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Authors: Tim O’Brien
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have my sympathy. But, look … where exactly are you headed? You
bic
destination? A place you’re aiming for?”
The girl shrugged. “We go home.”
“I thought you were refugees. Isn’t—?”
“We are refugees to go home,” she said, smiling for the first time. “It is a long road to become a refugee.”
The lieutenant scratched his nose. “Yeah, okay. But what I’m asking is this: I’m asking where you and your aunties are headed. What’s the destination?”
“West,” she said.
“Yes, but
where
?”
She smiled. “The Far West.”
The old man nodded at this, pausing, licking his lips. “I see. But—” He kept scratching his nose. “But
how
far? That’s the question. How far into the Far West?”
“Oh,” the girl said, “only as far as refugees go.”
“Ah.”
“To go farther would be stupid.”
“Of course.”
She smiled again. “So now you will lead us, yes? You have shot Nguyen, so now you will lead us to the Far West?”
The lieutenant leaned back wearily. He shook his head, muttered something, then got up and moved into the weeds beyond the fire.
Later they ate dried fish and rice. It was a warm, sweet night. Crickets, a breeze, the velvet sky. For a time the two old aunties moaned for their lost Nguyen, sobbing, rocking miserably on their haunches. Then they slept. A bright half-moon rose over the plain.
Paul Berlin went to the fire. Stoking it, adding a log, he pretended not to watch the girl. She was young. It was hard to tell—fifteen, maybe. Or twelve or twenty. Her eyes curved up like wings. He watched as she spread out her blanket, removed her sandals, brushed her hair, stretched, yawned, lay back. He liked this. He liked it when she smiled at him, nodding slightly, smoothing her robes about her legs.
A possibility. A thing that might have happened on the road to Paris. He looked into the fire for a long time.
In the morning, after burying the dead buffalo, and after waiting while the two old women laid down flowers, they prepared tomove out. Eddie and Stink climbed aboard the cart to tie down the rucksacks and sleeping gear. Oscar harnessed up the surviving animal. The lieutenant studied his maps. When they were ready, Paul Berlin climbed up and took a seat next to the pretty young girl. He grinned. Oscar shook the reins, hollered gid’yap, and soon they were riding westward along the rolling plains to Paris.
Seven
Riding the Road to Paris
A nd there was a long, gleaming time during which the riding was everything, the riding and the road and the grassy plains. The days were sunny. The nights were deep and still. They rode for ten hours a day, stopping only to water the old buffalo. They saw no villages. Curving with the flow of the land, the road was hard and dusty and deserted. The trees were bare. It was parched country, for the rains had not yet come north, and the streams ran nearly empty. In the evenings a cooling breeze would sometimes move in from the mountains. They would rest then, waiting for dark, enjoying the feel of having traveled many miles without once using their legs. Sleep came easy. Paul Berlin rode along quietly during the days. The cart’s gentle rocking motions pushed him against the pretty girl named Sarkin Aung Wan. He liked it when they touched. Accidentally sometimes, and sometimes not quite by accident. He liked her smell, her smile, the way she seemed to be holding things back. She was pretty. That was partof it. In Quang Ngai, where poverty abused beauty, women aged like dogs. So, yes, it was curious to watch this girl, to imagine how it might have happened.
“And you,” said Sarkin Aung Wan near the end of the second day. “You are soldiers, yes?”
“Yes,” he said.
Frowning, the girl looked out over the distant blue hills. “It is a pity,” she said. “I am sad to learn that the fighting has spread so far.”
He shrugged, pretending not to look at her.
“Has it?”
“What?”
“The war. Has it followed us this
bic
destination? A place you’re aiming for?”
The girl shrugged. “We go home.”
“I thought you were refugees. Isn’t—?”
“We are refugees to go home,” she said, smiling for the first time. “It is a long road to become a refugee.”
The lieutenant scratched his nose. “Yeah, okay. But what I’m asking is this: I’m asking where you and your aunties are headed. What’s the destination?”
“West,” she said.
“Yes, but
where
?”
She smiled. “The Far West.”
The old man nodded at this, pausing, licking his lips. “I see. But—” He kept scratching his nose. “But
how
far? That’s the question. How far into the Far West?”
“Oh,” the girl said, “only as far as refugees go.”
“Ah.”
“To go farther would be stupid.”
“Of course.”
She smiled again. “So now you will lead us, yes? You have shot Nguyen, so now you will lead us to the Far West?”
The lieutenant leaned back wearily. He shook his head, muttered something, then got up and moved into the weeds beyond the fire.
Later they ate dried fish and rice. It was a warm, sweet night. Crickets, a breeze, the velvet sky. For a time the two old aunties moaned for their lost Nguyen, sobbing, rocking miserably on their haunches. Then they slept. A bright half-moon rose over the plain.
Paul Berlin went to the fire. Stoking it, adding a log, he pretended not to watch the girl. She was young. It was hard to tell—fifteen, maybe. Or twelve or twenty. Her eyes curved up like wings. He watched as she spread out her blanket, removed her sandals, brushed her hair, stretched, yawned, lay back. He liked this. He liked it when she smiled at him, nodding slightly, smoothing her robes about her legs.
A possibility. A thing that might have happened on the road to Paris. He looked into the fire for a long time.
In the morning, after burying the dead buffalo, and after waiting while the two old women laid down flowers, they prepared tomove out. Eddie and Stink climbed aboard the cart to tie down the rucksacks and sleeping gear. Oscar harnessed up the surviving animal. The lieutenant studied his maps. When they were ready, Paul Berlin climbed up and took a seat next to the pretty young girl. He grinned. Oscar shook the reins, hollered gid’yap, and soon they were riding westward along the rolling plains to Paris.
Seven
Riding the Road to Paris
A nd there was a long, gleaming time during which the riding was everything, the riding and the road and the grassy plains. The days were sunny. The nights were deep and still. They rode for ten hours a day, stopping only to water the old buffalo. They saw no villages. Curving with the flow of the land, the road was hard and dusty and deserted. The trees were bare. It was parched country, for the rains had not yet come north, and the streams ran nearly empty. In the evenings a cooling breeze would sometimes move in from the mountains. They would rest then, waiting for dark, enjoying the feel of having traveled many miles without once using their legs. Sleep came easy. Paul Berlin rode along quietly during the days. The cart’s gentle rocking motions pushed him against the pretty girl named Sarkin Aung Wan. He liked it when they touched. Accidentally sometimes, and sometimes not quite by accident. He liked her smell, her smile, the way she seemed to be holding things back. She was pretty. That was partof it. In Quang Ngai, where poverty abused beauty, women aged like dogs. So, yes, it was curious to watch this girl, to imagine how it might have happened.
“And you,” said Sarkin Aung Wan near the end of the second day. “You are soldiers, yes?”
“Yes,” he said.
Frowning, the girl looked out over the distant blue hills. “It is a pity,” she said. “I am sad to learn that the fighting has spread so far.”
He shrugged, pretending not to look at her.
“Has it?”
“What?”
“The war. Has it followed us this
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