Outerbridge Reach (3 page)

“Sure,” Strickland said. “Charlotte Something. The little Hun who was au p . . pairing in New York.”

Biaggio shrugged and sighed. “Her eyes are pure.”

“I never noticed that,” Strickland said. He stood up and went to the bar to buy a beer. The bar was selling Cerveza Hatuey, a Cuban beer, at ten dollars a pop.

“You know, don't you,” he told Biaggio, “that pure-eyed little Charlotte is fucking a minister of state.”

“They're friends,” Biaggio said.

Strickland burst out laughing. His laughter was loud and explosive. Strickland was aware that his laughter discomfited others. That was fine with him.

“They're friends!” Strickland cried happily. He mimicked Biaggio's Ticinese accent. “They are a-friendsa!”

Biaggio appeared bored with his own disdain.

“You're embittered,” he said after a while. “Temperamentally you belong with the Contras.”

“They're no longer worthy of my attention,” Strickland said. “You're in the Contra mode.”

“Fuck you,” Strickland said. “I'm a man of the left. Wait until you see my film.”

“Is it finished?”

“Hell no, it's not finished. It has to be cut. But I've shot all I need. So I'm short, as we used to say in Nam. I'm so short I'm almost gone.”

“Strickland,” Biaggio said earnestly, “I have to borrow your jeep tomorrow. And your driver. I'm taking Charlotte to the front.”

Strickland uncoiled a burst of merriment. Biaggio winced. The marimba band had stopped playing and Strickland's unsound laughter attracted the attention of people at the nearby tables.

“I myself,” he told the American, “don't share this obsession to find absurdity everywhere. To find contemptible the honest impulse which—”

“Get off the dime, Biaggio. What do you mean by ‘the front'?”

Biaggio looked at him uneasily.

“I was thinking of . . . thinking of going to Raton.” Seeing Strickland at the point of mirth, he raised an imploring hand. “Please,” he begged of his companion, “please don't laugh.”

“There's a brigade headquarters in Raton,” Strickland said. “There's an army airfield there. If Raton's your idea of the front, I understand how you've survived so many wars. You can have the jeep for f . . fifty dollars if you'll return it to Avis for me. You'll have to drive it yourself because I've already paid off the driver.”

Biaggio slapped his forehead.

“You know I don't drive.”

“Then fly. Or get Charlotte to drive. Remind her not to hit any mines.”

Strickland's attention settled on the front pocket of Biaggio's yellowing white shirt. With a quick predatory gesture he removed a laminated card from it before the Swiss could intercept his move.

“Partito Comunista d'ltalia,” Strickland read from the card. “I suppose you're going around town flashing this.”

“And why not?” Biaggio demanded. “Since it's mine.”

Strickland tossed the card on the table.

“The best thing is to be known as a Mason,” Biaggio said, retrieving the card. “The Masons run everything in this revolution. They are the true ruling cadre.”

As the marimba orchestra took up a song of the people, a party of Americans entered the garden. Their overalls and metal-rimmed spectacles served to identify them as internationalists. Among them was a tall, dark-haired young woman whose skin had been turned the color of honey by the sun. Around her neck was the
banda roja
of the national youth movement. The two men watched her pass.

“You know who that is, Biaggio? That's Garcia-Lenz's reserve popsie. She's the backup for Charlotte.”

“Bullshit,” Biaggio said.

“You don't believe me?”

“Always the
sous entendre,
” Biaggio said loftily. He looked away.

“I know the secrets of the heart, Biaggio.”

Strickland went back to the bar for another beer. When he returned to Biaggio's table, he found young Charlotte seated in his chair. Ignoring Biaggio's impatient stare, he sat down with his beer.

“This is Strickland,” Biaggio said curtly to his companion. The young woman, who had encountered Strickland in the field, gave him a wary glance. He returned what appeared to be an easy, amiable smile.

“Hi, Charlotte. What's this you have around your neck here?”

Charlotte, like the young American woman who had settled several tables away, wore a red and black neckerchief. She blushed charmingly as Strickland displayed the
banda
to Biaggio.

“I wear this,” she explained, “for
solidaridad
.”

“
Solidaridad
,” Strickland repeated. “How about that? I'd like one of those. Where'd you get it?”

Charlotte was encouraged by his naive admiration.

“I have interviewed Compañero Garcia-Lenz,” she said with demure satisfaction. “And he has given it to me.”

“No shit?” Strickland asked earnestly. “Hey, you're right about her eyes, Biaggio.”

“We have to go,” Biaggio said. “If you could give me the keys for the jeep. And also the papers.” He brought out his wallet and found it empty of bills. He seemed to search it for secret compartments.

“Don't be in such a hurry,” Strickland said. “I understand you were an au pair, Charlotte. Before you came down here? Is that right?”

“Yes,” Charlotte said. “In the States.”

“How was that?” Strickland asked her.

The young woman laughed happily.

“It is in Saddle River, New Jersey,” she said. “They are so conservative I have freaked them out.”

“Is that right?”

“And Nixon is there,” Charlotte reported. “In Saddle River, yes?”

“No!” Strickland exclaimed. “Really?” He put his hand over hers on the table. “Sit tight, guys.” He stood up, backed off a step and made a placatory gesture. “Don't go away.”

“Strickland!” Biaggio wailed after him. “The jeep!”

Strickland went directly to the table where the party of young Americans was sitting and approached the dark-haired girl with the red bandana.

“Would you excuse me, please,” he said softly, bending over her. “May I introduce you to a v . . visitor?”

Observing his defect of speech, the woman went sympathetic. Strickland expanded his smile so that it might irradiate the entire tableful of young Americans.

“I know who you are,” the young woman said ironically, “but I don't believe you know me.”

She told him her name was Rachel Miller. He moved back her chair as she stood up to follow him.

“Ah,” he said. “Raquel!”

“Not Raquel,” she said. “Just Rachel.”

Although there were only three chairs at the table, Strickland insisted that Rachel sit down. Standing across the table from the two young women, he looked at each in turn.

“Charlotte, this is Rachel. Rachel, Charlotte.”

Regarding Charlotte's brave ribbon, Rachel seemed to pale slightly beneath her suntan. Charlotte remained cheerful.

“And this is Biaggio,” Strickland told Rachel, indicating his friend. “A veteran of
la soixante-buit.
Is he a French spy, a Swiss hustler or an Italian Communist? No one knows.”

“I don't get it,” Rachel said. She had become alert.

“Biaggio and I are researching the youth movement of Minister Garcia-Lenz,” Strickland explained. “We're interviewing foreign members. Honorary members like yourselves. We're wondering if there's a common thread in their experience.”

While not losing their good-natured expression, Charlotte's features seemed to thicken and her comprehension to fade. Rachel was staring at Strickland in cold fury.

“What's that song?” Biaggio asked cheerfully. People were singing far off, somewhere in the streets outside the hotel.

“That's a revolutionary song,” Strickland said. “It's called ‘A Clean Old Man Will Do.'”

Charlotte's lips moved in silent translation.

“What I'm curious about,” Strickland went on, “is how foreign visitors like yourselves are recruited for the movement. Do you read his works? Does he take you to see the hovel he claims to live in?”

“What's your problem?” Rachel asked.

Charlotte appeared to have fallen asleep with her eyes open.

“My problem is the bottom line,” Strickland explained. “The difference between what people say they're doing and what's really going on.”

Biaggio shrugged and shook his head as though he were in conversation with himself.

“Maybe we shouldn't judge too harshly,” Strickland said. “The guy was a priest for about seventy years. He's making up for lost time.”

“What makes you so smart?” Rachel demanded. “Who do you really represent down here?”

“What do you care?” Strickland asked her. “You're just a tourist.” He turned to Biaggio. “Next year,” he said, “the old fuck will be giving them T-shirts. What would the T-shirts say, Biaggio?”

“No
pasarán!
” Biaggio suggested. He and Strickland had a giggle together. Rachel took a deep breath, stood up slowly and went back to her table. Strickland sat down in her chair.

“What the hell,” he said equably. He tossed the keys to his jeep toward Biaggio. “Enjoy yourself.” Then he leaned forward and spoke loudly to Charlotte, as though she were hard of hearing: “You too,
liebchen.
Drive carefully.”

“You're a bad element, Strickland,” Biaggio said when the keys were in his pocket. “A Trotskyite. A Calvinist.”

“Goodbye, Biaggio.” He raised his voice again. “
Ciao
, Charlotte! Don't run my pal on any mines!”

“Yes,” Charlotte said faintly.

“Forget him,” Biaggio told Charlotte as he led her away. “He cannot harm you.”

Strickland turned to watch Rachel several tables over. She had taken off the scarf and she appeared to be crying. She sat in silence looking down at the table, taking no further part in conversation. After a while she got up and went toward the lobby. Strickland intercepted her just inside.

“What now?” she asked him.

“I want you to come with me.”

“You must be crazy,” she said.

“That could be it.”

She made no move to leave but she said, “Leave me alone.”

“Come with me!”

She stared at him.

“Come on,” he said. He laughed. “Don't think about it, just do it. Come on!”

She blinked and for a moment she seemed about to follow him.

“Why did you do that to me just now, Mr. Strickland?”

“Because Garcia-Lenz is a hypocrite. That's why.”

“No,” she said. “I don't trust you.”

“Actually,” he asked, “what's to trust?”

“I want you to leave me alone!”

When she started past him, he blocked her way.

“I'll call someone!”

“You'll be laughed at,” he said.

“You fucking bastard,” Rachel said. “I know about you.”

“What does that mean, Rachel?”

“I know about what happened in Vietnam. There are reporters here who were there with you.”

He smiled, but she had seen the shadow pass.

“Everybody knows that story,” she told him. “What the GIs did.”

“If you only knew the half of it,” Strickland said, “you'd eat your heart out.”

“I'm sure I wouldn't,” she said. “Not anymore.”

“Garcia-Lenz won't remember your name, Rachel. I know who you are. I understand what you're doing down here.”

Rachel's eyes were bright. She began to speak, broke off and turned her face to the artificial stucco wall.

“How can you know who I am?” she asked.

“Because it's my business. Perception. Do you understand?”

“I don't know what I understand,” Rachel said.

“I'll tell you about it all,” Strickland said. “My version.”

“Your version?” she demanded with unhappy impatience. “Your version of what?”

“The world,” he said. “How it goes. You may spend your life looking at revolutions. You should understand how to look at them correctly.”

The promoters, police characters and lay missionaries in the lobby turned after Strickland and Rachel as they passed.

“I've been hyper since I got here,” Rachel said. “For a while I was sick.”

“Hey,” Strickland said, “me too. Sick? Let me tell you!”

As he led her across the lobby, his spirits soared.

He pushed the button to summon the elevator and saw Rachel frown at him and take a step backward. He wanted to reassure her.

“Where are you from, Rachel?”

She looked at him in silence and shook her head.

“I mean, I sort of know where you're from,” he hastened to say. “You went to private school somewhere. You probably went to progressive camps. Cookouts with food-from-many-lands.”

Rachel raised two fingers to her brow as though her head ached.

“Folk dancing,” Strickland fantasized, “interracial sing-alongs. Am . . . I right?”

Rachel leaned back against the wall beside the elevators and began to slide down it, bending at the knees.

“Hey,” Strickland said to her, “be cool.”

“I have to go,” she said. “I have to wash my walking shorts. Goodbye.”

She was sitting on the floor next to a giant aloe plant between the two elevator doors. The elevator arrived. Although they were operated by push buttons, each of the hotel's elevators carried an attendant. The attendants, Strickland had heard, were men who had served as informers under the old regime and who had been pressed into the same service by the new. The one who presented himself for service had been liberally tipped by Strickland as a basic precaution and he appeared pleased at the sight of his patron. When Strickland did not step into the elevator, the attendant peered around the corner and saw Rachel on the floor. He looked from the woman to Strickland.