The Dark Arena - Mario Puzo [33]
Just before the war's end he had been in Paris and found himself caught in an immense throng. Trying to escape from it had been like a nightinare, and against his will he had been carried to the center, the focal point There, inching slowly through the crowd which filled the streets, the sidewalks, the caf6s, were a string of open trucks filled with Frenchmen; freed prisoners of war, slave laborers, men given up for dead. Hie cheering and shouting from the crowd drowned the jubilant cries of the men in the trucks. But they jumped up and down and leaned out over the sides of their trucks to be kissed, to accept the white flowers offered and thrown to than. Suddenly one of the men had flung himself from the truck, slithered off the heads of people he landed on, and fell to the ground. A woman fought her way to the man and caught him to her in a fierce, possessive embrace. From the truck someone flung a crutch and shouted obscene congratulations that at any other time would make a woman blush. But she had laughed with the rest of the crowd.
The pain, the shock, the guilt Mosca had felt then he felt now.
When Leo stopped the jeep in front of the RathskeHar, Mosca got ont. “I don't feel like eating,” he said “I'll see you at the house later.”
Leo, busy putting the padlock on the jeep's security chain, lifted his head in surprise. “What's wrong?” he asked.
“Just a headache, I'll walk it oft.”
He felt cold and lit a cigar; the heavy tobacco smoke warmed his face. He took the small, quiet side streets, impassable to vehicles because of the rubble which had overflowed the ruins and sidewalks, picking his way over the loose stones and bricks, careful in the gathering dusk not to fall.
When he entered his room he felt really ill, his face hot and feverish. Without turning on the light he undressed and flung his clothes over on the couch and went to bed. Under the covers he was still cold and could smell the stale cigar butt he had left lying on the table edge. He huddled and curved his body together for warmth but the chill shook him continuously. His mouth was dry, and the pounding in his head became a slow monotonous beat, barely painful.
He heard a key turn in the door, and Hella moving into the room. The light flashed on. She came to the bed and sat on it.
“Aren't you well?” she asked with concern. It gave her a queer shock to see him so.
“Just a chill,” Mosca said. “Get me some aspirin and throw that cigar out.”
She went to the bathroom for a glass of water and when she gave it to him she brushed her hand over his head and murmured, “It's funny to see you ill. Shall I sleep on the couch?”
“No,” Mosca said. “I'm cold as hell. Come in here witB me.”
She put out the light and came to the bed to undress. Dimly in the blackness of the room he could see her hanging her clothes over the back of a chair. He felt his body burning with fever and desire, and when she came into bed he pressed against her. Her breasts and thighs and mouth were cool, her cheeks cold, and he held her as tightly as he could.
When he rested back against the pillow he could feel the sweat between Ms thighs and rolling down his back. The headache was gone but his very bones seemed to hurt. He reached over her body to the night table for water.
Hella ran her hand over his burning face. “Darling, I hope that didn't make you worse.”
“No, I feel better,” Mosca said.
“Do you want me to sleep on the couch now?”
“No, stay here.”
He reached over for a cigarette but after a few puffs crushed it against the wall and watched the red shower of sparks fall on the blanket.
“Try to sleep,” she said.
“I can't sleep. Anything special happen today?”
“No, I was just having supper with Frau Meyer. Yergen saw you come into the building and came up to tell me. He said you didn't look well, and he thought I might want to come right down. He's a very kind man.”
“I saw something funny today,” Mosca said and told her about the woman.
In the blackness