Mila 18 - Leon Uris [84]
“Let’s try, Eileen, please let’s try. I know most of this has been my fault.”
“Don’t let that Italian pride of yours compound a mistake.”
“Why don’t we take a ride over to Jersey and look at some of that real estate? Then I’ll get a letter off to Oscar—”
“Chris ... Chris. I do love you, but if I take you away from that world of yours out there you’ll grow to hate me.”
Both of them tried hard to pull it together. Eileen never did buy that house in New Jersey and she was terribly cautious about having a child.
Restraint and all its murderous aspects came between them.
There were more trips—there always would be, but she never made another scene or shed another tear—and there were no more wild reunions.
For a year they drifted and grew more and more indifferent to each other.
And one day Christopher de Monti had to face that moment when a man’s pride grovels to its lowest depths. He found it out by accident, by returning home from a trip early and taking a phone call not meant for him. Eileen had begun sleeping with another man.
Chris never spoke to her about it. He waited until a weekend when she was visiting her parents, and he packed his things and left with only a brief note.
Dear Eileen,
I have learned about you and Daniels at your office. There is absolutely no use of discussing anything. For my part of the guilt, I am sorry, but it will be best for us both if I never see you again. If you will arrange the divorce as quickly and quietly as possible on some semi-civilized grounds, I would be obliged.
After a month of trying to drown his pride across every bar in England and Europe, Chris got himself steamed out and reported to Oscar Pecora in Geneva.
“That’s quite a little bar bill you’ve run up, Christopher. It’s a wonder you have a liver left,” Pecora said.
“Oh, for God’s sake, Oscar, save the sermon.”
“Tell me, Chris. Was the pain because you loved Eileen so much, or has your Italian nobility been offended?”
“I don’t know, Oscar.”
“If you still love Eileen you can have her back. She’s written to me a half dozen times. Of course you’ve got this stack of letters you’ve never opened. She’ll come to you on any condition—on her hands and knees. Now, if your love is so great, it must find forgiveness for her.”
“I don’t know if I can, Oscar. Besides, the same thing will happen again. She’s a fine woman, Oscar. She really tried. I’ve got no right to butcher her life up—”
“And deep in your heart you really don’t want her back. Except for the blow to your vanity, you are happy to be free.”
For a moment Chris looked offended.
“That’s hitting below the belt, Oscar.”
“Truth does not offend you, Christopher.”
“I guess you’re right.”
“Well, there’s no use of both Eileen and me losing you. I saw it coming for a long time. One of us had to be the big loser, and I’m glad it’s not me.”
“Let me get back to work, Oscar, right away.”
“Fine. How does Ethiopia sound? The legions of Rome are on the march. That Italian passport of yours will come in handy.”
“You know how I feel about the Fascists. I can’t stomach covering their side of a war against defenseless little black men with spears.”
“You are a journalist, Christopher. Leave your personal politics out of it. We can get you attached to the Italian command. Get the best you can out of the latitude they give you to operate.”
Chris walked slowly to the big wall map behind Oscar Pecora’s desk. “Ethiopia? Why not? That’s about as far away as I can get from the goddamned mess I’ve made.”
Chapter Ten
MUSSOLINI’S CAMPAIGN IN ETHIOPIA was a pleasant little war. Sort of reminded one of when the colonizers of the last century directed their armies from campaign chairs in the shade of banana trees with a tall, cool gin and tonic in their hands as they brought “civilization” to the Zulus.
It was, indeed, good practical experience for the aspiring new legions of Rome. The little clay townships made excellent targets for the artillery gunners. The infantry could zigzag about the tall brush, boning up on their efficiency