coffee shop in the mall. Have you been there?”

 

She had not.

 

After she made the calls they went to the restaurant. Over coffee and pie they talked.

 

“I just graduated from Stanford."

 

"What was your major?”

 

“French literature. We’re down here celebrating, before we have to go back to our families, and back to the grind in the fall.”

 

He surprised her, with a quote: "The French tongue, which is the speech of the clear, the cheerful, or the august among men.”

 

“I’m sorry?”

 

“Uh, John Morley. And literature! ‘Literature—the most seductive, the most deceiving, the most dangerous of professions.'"

 

She peered at him doubtfully.

 

“John Morley again.”

 

She shook her head, a doubtful smile on her lips. “Are you…? You’re here for…”

 

“Like I told you, I’m in Language School.”

 

“You’re going to language school. So, what, you’re Foreign Service or something?”

 

“Uh no. I’m in what Groucho Marx called that great oxymoron, military intelligence.”

 

“You’re a spy!?” she laughed, incredulous.

 

“Actually, no. I uh, catch spies.”

 

“What a pick up line! You’ve got to prove that.”

 

He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a battered leather case with a badge on the outside. “For duty, honor and country.”

 

She took the case and studied the credential. Leaning back in her chair, she returned the case. “I should be put off. You’re a narc.”

 

“Not hardly. Between you and me, I’ve never met a spy. We’re mainly just bureaucrats.”

 

“You’re lying to me.”

 

“Well yes, it’s what we do. But of course, you study the deceptive arts yourself, so you have nothing to fear from me. I’ll take you home now—say, I’m going to a restaurant in Carmel on Friday. Would you like to go with me? Have you heard of Gaston’s?”

 

“Now you are lying to me. It seats only sixteen people. You have to wait for months to get a table! Even I couldn’t get a reservation, and I know them!”

 

“I went in and got a reservation when I first arrived. That was five months ago. It’s just come up.”

 

“And you don’t already have a date?”

 

“I’ve been waiting for you.” He hesitated, then, “Tout vient a point à qui sait attendre.”

 

She responded in the language, “Where did you learn…?”

 

He followed her lead, staying with the French. He had not mastered it.

 

“I went to college—all over—you take the classes that are available. I was at one assignment where all they had was a French class. I took some in high school, so I thought it would be an easy grade. I should have known better. You could say I'm non-lingual in four languages—five if you count Spanish."

 

She cocked her head, peering at him.

 

“OK, I’ll go with you.”

 

He was pleased and showed it.

 

When they finished the pie and coffee he asked, "I need to pick up a few things—you don't mind? It'll be just a minute."

 

Dubious, she followed him, finding herself in a food store where he picked up some fresh fruit and vegetables.

 

"I need to drop these off at my place. It's on the way," he told her, and headed west, through the Presidio, stopping at a small apartment complex.

 

"You can stay in the car, if you want. I'll only be a minute."

 

She followed him in. Clare went through the door expecting to see…but she found a furnished flat—cheap sofas, tables, chairs—scrupulously clean and neat.

 

On a coffee table pushed against one wall was an expensive Dolby cassette deck and Thorens turntable, flanked by large speakers sitting on the floor. Next to it was box filled with cassettes and some LPs leaning against the wall. They were mostly classical, Spanish guitar with some old jazz. She didn't see any popular titles. In the corner he had a tiny color television in the corner; it wasn't plugged in.

 

Next to the player was a Walkman, with a Spanish language cassette inside.

 

Bemused, she followed him as into the kitchen, where he had put the groceries onto the counter and into the refrigerator. She opened it, fingering the produce. Looking up from the fridge, she noticed some cookbooks on the counter. Some were in French, one in German, and a new one, in Spanish. Putting them down, she wandered to the back. His turn to be bemused, he followed.

 

There were two bedrooms on either side of the hallway. The one on the left was empty apart from a double row of moving boxes stacked along one wall. Most were sealed, marked 'philosophie,' 'Deutsche Sprach,' 'Poesie,' and the like. She picked up some titles from an open box, mouthing the authors—Nietzsche, Kant, Hume, Russell.

 

Gesturing, she asked, "From school?"

 

Kurt looked at the books.  "Uh, no."

She stuck her head in his bedroom, but went into the bathroom. She came out surprised.

 

"You have maid service? No? Then you answer to Felix?"

 

Without waiting for an answer she swept into the bedroom, walking straight for the closet, where she went through his clothes.

 

"Where did you get these clothes? They're all foreign labels!"

 

"I uh, lived in Europe. Until I came here for school. 'It is not only fine feathers that make fine birds.'"

 

She laughed out loud, her voice musical and enchanting.

 

Coming out of the bedroom she inspected the living room again.

 

"Are you sure you live here? Does anyone live here?"

 

"'Poor yet industrious, modest, quiet, neat.'"

 

She approached and touched his cheek, smiling. He returned her smile.

 

When they arrived at her apartment, he stayed in the car while she got out. She went around the car to the driver side, and leaned on the door. Two firm grapefruit pressed on his arm, which rested on the rolled-down window. She looked at him slyly, then at the arm. Straightening, she unbuttoned his sleeve, pulling the shirt arm back, her graceful fingers squeezing the skin, feeling the hard muscle. His questioning look met by a Mona Lisa smile.

 

“You want to come up?”

 

“Yes, I’d love to,” he replied ruefully, “but—I have things I have to do. Perhaps we could do something tomorrow?”

 

“Are you sure? We were going to Eastwood’s place tonight.”

 

“Ahhh, no. Can’t….I wish I could.”

 

“Just what are you doing that’s so important?” she said archly. Her hair flew, caressing his face; breasts bounced on his arm.

 

He was chagrined, frankly eyeing the decolletage. “You understand. I’m a student and must study. Big test tomorrow.”

 

“…and tomorrow night, you won’t be studying?”

 

“That would be earlier. I could take you dancing, after nine…”

 

She agreed. But she would meet him there. She wanted her own wheels.

 

He shrugged, “OK. See you then. You uh, have another car?”

 

“Oh oui, that damned Mercedes!”

 

“Nine o’clock then, here? Tomorrow?”

 

“Oui, but you’ll be waiting if you come early. By the way, your French is execrable."

 

He grinned. "Oui, je sais!"

 

She watched him drive off, then tripped up the stairs to the apartment.

 

Inside she was greeted by Natasha who asked archly, "Well, where were you? Picking up men?"

 

"I told you, the Mercedes broke down."

 

"That's one way to pick up a man," Maureen interjected, "Was he at least good looking?"

 

Clare smirked, then scowled.

 

"I told you," Maureen persisted, "you should have gotten a new car, instead of using your mother's cast off!"

 

"I had better things to invest my money in."

 

"Such as…?" Natasha asked. Her tone was sarcastic.

 

"Such as…" Clare didn't finish. "You wouldn't care anyway. I made way more. I can buy two Mercedes with what I made."

 

"So buy one," Natasha shot back.

 

"Maybe I will, but not now."

 

Maureen asked after their plans for the morning.

 

"I think—yes, I'm going to the language school. Doctor Béart has a friend there, Professor Ardant, who is anxious to meet me."

 

"I have no doubt of that," Natsha sneered.

 

"Really, Clare, you've graduated!" Maureen, objected, "Why would you…oh, he's there, isn't he?"

 

Clare stuck her tongue out.

 

At the ungodly hour of 8:20 Clare found herself escorted by the department chairman, striding down the hallway, not feeling the confidence she was exuding, to professor Ardant's classroom. Arriving at the open door she saw a room like in any high school, with French posters on the walls among blackboards, students seated in neat rows before a standard issue metal desk littered with language books and papers, and…next to the open louver window, standing on a chair, with his hands together as in prayer, a thin, half-bald man whose narrow face was pinched with frustration, professor Ardant warning in beautiful if shrill French,

 

"I shall jump!"

 

Seeing the department chair, the embarrassed Ardant stepped awkwardly back down to the floor.

 

The class, only a dozen students, about half women, froze. Clare could feel their eyes falling on her after startled looks at the chairman. The gazes took in the flowing dark hair which lay softly on her bare shoulders, the bright flowered dress, five inches above her knees, and down to the glittering heeled sandals, accentuated by her diamond anklet.

 

Clare turned away, not wanting the man to see her silent laugh. Out in the hallway, passing by were students from neighboring Spanish classes, including Kurt. He was in a khaki uniform like the one she saw in his apartment, black squares decorating the shiny silver bar on the collar and several rows of bright rectangles above his left breast pocket, and some badges below. He frowned and shrugged his shoulders, in the French manner, but his eyes were twinkling.

 

A pretty young woman in a blue uniform, her look disapproving, touched his elbow, gesturing that they should go. He regarded Clare, his eyebrows raised, mouthing a 'see you soon' with a small grin, allowing himself to be led away.

 

Clare's eyes flashed. Then she stopped. <Why should I be angry? I don't know him!>

 

Spinning on her heel, she put on a PR smile, taking Ardant's hand, for just a second, then faced the class, addressing them in her best Parisian accent.

 

"I am Clare Stores, just graduated from Stanford in French literature, and here I speak only French!"

 

It was a hectic, draining six hours, but Clare felt energized. Stepping into the corridor she found Kurt standing with a knot of students, just leaving their Spanish classes. Was that a grin?

 

Separating from them, the young WAF reluctant to see him go, he addressed Clare, in unaccented but awkward French.

 

"Is your car finished—uh, repaired? Or might you use a…ride?"

 

Still irritated, but seeing the WAF looking on, Clare took his arm.

 

"That would be lovely!"

 

After dropping her off at her apartment Kurt went home to change, returning a little before nine, and as Clare warned, had to wait.

 

When she came out of her bedroom he sucked in his breath. Her dress was red, strapless, satiny, with hem halfway up her thigh. Her gorgeous legs were decorated by shiny red spaghetti strap sandals with five inch heels. The gold tennis bracelet glittering with diamonds adorned her left ankle. She danced some steps toward him, revealing a flash of panty when she twirled, stopping to adjust his pale blue shirt. She looked at his dark gray trousers.

 

“OK soldier boy, you’ll do. You need a woman to show you how to dress, though.”

 

“Applying for the job?”

 

“Maybe,” coquettishly batting her eyes, “it depends on whether you can move on the floor without stepping on my toes!”

 

He grinned, quoting,

 

On with the dance; let joy be unconfined;

No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet

To chase the glowing hours with flying feet.

 

She regarded him, her smile widening into a laugh.  “I know that—it's Byron, isn't it?”

She spun away, then returned, putting a hand on his cheek, feeling the freshly shaved chin. Then she turned and called over her shoulder, “Bien! Allons-y!”

 

He was only competent on the dance floor. She was impressed with his stamina; he was still ready to dance when she was bushed.

 

They couldn’t converse much in the din. Several men tried to dance with her during the evening; one tried to cut in when they were on the dance floor, but she refused. He later came to their table and took her elbow. She didn’t want to get up, so he pulled on her.

 

Something happened; Kurt had reached over to the man’s free hand. She saw the man wince, with Kurt smiling blandly at him. He let go and went his way. To her questioning eyes Kurt just smiled and almost imperceptibly shook his head.

 

Close to midnight he touched her elbow, and put his lips to her ear.

 

“Sorry, but the schoolboy has to go. I’ll need a couple hours of sleep. You OK?”

 

“Sure. There’s lot’s of men here! They’ve wanted me all night!”

 

"No teaching for you tomorrow?"

 

"It was just a visit. But—what a rush!"  Then she touched his hand.  “OK, take me home.”  Outside she said with some bravado, “If my friends were here I would have stayed.”

 

He nodded, his smile practically a grimace.  “Still on for tomorrow, at Gaston’s?”

 

“Of course! I wouldn’t miss it!”

 

As he put her into the car she turned and kissed him on the cheek.  “Thank you!”

 

His eyes lit up.

 

When Kurt got Clare home he walked her to the door. She invited him in, but he reluctantly demurred. “It was a great evening,” he said, taking her hands.

 

She kissed him, holding him close, then watched him until he drove away.

 

As she closed the door she didn't see the other car pulling out from the curb a little down the street.

 

“So how was your hot date?” Natasha asked from the couch. She had touched up her toes; her feet were on the coffee table, the digits separated by cotton balls.

 

Clare looked at her friend, whose chocolate skin contrasted with her bright yellow top.

 

“Pretty good. Not a great dancer, but athletic. And a gentleman. His French is only passable, but he carried the conversation OK.”

 

Natasha’s eyebrows raised.  “Must be foreign. Certainly not a college frat boy.”

 

“A soldier, actually,” Clare said, plopping on the couch, kicking off her sandals and putting her feet on the coffee table, crossed ankles resting on her copy of Barron’s.

 

“A soldier?! Scraping the bottom of the barrel, aren’t you?”

 

“I don’t know—have any of your dates taken you to Gaston’s?”

 

“When did he do that?!”

 

“Tomorrow night.”

 

Natasha didn’t believe her, and said so.

 

 

He was well-known to the police. When the patrolman found him in the wee hours, still leaning heavily against his car, his blood dried in spatters on the windows and paint, he barely looked up.  He was not asleep, but yelped when the office tried to help him to his feet.

 

“Is anything broken?”

 

“Yes—no—I don't know...”

 

“Who did this to you?”

 

The man looked at him, terror swept across his features.

 

“He—they...”

 

Not really listening, the patrolman was radioing for EMS. The guy had without doubt brought it on himself.

 

At the ER, taking notes for his report, the officer listened to the doctor.

 

“...multiple contusions, cracked patella—he'll limp for a long time, maybe forever. Wrist injury—I think they pounded his rib cage with a hammer. At least one broken.”

 

Looking up from his notebook, the patrolmen whistled, low.

 

“He really pissed them off. Did he say...?”

 

“No. He just stares. He's very frightened. He said they'd kill him.”

 

 

 

Gaston’s was a little place on a leafy side street in Carmel, halfway down to the beach, sitting between an upscale boutique and a fancy Italian restaurant. Its facade was faux Victorian with picture windows on each side of the doorway. The view of the interior was partially blocked by thin, lacy white curtains.  Next to the sidewalk, behind an ornate, waist-high wrought iron fence, were three tables for two, filled with guests; two near retirement, and one couple in their mid-forties. All were dressed casually—this was California—but the clothes and jewelry came from high end stores.

 

Clare was ravishing in a dark gray dress which missed her knees by four inches. Her sandals were Italian, black patent leather, with thin straps crossing her toes. On her ankle was the ubiquitous bracelet; several quarter-carat diamonds in a gold setting. Kurt's eyes kept creeping back to the neckline, which swooped low, decorated by a double strand of pearls. Her shoulders were bare except for two tiny straps, covered by a thin silk shawl decorated in bright flowers. Her left wrist sported a watch that put someone back a thousand dollars. Her shining dark hair flowed over her shoulders in soft curly billows. 

 

She touched the collar of Kurt's pale blue shirt, and eyed the charcoal slacks. Her impossible emerald eyes twinkled, signaling qualified approval. She had stolen the almost smile that Da Vinci had painted, wielding it like a weapon.

 

The owner showed them a tiny table for two in the back, but then recognized her.

 

He began chattering in French. “Ah, Mademoiselle Stores, how are you!?” His voice lowered “I am so sorry we didn’t have that table for three you wanted. You know it was impossible!”

 

“Gaston, I understand. I was lucky that my…friend had a reservation. I would have hated to spend time here and not enjoy your cuisine!”

 

To Kurt she switched to English, and was starting to explain the exchange, when Kurt, his eyes twinkling, interrupted, “J'ai bien compris—Vous êtes vieux amis?”

 

She was mildly shocked, then laughed.  “I forgot. Your French is pretty bad, though.”

 

Gaston was amused.  “Monsieur's French is not that bad, Clare.”

 

“You are kind, monsieur,” Kurt interjected, “but it is, and you know it.”

 

Grinning, leaving them with the menus, Gaston went to greet another couple at the door.

 

“What else don’t I know about you?” Clare asked.

 

Kurt began a light-hearted thumbnail autobiography. He came from the wrong side of the tracks, was drafted, went to Vietnam, where he was seduced into the world of intelligence by a warrant officer he met there. He spent some years in Europe, managing to get his degree along the way—“This is boring you, right?”

 

“Non, but, what is a warrant?”

 

“Oh. A thousand years ago it meant a protector. Old English. Now it’s just a rank.”

 

“So, are you a warrant?”

 

“Oui.”

 

“Not an officer?”

 

“A commission means you become whatever the Army wants you to be. I could be a mess officer!. A warrant is a specialist. He only does one thing.”

 

“And that is?”

 

“Well, it seems I have a knack for languages, uh, apart from French. I have a good ear for the sounds, but I’m afraid I mangle the grammar sometimes. Anyway, I’m off for Panama next.”

 

“Panama? Not Spain?”

 

“Sorry, no Army in Spain. It’ll be interesting. You remember the ancient Chinese curse.”

 

“Yes, about living in interesting times—for historians. What's that about?”

 

“There's always trouble with the Panamanians, over the Canal. We ought to give it back."

 

"Maybe that peanut farmer will do something."

 

"I don't know much about him. He seems to have the nomination sewn up though."

 

"It's not—dangerous, is it?"

 

"What, Panama? I was in Vietnam. This isn't dangerous."

 

Her expression was doubtful.

 

"Now, what about you?”

 

“Oh, back to school, for a PhD in French literature. Some time in France, researching—those delicious French men!”

 

“Ah, like Gaston?”

 

She glanced back at the man. He was no taller than Clare, and getting heavy from his creams and gravies. “Maybe. I know he wouldn’t mind. But…his wife would.” Clare cocked her head, her hair bouncing, her eyes glancing back to the kitchen door, where a small, well formed woman was standing, trying to get Gaston’s attention. She was pretty.

 

Clare reached across the table, touching Kurt’s hand, then drew back when she felt the scabs. She questioned him with her eyes.

 

He just shrugged. “Got clumsy, exercising.”

 

She didn't believe him, but let it go.

 

Their attention turned to the meal, a light feast of fish, salad and delicacies. She noted that Kurt had an unusual, Continental habit of eating with the fork upside down in the left hand. She pointed to it silently.

 

“Ah yes. Habit I picked up in Germany. In my business, you want to look just like everyone else. As you noticed, much of my wardrobe comes from the Kaufhaus.”

 

They lingered over the meal until late. She had drunk most of two bottles of leduc, followed by brandies; he drove her home and helped her into her apartment.

 

It was on the second floor, with three spacious bedrooms around a large front room with a generous dining area at the back, behind which a patio door opened onto a large balcony that overlooked the rocky beach.

 

She kicked off her heels and walked unsteadily into her bedroom, flicking on the light, leaving the door wide open. She struggled briefly with the zipper of her dress, dropping it to the floor. Then she wandered to a dresser, pulling out a bikini, which she threw on the bed, followed by her bra. Seeing she had a midnight swim in mind, Kurt stepped into the room, gently suggesting that she might want to wait until morning.

 

Leaning against him heavily, she protested, then kissed him.  “All right, I won’t go out,” she said putting her arms around him, pulling him onto the bed.

 

The next morning she came out, looking bleary-eyed and lovely, wearing a teddy under an open filmy robe, and little furry sandal slippers which clicked on the kitchen’s tiled floor. Even half asleep she walked with the poise of a model. He wondered how her hair, falling about her shoulders, could look freshly combed. Maybe it was.

 

She walked up behind him, remarking on the aroma.  “Oh, you’re not making man-eggs, are you?” she asked, wrinkling her nose, peering over his shoulder.

 

He kissed the nose. In fair French, he quoted:

 

…if your hand caress it,

And raise it for its sweet perfume,

Ere yet your velvet cheek shall press it,

'T will fade before a fairer bloom.

 

She pushed back, surprised. “You know Gautier?”

 

He ignored the question. “You didn’t have much in the fridge. I had to improvise. I found some fresh spinach, some spices—how do you live without…”

 

“What are you making?”

 

“Well, you didn’t have the makings for quiche, so I’m just doing an omelet. Let’s see, there were a couple of morels. I took one. You didn’t have shallots, or even an onion. I had to use chives. Dried at that.”

 

“Ooh, Maureen will kill me! Those morels were hers!”

 

“I…hello!” he greeted two other women wandering into the room.

 

“What was mine?” the flashy, bosomy blonde asked. She was all legs below a very short, shiny red night slip. She was combing her long, ashy locks which fell in cascades past her shoulders onto her breasts, which pressed against the thin silk.

 

Right next to her was what Kurt could only take to be another model, light chocolate with a short afro. A loose tan satin top stopped above her navel. Her left hand was resting on her hip which was hidden only by short, frilly silk boxers. She was wearing bright yellow flip flops.

 

“…if eyes were made for seeing, then Beauty is its own excuse for being”

 

Clare cocked her head, eyeing him uncertainly. The others shared her quizzical gaze.

 

“Emerson, isn’t it?” the svelte one in the afro asked, then to the others' raised eyebrows, “Well I did learn something in school!”

 

Kurt nodded. “I’m sorry, I didn’t make enough, I’m afraid.”

 

“Natasha, this is Kurt,” Clare said, suddenly proprietary.

 

The women stood by the kitchen table, looking at this specimen in a Tee and charcoal slacks, wearing one of their dainty aprons, with a towel stuffed in the sash.

 

“What did you do, bring home the chef from Chez Chic?” Natasha asked, sniffing the aroma.

 

“She was at Gaston’s last night,” Maureen corrected.

 

“Yeah, what about that? Really?”

 

Kurt turned back to the cooking. He pulled out three plates and placed them on the kitchen counter, dividing the omelet into them, handing one to each, then following them to the dining area.

 

“Uh, there’s a paper on the table—I found it on the floor.”

 

“Yes, that’s Clare’s,” Maureen answered, tossing the Wall Street Journal aside. Kurt shot a look at Clare.

 

The women fell silent, tasting the food. He could tell that they had some doubt about whether it was edible, until the first bite was warming their palates.

 

“A chef, and a poet!” enthused Natasha.

 

“Where did you find him?” Maureen asked, her eyes frankly appraising.

 

“Where did you learn to cook!?” Clare exclaimed.

 

She regarded him differently. Before he had seen passion. Now he saw—respect?

 

“Everyone has to eat. No sense doing it part way.”

 

He pulled up a chair, turning it backwards, then sat with his arms crossed over the back, watching the women eat, enjoying the view.

 

Natasha put a hand on his arm. “Kurt, will you marry me!?”

 

Clare’s nostrils flared. Kurt glanced at Natasha, then his eyes settled on Clare. With a flushed face, she was grimacing, trying to make a joke of it.

 

“Oh I’m so sorry Natasha,” he said, gently tugging his arm away. He stood behind Clare, putting his hands on her shoulders. “I’m afraid that it’s all true. I’ve declared my undying love, and promised her exclusively—my omelets.”

 

They all laughed, but he could feel the tension in Clare’s shoulders.

 

“Sorry—I could make some more.”

 

They demurred.

 

After the meal, he followed Clare back to her room.

 

I met a Lady in the Meads

Full beautiful, a faery's child,

Her hair was long, her foot was light

And her eyes were wild.

 

Her eyes flashed. Knowing it was probably a mistake, he plowed on.

 

Her pretty looks have been mine enemies;

And therefore from my face she turns my foes,

That they elsewhere might dart their injuries:

Yet do not so; but since I am near slain,

Kill me outright with looks, and rid my pain.

 

She started to say something angry, then stopped.

 

“Are you sure you’re a soldier?”

 

“Uh huh, at least that’s what my ID card says. Am I not allowed to enjoy poetry?”

 

She put her arms around his neck, her body pressing close.

 

“Do you know anything that doesn’t involve—wooing the beauties?”

 

“No, unless you count Kipling. It makes me sound very macho."

 

“You are also a gentleman. I was pretty drunk. You didn’t do anything about it.”

 

“Well, I did stay. You were not drunk at three a.m. when you woke me up."

 

“No, I wasn’t," she purred, "Mmm! Oui, you woke up too—pretty fast."

 

"It is my love that keeps mine eye awake: Mine own true love that doth my rest defeat!”

 

She looked askance, wading through the fractured French.

 

"Um, you said something, when we…about ecstasy.”

 

He thought a moment. “Oh yes, ‘This is the very ecstasy of love.’” He put his arms around her, joining at the small of her back. “I do desire we may be better strangers.”

 

It made her laugh. “Shakespeare! Well, chef, poet, soldier; what are we going to do?”

 

He peered into the emerald pools under the long dark eyelashes. His eyes strayed, looking at nothing. He would leave in a month, and never see her again. Looking again into her eyes, he tried to be cheerful, but knew he sounded strained.

 

“'Come live with me, and be my love.'' Marry me.”

 

She searched his expression, seeing—anxiety. She didn’t answer right away. He could feel hot tears wetting his T-shirt.

 

“We’ll have to get a ring,” she said, hoarse, wiping her eyes on his Tee.

 

<'For Beauty’s tears are lovelier than her smile'.> “It won’t be like what you're used to. You’ll have to do your own housework.”

“

Don’t be insulting. I’ve lived in a dorm. I’ve shared apartments. I know how to clean a commode.”

 

“Sorry. I guess I’m not used to talking to…”

 

“Never mind. You want to marry me?”

 

“To where Desire doth bear the sway, the heart must rule, the head obey.”

 

Kurt sat on a chair, watching her dress. Once he reached out to touch, but her look stopped him. She checked herself in the mirror, then glanced at him. Her eyes said ‘I’m ready to go.’

 

He thought she was devastating in heels, blue jeans and the tight-fitting French top.

 

“Where did you learn that poem? The Gautier.”

 

“I saw a book of French poems and picked it up.”

 

She gave him a sharp look.

 

“OK, I went looking for something.”

 

“Bought Keats, Emerson, and Shakespeare too.”

 

“Uh oui, but not yesterday.”

 

She peered into his eyes.  "We're being foolish."

 

"I know," he answered in French, "Are we going to be wise?"

 

She looked like she was going to ask another question, but instead grabbed her purse. "Non. Let's go spend your money."

 

She knew exactly where she wanted to get the rings. It was a short drive to Carmel. She led him to a shop on Ocean Avenue. He blanched when he saw the sets she had the owner pull out. She enjoyed his discomfort, but settled on a simple set which would still buy a cheap car.

 

Kurt slipped the engagement ring on her finger, receiving an enthusiastic kiss.

 

After admiring the ring with the small stone on her finger, Clare put the small velvet case with the wedding bands into her purse.

 

"Good, the diamond matches the ones on my ankle."  She lifted the left pant leg, giving him a better view of the anklet tinkling above her heels.

 

"Now what?" he asked, still admiring.

 

She knew a nice place a block away, where they had lunch. Leaving the store they head a voice call out. To Clare's questioning eyes, Kurt shrugged, then connected the voice to a face.

 

“Ah, someone I knew.” To the man he said, “Hi, Tom.”

 

“Kurt! Kurt Retten. It is you.”

 

“How have you been, Tom?”

 

“Fine-fine,” Tom's eyes were on Clare. He came to himself. “Uh, this is my wife, Debra. Debra, I told you about Kurt. He pulled me out—when...”

 

Kurt betrayed the slightest, wryest smile, but his eyes were not pleased.

 

“I looked for you. I checked with the Army Locator. They said there was no such person. It's been, what, almost...”

 

“It's been a while. I've been...on assignments. You?”

 

“Oh, I'm here, at Fort Ord.” Tom's eyes were crinkled, quizzical.

 

“This is Clare,” Kurt ventured.

 

“Enchanté,” she murmured, extending a hand. Debra immediately nodded at Clare's left ring finger.

 

“When...?”

 

“Just now...”

 

Tom grinned, surprised.

 

“Sorry,” Kurt said, “we're about to eat...”

 

“Ah no,” Tom replied as Debra took his arm, “we just ate. You enjoy.”

 

Watching the couple leave them, Tom asided, “Wow. That kid was always a surprise. You know he saved me, in Nam. I told you. He was always quiet.”

 

“What did he mean?”

 

“You don't get off the Army Locator if you're in. Unless...I remember, back in camp, that spook used to talk to him. I wonder...”

 

Over salad Clare asked, "All right, who was that?”

 

“He was in my unit. We were friends.”

 

“And then?”

 

“And then I went to school, and on assignments.”

 

She frowned at him.  “Now that we're to be married, who are you?"

 

His eyes narrowed, but the corners of his mouth turned up in a smile that she couldn't read.

 

"We need to go back to the apartment," she informed him after they ate, "I need to pack a bag. I'll be living in your austere monk's cell now."

 

 

 

A nurse brought him out to the curb in a wheelchair. Enrique could hardly believe his eyes. He helped his friend, whose head, hands, arm and chest were wrapped, into the front seat of the car. The man moaned with every move.

 

After they pulled away, “What happened to you, man?”

 

He was quiet. Enrique stole a sidelong glance; he had never seen him like that before.

 

He reeked of terror. “He knows my address, man!”

 

 

 

With Independence Day approaching, they discussed what to do. Clare noted, almost off-handedly, about the announcement that the Vietnams were uniting. Kurt didn't answer. His look was far off.

 

"Oh! You were there, weren't you?" She was abashed.

 

He smiled, but it was weak, barely there.  "For arms are of little avail abroad, unless there is good counsel at home."

 

She called Kurt late; her girlfriends had thrown a party for her. She was too tired and drunk to get to his apartment; she was staying at their place overnight. The next morning Clare rousted the sleeping sisters from their rooms, wakening them in the cold waters of the Pacific at the rocky beach.

 

Coming out of the bathroom, Clare frowned at Maureen knowing she was going to ask.

 

“Are you sure you're not making a mistake?”

 

Clare, drying her hair, flared.  “It's not a mistake. It's a risk!”

 

Maureen was doubtful. “You’ve known him two weeks.”  She saw Clare's anger rising. Still, she pressed.  “Look, I know you're mad at your mother...”

 

“Daddy too! That has nothing to do with it.”

 

“It'll make it worse, with them.”

 

“Let it!”

 

”It won’t be a month when you marry. What do you know about him?” Maureen hugged her. “His eyes—they're a hundred years old! The things he's seen. The secrets...”

 

Clare's gaze was intense, but not hostile. “If he was a youth, would I wear his ring?”

 

Natasha came out of the bathroom. “You two have used up all the hot water—again!”

 

“I offered to let you go first,” Clare countered.

 

“You were talking about…”

 

“Don’t you start on me.”

 

“I just thought I’d give you a break. Take him off your hands!”

 

Clare threw a towel at her.

 

When she got to his apartment the bed was stripped. That was strange—he had just changed the sheets the day before. By the time he got back from practice she had made up the bed, and forgotten about it.

 

The teniente left the hut where the wounded Carlos Fonseca was held. To the sergeant's questioning eyes, he grinned, patting his sidearm.

They quickly fell into a routine; days were filled with school, afternoons with study. Evenings she came over; two fancy convertibles parked side-by-side among used Chevys. Kurt would visit with the women, who talked about school, their plans, the arts; sometimes the women would talk about men, with sly glances toward him, sitting silent, stoic. They talked about their families, except Clare. The women came from privilege; Maureen from old, eastern money. From their comments, Kurt gathered that Clare’s father was something in high finance. Natasha’s father was in the Government; her mother’s face sometimes graced cosmetics ads. This prompted Kurt to ask the obvious question about the women doing modeling. They certainly had the looks and poise for it, he observed.

 

Maureen snorted. “I was asked. All they wanted was for me to take my clothes off.”

 

“You men are all alike! You only think about one thing!” Natasha scolded, suddenly angry.

 

Clare linked her arm with Kurt’s. “You are exactly right. He proves it to me—every night!” She laughed at Kurt’s blush, then kissed him. “Oh, don’t worry, I’m going to keep you!” she said, hugging him. She got up, heading to the kitchen to freshen their drinks.

 

“Well, I won’t ask about that again,” he managed weakly, “Wise men learn by other men’s mistakes; fools by their own.”

It was delicious skipping classes, joining hundreds of other students to protest. Amanda felt a thrill—of elation and fear. Somoza's government had authorized them to march—surely they would be allowed to wave the flag and shout their slogans!

 

As they entered the Plaza de la República she could just see the Palacio de la Cultura. There was a commotion ahead. Amanda couldn't see what was going on. She could just make out the officer astride a horse, waving his pistol. Then shots rang out, and the crowd panicked. She was knocked down; several feet trod over her. Then strong arms pulled her up. The man led her to the side of the avenue and then away from the tumult.

 

Presently soldiers arrived, shooting and hitting students with their rifle butts. An officer on horseback fired at her group, hitting a student next to her, splashing blood onto her blouse. Enraged, she picked up a large stone and threw it, hitting the officer, who toppled onto the street. Soldiers fired at them. Someone grabbed her again, leading her down a side alley at a dead run.

 

After several hectic and tense minutes they were away.

 

Stopping, gasping for breath, she leaned heavily against a wall.

 

A hand touched her gently.  "Chica, we must go on! Vamos!"

 

After a while they were in somebody's apartment. A woman took Amanda into a back room, where she was given an oversized blouse to replace her torn, bloody rag.  Hot salty tears burned Amanda's eyes. She sat on the chair for some while, abandoning herself to grief. Presently she wiped at her stained cheeks which were growing dark with anger.

 

"I will do something!" she whispered.

 

Coming out, pushing the long tails into her pants she saw her benefactor. He was a large, swarthy man, with a toothy smile.

 

"Buena dias, my brave señorita, I'm Emilio!"

 

Chapter 2. 1 August 1976—New Beginning

Marrying is easy, housekeeping is hard.

—Proverb

 

Roger Harris, the CI Detachment TSCM warrant, met Kurt at the airport, and took him directly to MI headquarters to meet the commander.

 

Colonel Gross was a career intelligence officer, a West Pointer. He was from Tennessee, stood barely five-six, with bushy dark hair, streaked with gray, that shook when he laughed. He sat with Kurt at a table across from his desk.

 

"Glad to have you here, Kurt. We've been needing an experienced man to run the CI detachment for some time. Roger is very good, but double duty has spread him too thin."

 

"Happy to be here sir."

 

The Colonel's expression became serious, softened by his kind eyes.

 

"You know, MILPERCEN didn't screw up your assignment. I asked. I understand you were involved in some pretty hairy, uh, events during your last assignment. They thought you needed an opportunity to, uh, avoid the stress."

 

Kurt flashed a smile, but it came out closer to a grimace. He didn't reply.

 

"Anyway, they disapproved my request to have you work in collection."

 

"Yes sir. I understand."

 

"There was some concern that you'd be, uh, disaffe-disappointed."

 

"They also serve who only stand and wait."

 

"Huh? Oh, Milton. Well, I do need you, in the CI det. Welcome aboard."

 

Leaving the Colonel's office, Kurt found Roger waiting to take him over to the office.

 

"After I introduce you to the boys, I'll arrange for a BOQ."

 

"I need to check with housing. Do you know what the wait is?"

 

"Eh? I thought you were single."

 

"Uh, no. You could say that I 'married in haste.' It remains to be seen if I will 'repent at leisure'."

Amanda was adamant.  "I'm going! I can fight!"

 

Emilio's face got red, darkening with anger. Then it softened.  "No, chiquita, I know you are brave, but you are not a fighter. I have something else in mind, that better fits your assets."

 

Amada bristled.  "Siento. I mean your qualifications. I want you to work with Fernando. We need information. You will help us there much more than carrying a gun and getting dirty in the bush."

A little over a week in country, Kurt got a call early in the afternoon which sent him right out of the office.

 

"I have to leave. See you in the morning."

 

"Emergency?" Roger asked.

 

"You might say that," Kurt answered, going out the door.

 

Arriving at the Hilton in Panama City, he found Clare alone in the bar, stirring a drink, chatting with the bartender. She was wearing a short white spaghetti strap dress, dark sunglasses propped atop her mahogany, perfectly coifed hair, a black sandal dangling below her anklet.

 

Seeing him, she jumped up and threw her arms around his neck, finding his lips with a passionate kiss. Letting go, her smile was wide. He joined her elation, but his expression soon darkened.

 

She picked up her drink and moved to one of the tables, where Kurt explained that until they got orders for her arrival, it was impossible to get her sponsored. Without sponsorship she would have no standing; there would be no benefits—and no housing.

 

She tapped her foot impatiently.  “I have my own money, you know.”  Seeing his expression, her anger welled.  “No, not Daddy’s money, my money."

 

He didn't answer, but looked glum.

 

"Well, I'm here, and I'm not going back. I have a tourist visa. Victor is arranging for residency. I might even want to live here. It's very pretty."

 

"We didn't talk about this. I-I was hoping that you'd…"

 

"Oh, I'll be happy to live with you!" she said, putting her hand on his, "That's why I'm here. I was lonely and wanted to be near you."

 

He shook his head, but a smile crept onto his face.  "All right. I'll see what I can do."

 

"Let's go up. You'll want to see where we're living until we get—what did you call it?—housing."

 

He barely kept up with her as she led the way to the elevator. Getting off on the top floor, she strode down the hallway, stopping at an ornate door. It opened into a large suite.

 

"I like it," she was saying, plopping onto the couch. She kicked off her sandals, stretching her naked legs onto the coffee table. "Maybe we'll just stay here."

 

She let him sweat a bit.

 

"OK, you get us someplace to stay. I think I'd rather be in the Canal Zone anyway. If you can't, I'll just get a small villa, maybe up in the hills." She waved her hand vaguely toward the window. His eyes followed the gesture; he saw the ocean.

 

She sat up. "We need to get you a key. And…" she was slipping back into her sandals, "I can't just be stuck here when you work." Grabbing her purse she went to the door. "Bien, allons-y! Vite!"

 

The man at the front desk was dubious about giving Kurt a key. Clare, growing angrier by the moment, cowed him into handing one over.

 

"Señor, how long will you be staying here?"

 

"As long as she does."

 

Clare interrupted, wanting them to switch to English.

 

"You will be paying, señor?"

 

Clare broke in, her eyes narrowing, "No, I will be paying!"

 

Imperiously, she turned her back on him, her expression instructing Kurt to follow. She muttered to herself in French all the way out the door. Kurt suggested that she wait until he got the car. Hooking an arm in his she put on a bright smile.

 

When they got to the car, she stopped. "Qu'est-ce que c'est que ca?!"

 

He was driving a small Toyota. 

 

"It's borrowed. My car won't be here for another couple of weeks."

 

"Well, this won't do! Take me to a dealer, right now!"

 

He tried to remonstrate, but her look was withering.

 

"All right. Which one?"

 

"You're kidding."

 

She was unhappy with the selection on the Mercedes lot. They had only one new roadster, and they wanted a king's ransom for it. Clare wouldn't pay it.

 

"Pero señorita, es el único que tenemos! "

 

"Speak English!"

 

Kurt started to translate. She stopped him.  "I guessed what he said. It's too much. What else do they sell here?"

 

Another man came up to them. Kurt guessed he was the manager or owner. The man eyed Clare. "We have some nice sedans that might be more in your range," he offered.

 

Her answer was a glare.

 

"Clare, it does rain a lot here. You'd get pretty sick of having to put the top up all the time."

 

She was still angry, tapping her foot, setting off the anklet.

 

"OK. Kurt, do they sell BMWs here? If I have to have a sedan, I don't want to pay a premium for it."

 

The manager was alarmed, "Oh, señorita, surely we can satisfy. Paco, show her the small sedan. Siento, we only have a white one right now."

 

Led out to the car she stomped around it. She made a face. "How much?"

 

The salesman named a number.

 

"Too much." She made a counter offer. "Cash."

 

He looked surprised. He had to check. They were very sorry.

 

"Kurt, let's go get a 2002."

 

The salesman stopped her. The owner arrived, harrumphing. Clare was writing a check on the hood of the car. Turning, she handed it to him.

 

"Call me when it clears. I'll expect the car to be immaculate, gassed up, and delivered to me at the Hilton."

 

"Pero, señorita…"

 

"Señora Retten," she corrected crossly.

 

"There is…paperwork."

 

"Bring it over to the hotel. Chéri, allez!"

 

 

The next morning Kurt got an appointment with the commander.

 

Colonel Gross usually laughed a lot. He wasn't laughing when he listened to Kurt telling him that his wife Clare had flown down.

 

"You know this could be very hard. As a warrant officer, I would have expected more…forethought."

 

"She came down on her own. I didn't know she was here until I got the call from the Hilton."

 

"Hilton? She going to run through your money pretty fast."

 

"She's very strong-willed. And she won't. She has her own money."

 

"Not that much."

 

"She just bought a Mercedes at the dealer downtown. Wrote a check for it." Kurt was surprised even as he said it. "Also, she's got a lawyer working out permission to stay in the country, even if we can't get into housing."

 

The Colonel was thumbing through a folder.  "I pulled your file. You did just get married."

 

"Yes sir. I met her when I was in Language school."

 

"Would you like, uh, me to talk to her?"

 

"What we need, I think is to just make sure that her being here won't derange anything."

 

The Colonel took a slip of paper and wrote on it. "Why don't you come over on Saturday afternoon, for some tea. We'll talk."

Amanda stepped off the plane in the humid, overcast afternoon. The airport was old— grass growing through the cracked concrete, the buildings needing paint. The few cars were old, but brightly painted. Most common were military vehicles.

 

She was met by a man and woman. If anything, her face was harder than his. When her few belongings in the old suitcase were found, he threw them in back of the truck. Their eyes told her that she belonged back there too. After a moment's hesitation, she followed her bag.

Clare knew that this meeting could make things easier, or much harder for Kurt, so she dressed down. She was going to wear a dress but he told her the Colonel was emphatic that it would be informal, sitting on their patio with ice tea. He was going to wear blue jeans.

 

They arrived in the Mercedes. In spite of himself, the Colonel came out to admire the new sedan, and opened the passenger door for Clare.

 

Wearing parchment capris, a loose flowered top and low heeled brown sandals, she greeted the Colonel with a hand and a winning smile. Her ankle bracelet tinkled when she got out of the car. When he got a full view of her face, he found himself holding her hand longer than he intended.

 

"Welcome, uh, Mrs. Retten."

 

"Clare, please, Colonel…uh Gross."

 

"It's Lawrence."

 

He showed them into the house where he introduced them to his wife, Margie.  Conversation was light. After a few minutes Margie asked Clare if she could help her in the kitchen,  to get the tea.  When the women left, the Colonel cast a sharp look at Kurt, and broke into a broad smile.

 

"I'm going to say it. Young Mr. Retten, your wife is, uh, very charming! You say you met her in Monterey? Is she a model?"

 

"Actually, she speculates in the stock market. Real estate too, I think."

 

The Colonel leaned back in his chair. "She's been doing that long?"

 

"She told me her father does it, and taught her. I really don't know much about her finances. We agreed that those are not for discussion. Well, I told her it was none of my business."

 

"It could be pretty dull for her here."

 

"She's already found La Bolsa and is negotiating with a local broker."

 

"Does she…have much money in the Market?"

 

"I'm guessing. A million, a million and a half. Something like that. Like I said, we don't talk about it."

 

"What do you…sorry, what do you talk about?"

 

"Literature, mostly. She's a French literature major. She gave up graduate school to follow me here."

 

In the kitchen Margie was fussing over the mint iced tea, speaking in a soft drawl.   "Clare, do you take much sugar?"

 

"Usually none. Just some lemon. Of course, not for mint tea."

 

Margie, who was thick at the waist, with graying hair and a nice face that was cute when she was young, frowned at her. "How can it be iced tea without the sugar? I'm from Georgia. If you ask for iced tea down there, sweet is what you get."

 

"I'm afraid I've never been in the South."

 

"Oh, from the East? New York? I'm sorry, you have the loveliest accent. Not New York."

 

"My husband says I have a French accent. I grew up speaking it at home."

 

"That's nice. You're French?"

 

"No. My mother and I would speak—she taught me."

 

"Then she's French?"

 

"No. But she went to the Sorbonne."

 

"Oh, did you go?"

 

"I graduated from Stanford. I hope to go there, some day, though."

 

"You know," Margie said, after a short pause, "You've put your husband into a spot. Lawrence will do what he can, but it could be difficult. You might not be able to stay."

 

Clare bridled, but controlled herself.

 

"In that case, I'll just have to rent something in the city."

 

"Do you think you can…afford that?"

 

Clare figuratively bit her lip.  "Oui, uh, Yes. I could buy something, but I don't want to be bothered with that."

 

Margie gave her a long look.  “You’re not the typical Army wife.”

 

"I would guess not. Here, let me carry that tray out for you."

 

They visited for a while longer, lingering over the tea and cookies.  When they got up to leave, the Colonel pulled Kurt over while the women preceded them out the door.

 

"It'll be OK, Kurt. We'll get you something. I think that housing is the least of your problems."

Impressum

Verlag: BookRix GmbH & Co. KG

Texte: Chris R. Beals
Bildmaterialien: Public Domain
Cover: Chris R. Beals
Lektorat: Chris R. Beals
Satz: Chris R. Beals
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 11.03.2018
ISBN: 978-3-7438-6390-3

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