Libra - Don Delillo [50]
“Bayonet,” the prisoner said.
“A vigorous bayonet assault, executed by Marines eager to drive home cold steel, can do what, what, what.”
Silence from the man on the deck. He tightened his fetal knot a second before the guard stepped back half a stride and swung the club in a wide arc, striking the knee this time. Oswald was eager to be called.
The guard looked at Oswald, who said at once, “A vigorous bayonet assault, executed by Marines eager to drive home cold steel, can strike terror in the ranks of the enemy.”
The guard swung the club backwards once more, striking Nineteen on the arm. Oswald felt a slight satisfaction. The guard made a point of gazing into the distance as he struck his blows.
Oswald sensed the guard’s interest shift his way. He was ready for the question.
“Principle number one.”
“Get the blade into the enemy.”
“Principle number two.”
“Be ruthless, vicious and fast in your attack.”
The guard took half a step, switched the billy to his left hand and swung it hard, striking Oswald’s collarbone. He was genuinely surprised. He thought they’d reached an understanding. The blow knocked him back three steps and forced him to one knee. He’d thought he was through getting hit for the day.
“There are no right answers,” the guard advised, looking into the distance.
Oswald got to his feet, approached the white line, stood staring at the urinal. He requested permission to cross.
“To execute the slash, do what.”
“One, assume the guard position.”
“Then what.”
“Two, step forward fifteen inches with the left foot, keeping the right foot in place.”
The guard swung the club, hitting him in the arm. He was sweaty with the need to piss, his upper body moist and chill.
“There are no right answers in this head. It is the stupidest arrogance to give an answer that you think is right.”
The guard jabbed him in the ribs with the butt end of the stick. The other man, Nineteen, was still crumpled on the deck.
The guard swung the club, smashing Oswald on the upper back. The idea seemed to be why bother with questions. Oswald made a decision to let the piss come flowing out. It was an anger and a compensation. He felt it flow down his leg, knowing deep relief, deliverance, good health everywhere, long life to all.
The guard swung the club, hitting the side of Oswald’s neck.
He put his hands over the back of his head, covering up. The last blow put the guard strangely on edge. He stood looking into the distance but was different from before, mouth hanging open, a dead spot in his eye, and Oswald knew they were all one word away from a private carnage of the type you hear about from time to time, nameless and undetailed.
He watched the puddle take shape on the floor, his arms crossed at the back of his head. He needed a moment to think.
He sighed deeply, stepping up to the white line. He looked straight ahead and lowered his hands slowly to his sides. It was his sense of things that if he moved slowly and openly and did not show terror, the guard would stand off. The guard’s mental condition had to be taken into account. They were all here to see to it that the guard came through. Oswald believed that the man crumpled on the deck knew this as well as he did. He sensed the man’s awareness of the moment. They had to let the moment cohere, build itself back to something they all recognized as a rainy Wednesday in Japan.
He stood at the white line and waited.
Dupard whispered in the dark.
“I definitely get the idea they want to send me home in a box. The first minute I put on the green service coat, I look like I’m dead. It’s a coffin suit for a fool. I seen it on the spot.”
“I liked the uniform,” Ozzie told him. “It was great how it looked. I was surprised how great I felt. I kept it cleaned and moth-proofed. I kept heavy objects out of the pockets. I looked in the mirror and said it’s me.”
“Nice joke. They told my mother. Get him in the service, Mrs. Dupard. The streets of America getting crazy by the