Read Online Right of Thirst by Frank Huyler - Free Book Online Page A

that,” he said. “We have a brigade of them for mountain duty.”
    The men had begun to speak. We could hear snatches of words and laughter—a local dialect that Rai told us he did not fully understand. But they kept on, the tents rising one after the other in a neat line. An hour passed, the band of sunlight slowly flowed across the dining tent, and soon we took off our jackets and turned the heater down.
    For a while, despite the draft, Rai watched them through the open door as we had done. He took out his watch and timed them—ten minutes, give or take, for each tent. They were identical to the dining tent, designed to sleep perhaps a dozen soldiers, and tall enough to stand in. He took a bite of bread, a sip of tea. He dabbed his lips with his napkin. Then, apparently satisfied, he lit a cigarette, and closed the door.
    â€œHow are you paying them?” I asked. “By the tent or by the hour?”
    He shot me a look.
    â€œNo money,” he said, after a pause, “but I will give them some kerosene.”
    Elise made a soft dismissive sound.
    â€œHow much kerosene?” I was curious, mostly because of his reluctance to discuss it. This isn’t your affair, he seemed to say. This is a local matter.
    â€œWe will see,” he said, finally. “Perhaps a few liters per man when the job is done.”
    It wasn’t hard labor, but it was work nonetheless. The villagers, I suddenly knew, had not been given a choice. Captain Rai had gone down to the village, and that was that.
    Later, after we’d eaten breakfast, and the valley was fully lit by the sun, Elise stood up and announced that she was going to take a shower. I wanted one as well; already nearly a week had passed, the walls of the dining tent felt close and warm, my hair was sticky, and my underwear needed to be washed. Not entirely unpleasant, not yet, but I wanted to be clean again. The villagers, the men in the field, looked as if they had not bathed ever in their lives and it was easy to understand why: the river was all snowmelt, only a degree or two above freezing.
    Elise had come prepared; she had a black neoprene bag with a nozzle that held ten gallons of water, with a collapsible aluminum tripod to hang it from. The whole apparatus was light and modern-looking, with a digital thermometer woven neatly into the bag: it was, it seemed, her single personal luxury. I’d noticed her unpacking it outside her tent several days before and asked what it was. Filled with water, the bag was heavy, and I offered to help her carry it out into the sun to warm.
    â€œIt is only a little way,” she said, gesturing toward a fewboulders that stood lit up in the sun. “I will sit on the rocks.”
    The boulders were only a few meters from the tents, and all who cared to look would have a full view of her, back turned or not. Rai glanced at her, but said nothing.
    â€œElise,” I said, “come with me for a moment.”
    She followed me out the door into the cold. I kept walking into the sun, and the sounds of the workers—stones on metal pegs, the rattle of canvas, and murmuring voices—came to us clearly. When we were out of earshot from the tent, I turned to her.
    â€œElise,” I said, “I know you don’t want to be told what to do, but you can’t undress and take a shower in front of these men. Don’t you understand that?”
    She looked at me with her startling blue eyes, in her red hat, and suddenly she seemed terribly young to me, unused to the world as it is. Not naïve, exactly. But uncompromising.
    â€œDr. Anderson, you are not my father,” she said.
    I sighed. “That’s true, Elise,” I said. “I’m not your father. But this isn’t a beach in Spain, either. It’s asking for trouble. If you want to take a shower, do it where no one can see you.”
    She pursed her lips, her forehead wrinkled a bit, and I could see her struggling