The Dark Arena - Mario Puzo [4]
Mosca was embarrassed. He kissed Gloria gently. “Three years is a long time,” he said. And he thought, On D day I was in an English town getting drunk. I was giving a little blonde what she claimed was her first drink of whisky and her first lay. I was celebrating D day but even more celebrating that I wasn't in it He had a strong desire to tell Gloria the exact truth, that he hadn't thought of them that day, or of anything that they had thought of, but all he said was, “I don't like the picture—And besides when I came in you said I hadn't changed a bit.”
“Isn't it funny,” Gloria said, “when you came in the door you looked exactly like your picture. But when I kept looking at you it seemed as if your whole face had changed.”
His mother called from the kitchen, “It's ready,” and they went into the dining-room.
All his favorite foods were on the table, the rare roast beef with the small roasted potatoes, a green salad, and a slab of yellow cheese. The tablecloth was snowy white, and when he was finished he noticed the napkin untouched beside his plate. It had been good but not as good as he had dreamed it would be.
“Ah.” Alf said, “a big difference from GI chow, hey, Walter?”
“Yeah,” Mosca said. He took from his shirt pocket a short fat, dark cigar and was about to light it when he noticed they were all looking at him with amusement, Alf. Gloria, and his mother.
He grinned and said, “I'm a big boy now,” and lit the cigar, exaggerating his pleasure. They all four of than burst out laughing. It seemed as if the last awkwardness, the strangeness of his coming home so different in face and manner, had been swept away. Their surprise, and then amusement at their surprise when he had taken out the cigar had broken down the barrier between them. They went into the living-room, the two women with their arms around Mosca's waist, Alf carrying the tray with the whisky and ginger ale.
The women sat close to Mosca on the sofa, and Alf handed them all drinks and then sat down opposite them in one of the soft armchairs. The floor lamp sent a gentle yellow glow over the room and Alf said in the benign and half-joking tone he had used all evening, “The story of Walter Mosca will now be told.”
Mosca drank. “First, the presents,” he said. He went to his blue gym bag still lying by the door, took out three small boxes wrapped in brown paper, and handed one to each of them. While they were opening the packages he took another drink.
“Christ,” Alf said, “what the hell are these?” He held up four enormous silver cylinders.
Mosca laughed. “Four of the best cigars in the world. Specially made for Hermann Goering.”
Gloria opened her package and then gasped. In a black velvet box was a ring. Small diamonds were set around a square, dark-green emerald. She got up and flung her arms around Mosca and then turned to show the ring to his mother.
But his mother was fascinated by roll after roll of tightly packed wine-red silk falling to the floor in large folds. His mother held it up.
It was an enormous, square flag, and in the middle, superimposed on a white, circular background, rested the spider-black swastika. They were all silent. In the quiet of this room they had seen for the first time the symbol of the enemy.
“Hell,” Mosca said, breaking the silence, “it was just a gag. You were supposed to see this.” He picked up the small box lying on the floor. His mother opened it, and seeing the blue-white diamonds she raised her eyes and thanked him. She folded the huge flag into a tight little square, then rose and picked up Mosca's blue gym bag, saying, “I'll unpack this.”
“TTiey are lovely presents,” Gloria said; “where did you get them?”
Mosca grinned and said, “Loot,” emphasizing the word comically so that they would laugh.
His mother came back into the room with a large bundle of photos in her hand.
“These