The Dark Arena - Mario Puzo [14]
She glanced at the bed and was startled to see that the American's eyes were open and he was studying her quietly. She stood up, felt a ridiculous shyness, and stretched out her hand to say Good-bye. He laughed, reached out, and pulled her down to the bed. He said mockingly, in English, “We're too good friends for that.”
She didn't understand but she knew he was making fun of her and she was angry. She said, in German, “I have to leave.” But he didn't let her hand go.
“Cigarette,” he said. She lit one for him. He sat up in bed to smoke, the covers falling away from his body, and she saw die white jagged scar running from his groin to the nipple of his breast. She asked in German, “The war?”
He laughed, pointed to her and said, “You.” It seemed to Hella for a moment that he was accusing her personally, and she turned her head so that she could not see.
He tried his bad German. “Are you hungry?” he asked. She nodded. He jumped out of bed, naked. With a modesty that seemed to Mosca very funny, she averted her eyes while he dressed.
Ready to leave, he kissed her gently and then said in German, “Go back to bed.” She made no sign that she understood but he knew that she had and for some reason would not do so. He shrugged and left, running down the stairs; and out to the motor pool. He drove to the mess hall, picked up a canteen of coffee and some fried egg sandwiches. Back in the room he found her sitting by the window, still dressed. He gave her the food, and they both drank from the canteen. She held out one of the sandwiches to him, but he shook his head. He noticed with amusement that after a hesitant gesture she did not offer it a second time. “You'll come tonight?” he asked in German. She shook her head. They looked at each other, he with no trace of emotion on his face. SJie saw that he would not ask again, that he was ready to erase her from his mind and memory, make the night they had spent together completely nothing. And because her vanity was aroused and he had been a considerate lover, she said, “Tomorrow,” and smiled. She took one last drink of coffee, leaned over to kiss him, and left.
She had told him all this in the time after. Had it been three months, four months? A long time of contentment, ease, physical pleasure, and comfort. And one day, coming into the room, he had found her in the classical, wifely pose, mending a great, twisted bundle of socks.
“Ah,” he said in German, “the good Hausfrau.”
Hella smiled shyly and looked at him as if she were trying to penetrate into his mind, trying to see what impression the scene had made. That had been the beginning of the campaign to make him not want to leave her, to stay in the land of the enemy with heir, also the enemy, and yet though he understood, it was not offensive to him.
And then later, the tried and tested frontal assault, the lethal weapon of pregnancy, but he had felt no contempt, no pity; just annoyance.
“Get rid of it,” he said. “Well go see a good doctor.”
Hella shook her head. “No,” she said, “I want to have it.”
Mosca shrugged. “Fm going home, nothing can stop me.”
“All right,” she said. She made no entreaties. She gave herself to him completely in every thing and in every way until one day, though he knew he lied he couldn't help saying, “I'll come back.” She watched him intently, knew that he lied and he saw that she knew. And that had been the mistake, starting it. Because in the time that followed he kept repeating the lie, sometimes with drunken fervor, so that they had finally both come to believe in it, she with an inborn, stubborn faith, a stubbornness she had in many things.
The final day he came back to his room and found she had already packed his duffel bag. It stood upright near the window, like a stuffed green dummy. It was after lunch, and the old lemon-colored sunlight of October filled the room. The truck for the embarkation area would leave after supper.
He dreaded the time he would have to spend with her and said, “Let's go for a walk.” She shook her head.
She motioned him to