Read Online The Polish Officer by Alan Furst - Free Book Online

for her, resting his hand lightly on the soft hair that fell to her shoulder, it was something she allowed. “Helena,” he said.
    Her eyes wandered. What did he want?
    “The Russians,” he continued, “are here now, perhaps you know. I—”
    “Please,” she said, eyes pleading. She would not stand for exegesis, could not bear it.
    He sighed and took her hands. She took them back—gently, she didn’t want to hurt his feelings, she simply wanted the hands—folded them in her lap and gave him a puzzled look. Usually he was so courteous.
    “I have been thinking that I ought to take you away from here,” he said.
    She considered it—he could see a certain shadow touch her face as she reasoned. Then she shook her head no. The way she did it was not vague, or crazy, but sharp, completely in control. She’d thought through
everything:
soldiers, what they did, how bad it was, that she was not vulnerable to whatever he feared might happen to her.
    He dropped his hands into his lap. He felt completely helpless. He considered taking her away by force, but he knew it wouldn’t work.
    “To go where?” she asked, not unkindly.
    He shook his head, defeated.
    “Will you walk me to the lake house?” she asked. She could be soft and shy to a point where he came near tears—the ache in the back of the throat. He stood and offered her his arm.
    What she called “the lake house” had once been a pavilion, where guests were served cream cakes, and tea from a silver urn, and the doctors could speak frankly in peaceful surroundings. Now it was dark and abandoned and some bird out in the reed marsh beyond the lake repeated a low, evening call.
    She stood facing him, almost touching, reluctant to speak at first, and, even for her, very troubled. “I want you to make love to me as you used to,” she said.
One last time—
her unspoken words were clear as a musical note.
    Looking around, he found a cane deckchair, gray with years of weather. He sat down, then invited her to sit on his lap with a flourish, as though it were a masterpiece of a bed, all silk and wool, in some grand hotel. She liked to play like this, raised her skirt just an inch, settled herself on his legs and laid her head against his shoulder. A little wind blew across the lake, the reeds bent, a few ducks flew over the marsh on the horizon. Idly, he stroked her dry lips with an index finger, she raised her face to it, and he saw that she had closed her eyes.
    He took the hem of her sweater in his fingertips and lifted it to her shoulders, then lowered her slip, pulled her coat tight around her for warmth, wet his finger in her mouth and rubbed her breasts for a long time. They were heavier than he remembered but that had always been true of her, even when she was nineteen—her body full and round for a girl with a small face. She sighed, sentimental, yes, this was what she’d meant. Then she hummed softly and where her weight rested on him he could feel the
V
of her legs widen. When he slid his hand beneath her skirt, she smiled. Covertly, he watched her face, wondered what sort of dream she was having. Her lips moved, drew back slowly, then parted; her breathing became louder, shallow and rhythmic, until her weight suddenly pressed into him.
    “Stand up,” he said. He stepped behind her, slid her coat down her arms and spread it on the broad, dry planks of the pavilion floor. She took her skirt off, then stepped out of her underpants. He knelt, embraced her hips, hard, as though something in the sky meant to sweep her away. She smoothed his hair—it didn’t matter, it didn’t matter. Then she settled herself on the coat, and swung her knees to one side, hands clasped beneath her head, a girl in a soap ad. He laughed.
    They made love for a while; like strangers, like husband and wife, eventually like lovers. “I want to ask you,” she said quietly, almost to herself, as they lay curled around each other to keep warm. “You didn’t bring flowers, this