Read Online Going After Cacciato by Tim O’Brien - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tim O’Brien
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far?”
Paul Berlin answered truthfully that he wasn’t sure. Opinions varied. According to Doc Peret, no fool, the war was over; if you listened to the lieutenant, the war was still a war. It was hard to be sure.
“Well,” the girl sighed. “We must go on then. We must keep going until you are sure.”
At night, after the fire died, the girl’s two aunts would wail for their lost Nguyen. Rocking, their leathery old faces pointed to the sky, they would start with low moans like an animal’s breathing. The moaning would grow. An hour, perhaps two hours, and the moans would become sobs, and the sobs would go mournful and high, and in the deepest part of the night the sobbing would become wailing. They could not be consoled. Dark and tiny and wrinkled, swaying on their haunches, the old women would howl the whole night long. And in the morning, without speaking, they would climb aboard the overloaded oxcart and take their positions at the rear, facing backward, squatting silently with their eyes always east.
“Paris?” said Sarkin Aung Wan. “You are going to Paris!”
Only a possibility, he said. Only one possibility out of a thousand, just a notion. Anything could happen.
“But Paris!”
The girl’s eyes were bright. She was riding on a pile of blankets, painting her toenails with a tiny brush.
“Paris! Churches and museums! Notre-Dame! Oh, I should dearly like to be a refugee in Paris.”
She dipped the brush into the bottle of polish and began painting the nails on her left foot. The paint sparkled in the sun.
“You will take me along, yes? As a refugee? Paris! Oh, I shall love to see Paris—Pont Neuf and the Seine, all the windows full of pretty things. We shall see it together!”
Careful to choose his words, Paul Berlin tried to explain that it wasn’t what it seemed. He told how Cacciato had walked away in the rain, a dumb kid with maps and candy and an AWOL bag. How they’d taken off after him: a dangerous mission, nothing easy. How already they’d lost one member of the search party, Harold Murphy, and how they had marched many weeks through jungle and rain. A thousand hardships lay ahead.
“But Paris!”
“It’s only a possibility.”
She looked at him, holding the brush to her nose and sniffing it. A dab of red paint gleamed on her cheek. “I am sure of it,” she said. “Together we shall see Paris. Stroll through the gardens, visit all the famous monuments. Perhaps we shall fall in love there. Is that possible?”
The oxcart swayed and pressed them together.
“Paris,” she whispered. Her eyes shifted to the horizon. “Yes, I should dearly love to see Paris.”
The lieutenant shook his head.
“No,” he said.
“But, sir, she speaks French. Terrific French.”
“And?”
“And, well, she could sort of help out. Guide us, show us the ropes.”
Again the old man wagged his head. He was stretched out on a rug near the front of the cart. His nose was peeling. “No way. I’ll say it again: We’re still soldiers and this here is still a war.”
“But she’s smart. She is. She could help out with—”
“Negative.” The lieutenant looked away. “Say again, this is no friggin’ party. No party, no civilians. Next ville, we drop them off and that’s the end of it.”
“Just dump them?”
“War’s a nasty thing.”
“Not even—?”
“No.” The old man sighed. “No.”
True, it was no place for women. True, it would be a dangerous journey, full of bad times and bad places, and, true, they could not be burdened by weakness or frailty. All true. But Paul Berlin could not stop toying with the idea: a mix of new possibilities. A whole new range of options. He wanted Sarkin Aung Wan to join the expedition. He wanted it badly, and he wanted it even more when, by the light of a midnight campfire, she showed him her many strengths. “Do you see?” she whispered. “Do you see that I am strong?” And she was. Fragile, delicate like a bird,
Paul Berlin answered truthfully that he wasn’t sure. Opinions varied. According to Doc Peret, no fool, the war was over; if you listened to the lieutenant, the war was still a war. It was hard to be sure.
“Well,” the girl sighed. “We must go on then. We must keep going until you are sure.”
At night, after the fire died, the girl’s two aunts would wail for their lost Nguyen. Rocking, their leathery old faces pointed to the sky, they would start with low moans like an animal’s breathing. The moaning would grow. An hour, perhaps two hours, and the moans would become sobs, and the sobs would go mournful and high, and in the deepest part of the night the sobbing would become wailing. They could not be consoled. Dark and tiny and wrinkled, swaying on their haunches, the old women would howl the whole night long. And in the morning, without speaking, they would climb aboard the overloaded oxcart and take their positions at the rear, facing backward, squatting silently with their eyes always east.
“Paris?” said Sarkin Aung Wan. “You are going to Paris!”
Only a possibility, he said. Only one possibility out of a thousand, just a notion. Anything could happen.
“But Paris!”
The girl’s eyes were bright. She was riding on a pile of blankets, painting her toenails with a tiny brush.
“Paris! Churches and museums! Notre-Dame! Oh, I should dearly like to be a refugee in Paris.”
She dipped the brush into the bottle of polish and began painting the nails on her left foot. The paint sparkled in the sun.
“You will take me along, yes? As a refugee? Paris! Oh, I shall love to see Paris—Pont Neuf and the Seine, all the windows full of pretty things. We shall see it together!”
Careful to choose his words, Paul Berlin tried to explain that it wasn’t what it seemed. He told how Cacciato had walked away in the rain, a dumb kid with maps and candy and an AWOL bag. How they’d taken off after him: a dangerous mission, nothing easy. How already they’d lost one member of the search party, Harold Murphy, and how they had marched many weeks through jungle and rain. A thousand hardships lay ahead.
“But Paris!”
“It’s only a possibility.”
She looked at him, holding the brush to her nose and sniffing it. A dab of red paint gleamed on her cheek. “I am sure of it,” she said. “Together we shall see Paris. Stroll through the gardens, visit all the famous monuments. Perhaps we shall fall in love there. Is that possible?”
The oxcart swayed and pressed them together.
“Paris,” she whispered. Her eyes shifted to the horizon. “Yes, I should dearly love to see Paris.”
The lieutenant shook his head.
“No,” he said.
“But, sir, she speaks French. Terrific French.”
“And?”
“And, well, she could sort of help out. Guide us, show us the ropes.”
Again the old man wagged his head. He was stretched out on a rug near the front of the cart. His nose was peeling. “No way. I’ll say it again: We’re still soldiers and this here is still a war.”
“But she’s smart. She is. She could help out with—”
“Negative.” The lieutenant looked away. “Say again, this is no friggin’ party. No party, no civilians. Next ville, we drop them off and that’s the end of it.”
“Just dump them?”
“War’s a nasty thing.”
“Not even—?”
“No.” The old man sighed. “No.”
True, it was no place for women. True, it would be a dangerous journey, full of bad times and bad places, and, true, they could not be burdened by weakness or frailty. All true. But Paul Berlin could not stop toying with the idea: a mix of new possibilities. A whole new range of options. He wanted Sarkin Aung Wan to join the expedition. He wanted it badly, and he wanted it even more when, by the light of a midnight campfire, she showed him her many strengths. “Do you see?” she whispered. “Do you see that I am strong?” And she was. Fragile, delicate like a bird,
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