A Soldier's Tale by M. K. Joseph Page A

close to me, I couldn’t stop. I didn’t mean to harm you.
    She remained with her back to him, stirring angrily at the black pot, saying nothing.
    I said I’m sorry, he said, like I told you, I don’t take a girl if she don’t want it.
    How can I choose? she said. Do not worry. I am disposable as you wish. And I will cook your supper.
    Be a good girl, he said patting her bottom under the thin green dress.
    She wriggled away from him, still angry but willing to be pleased.
    He went through the little passage into the bedroom, leaving both doors open. His pack stood neat and square against the wall, and he unbuckled it and took out the bottle of Calvados. He shook it and held it up to the light; still half full.
    Glancing down, he took in her dressing-table set in front of the window, with its litter of woman’s gear—pots and tubes and bottles, dabs of cotton wool, some stained with rouge or mascara, a good pair of silver-backed brushes—he knew the quality—with strands of long red-gold hair caught among the bristles. There was a small stand-mirror and, caught in the frame, a photograph.
    He slipped it out and looked at it. It was just a snapshot, but taken with some skill, and it showed the head and shoulders of a middle-aged man. The setting seemed to be a garden—at least, there was a blurred shape of trees in the background. He thoughtthat the man must be quite old because there was grey in the hair and in the thick drooping moustache, but even more because of the suggestion of heaviness in the jowls and in what could be seen of the body. There was character in it, arrogance in the tilt of the thrown-back head and the folded droop of the eyelids—or was it just the glare of the afternoon sun?
    Back in the kitchen, he found her sitting at the table, arms folded under her breasts, staring down listlessly at nothing. From the sideboard he took two large wine glasses and poured a generous tot of Calvados into each one.
    Here, he said, try this.
    To his astonishment, she took the glass and immediately raised it to her mouth and knocked the drink straight back in a curiously man-like gesture. She didn’t even cough, and went back to staring at the table.
    Here, he said, you’ll do yourself an injury that way, my girl.
    He sat down beside her at the table. Reaching out his right hand he gently touched her under the chin and forced her to look up. Her clear eyes were reddened and watery, and he grinned at her.
    Don’t you do that too often, he said, or thosebeautiful eyes of yours will stay permanently bloodshot. Look at you, you’re a mess.
    Pouring her a much smaller drink, he pushed it across and lit a cigarette for her.
    Now drink that slow, he said, and I’ll join you.
    He sipped the dark golden liquid, feeling the fire of it travel down his throat.
    Otherwise, he went on, you might wind up like an old bloke my grandad told me about, what lived on smuggled brandy—that was far back in the days of smuggling from France—from here. Regular pickled in it, he was. Well, one night he went to blow out the candle as he was off to bed, and true as I’m here, he caught fire and blew up. Straight, he wrecked a whole row of cottages. Local people talk about it to this day.
    She gave a sniff of unwilling laughter, sipped her drink, drew on her cigarette and stared again at the table. He slid the snapshot across to her.
    Who’s this? he said.
    My father.
    I thought so. Got your nose. Dead?
    Yes.
    Germans?
    No, she said, but after a long hesitation, as if she wasn’t sure.
    What’s his name?
    Alcibiade.
    What?
    Alcibiade. She anglicized it for him, Alcibiades.
    Odd name, sounds Greek.
    He was a Greek and a sort of hero. My father used to tell me about him, he was proud of the name, my father. Alcibiade lived in Athens, and he was very rich and a crook and when he was young he was—you say, ‘queer’?—and had many lovers.
    She drained