The Angry Hills - Leon Uris [6]
The next intersection brought an onrush of British troops from the camp at Kokinia. Then Morrison’s eye caught a sign he could read in any language.
The saloon was half-empty and the stock at rock bottom. A choice of two types of krasi. He stood at the far end of the bar, and after the first sip was thankful his long tenure as an unpublished writer hadn’t given him the opportunity to cultivate a taste for fine liquors. The tall blond man in the New Zealand uniform entered and sat near the door.
A half bottle later, much of the tension had eased inside Mike. As the bar filled with soldiers he made an honorable retreat to a table with his bottle. He observed and he drank.
The soldiers of the British Expeditionary Force were on the edge of collapsing morale. Morrison heard bitter complaints about the bombings of the camps and the lack of combat units in the force. The colonials, in soldiers’ jargon, had a word or two to say about the support they were receiving.
About three-quarters of the way through the bottle of krasi, the noise in the place seemed to fade. He banished his rambling thoughts about his children, whom he missed terribly, and quickly diverted his mind to guessing what was in the envelope and what kind of shady deal Mr. Stergiou was mixed up in. He overcame the temptation to open the envelope for a quick peek and instead wove a half dozen different plots about its contents. Morrison’s one attempt at mystery writing ended. He gave up.
“Mind if I sit down?”
Mike looked up into the face of the tall blond man in New Zealand uniform. He glanced toward the bar; it was three deep. He nodded to the man.
“Bit crowded there... Mosley’s the name, Jack Mosley—First New Zealand Rifles.” The lance corporal began to open his bottle.
“Might as well finish this one first,” Mike said, pouring.
Mosley pulled out a pipe. Pipe smokers have a common bond. “Here, try some good stuff,” Mike said, flipping his pouch over the table. Mosley loaded, lit, drew and approved.
“You’re an American, aren’t you?”
Mike balked. The answer often led to an argument. “Yes, I’m an American.”
“Goodo. I like Americans. What the devil are you doing in Greece these days?”
Mike’s tongue loosened as they started on Mosley’s bottle of krasi. As it emptied and another bottle came he gave the entire story, complete with pictures of Jay and Lynn. Mosley returned the compliment, showing pictures of three of his own. Mike found his drinking partner friendly and intelligent and, as the wine struck home, his talk turned to an outpouring.
The saloon was smoky now with a blend of powerful Turkish and flat-smelling British tobaccos. Singers were deep in harmony, forgetting, for the moment, their troubles. Streetwalkers wandered in and couples left.
“And what line of business are you in, Morrison?”
It was a question he dreaded. When a person meets a writer there is an expectant glow, as though he had run into Hemingway or Faulkner. It always embarrasses the non-professional when he has never heard of the writer.
“Morrison—of course, forgive me,” Mosley said. “I enjoyed Home Is the Hunter very much—splendid book.”
“Really! Well, have another glass of wine, my friend.”
“Tell me, Morrison. Are you really as bitter about life as your book indicates?”
Mike was used to it. With the purchase of a book the buyer automatically gets a critic’s license. Not that he minded much. It was the ones who borrowed a book and became critics who annoyed him. However, he was surprised to find Mosley’s comments extremely sharp as well as objective. The wine was good and the noise was loud and he bought another bottle.
Mike covered a great deal of ground, from literature to wars to San Francisco to Greece to music. In fact, there was very little he didn’t cover. The subjects began to overtake one another, then run into one another. He more than made up for the four days of sulking quiet in Greece. Mike was entirely too talky and heady to realize or care that his companion was barely