Three Day Road (22 page)

Elijah returns to our table after a while. “See that one there?” he asks in Cree, not wanting the men around us to understand what he says. I nod without looking to him. “She’s the daughter of the owner. Nice girl, but not worth the wasted effort when I can just pay one of the others for what I want.”

“True enough,” I answer, my sadness beginning to lift. I look to the girl across the room and think I see her smile at me before she turns away.

“Never mind her,” Elijah says, pushing back from his chair and standing. “Let’s get you a little something special. My treat.”

I shake my head, but he grins and walks toward a backroom to line up with the others.

When we return to the front lines I can’t take my mind off the girl. She smiled at me. I’m sure of it. I smoke cigarettes in my section of the trench, send prayers up that we remain in this place just a little while longer.

And we do, despite the rumours that we are to head further south. This time when our section is relieved, I am the one to lead Elijah back to the estaminet. I walk quick along the dark road, and the night’s late when we arrive, but still the place is busy. I’ve been here with Elijah till morning sun has come up, and still the old man behind the bar won’t close it.

I look about, but his daughter isn’t in here. My heart sinks. I buy a bottle of wine and drink most of it very fast. Elijah watches and drinks along with me. He buys another bottle when the first one is gone. And then another. When I am afraid I won’t be able to stand any more, I see the girl walk in the side door of the place, carrying a large box that is obviously heavy. Standing without thinking, I almost fall over and have to grab the table. When I feel balanced again, I walk to her, bolder than I ever imagined I could be.

“I am Xavier Bird,” I tell her when I get to her, reaching clumsily for the box and almost dropping it. She stares at me, her eyes afraid. “I am not here to hurt you,” I blurt in English, my words slurring. “Me, I don’t even like hurting Germans.” The words sound stupid, but she smiles and nods like she remembers me.

“You will help me, then?” she asks, and I nod too much. “I have many boxes still to carry.”

Her accent is not one I have heard much. It is beautiful. She is beautiful.

I place the box on the bar and see that her father ignores me.

“Come with me,” she says.

I follow, trying to walk straight as I can.

She leads me outside, and I keep my eyes on the ground so I do not have to meet any of the soldiers’ eyes that I can feel staring at me.

The night is cool and helps me to focus. “Where are the other boxes?” I ask.

She looks down at her feet. “There aren’t any others. It is too loud in there, and I wanted to talk to you.”

I’m surprised. “Me?” I ask. She begins to walk away, and I don’t know if I am supposed to follow her. I do anyway. We walk along a path that leads away from the lines and don’t say anything for what feels like a mile.

“Your friend, he says you like me,” she says. Once more I feel surprise. “I do not like him, but I like you.” She looks at me and then away.

I don’t answer. I don’t know what to say.

We walk again and I feel her take my hand. My heart begins beating like I’ve run a very long distance.

“I have to go back now,” she says. “My father will be worried.” I look at her and want to kiss her. “Will you meet me tomorrow?” she asks.

“Yes,” I answer without even figuring out if I am to be in the line again tomorrow. We walk holding hands, and I remember through the fog of drink and scent of this girl that I still have another day before we are to march back.

When we can hear the noise of the estaminet down the path, she stops and looks up at me. I lean to her and kiss her. She kisses back. We kiss until my lips are sore and I do not know how much time passes. When I kiss her neck she makes little moans.

“Is it tomorrow yet?” I ask, and she laughs, kissing me again. I didn’t mean to be funny.

“I have to go,” she says. “Meet me here tomorrow after supper.”

I don’t know when her supper is but don’t mind waiting. I will get here in the early afternoon.

“Your name!” I ask as she walks away. She stops and looks at me. “I don’t know your name.”

She giggles. “Lisette,” she says, turning, going.

With all of the drunken men around here, I worry for her safety, and so I track her back to the estaminet. I watch with a chest that feels full of light as she walks to the door of the little building beside the estaminet and enters it. This must be her home.

For fear of losing any of this memory of her, I don’t go back into the estaminet. I walk past it and return to our camp. I see that Elijah has not returned, and I am glad for it. I lie until sleep comes, remembering her eyes, her mouth, her hands on my face. Just below the smell of mud on my tunic I think I catch the smallest trace of her.

I am up early and my head pounds from the wine. At a stream near the camp I strip down, entering the freezing water, bathing myself carefully, trying to remove the lice and mud from my hair. I scrub myself with sand for a long time, and then I take my uniform into the water and scrub it with rocks, holding it under to try and drown the lice. Once I put it back on, still wet, I feel the lice return to my skin for warmth. I remove my tunic and run a candle flame along the seams to kill as many as I can.

It is still not even afternoon when I am done. I avoid the mess area. I’m not hungry and don’t want others around me right now. I’m forced to meet with them for roll call, but avoid talking. Elijah’s head hurts too, I can tell, and this keeps him from prying. When we are all relieved, I force myself to walk away from camp until I am out of sight. Then I rush to the path behind the estaminet, and I sit at the place where Lisette showed me.

I wait for a long time, long enough that I am worried she won’t come. In the bush I find a few little flowers past their bloom and collect them for her. I wish I had something else to give.

Night approaches when I hear her coming. I stand up and make myself visible. Lisette walks toward me.
Lisette
. I’ve repeated her name over and over today. It comes easy off my tongue.

She smiles when she sees me and takes my hand. I want to pull her
to me and kiss her, but instead we walk back the way we went last night. We turn off the path and she leads me to a small pond. Enough light is left that when she stops by it and begins to remove her clothes, I can see how thin she is below them. Now I wish I had brought her the lunch I did not eat today. She lies back in the grass and shivers a little. I take my clothes off too and place my tunic over her, worried about the lice that might crawl onto her.

She smiles and we hold one another, feel each other’s heat. I am hard against her belly. She places her hand on me and I can’t stop the noise that comes from my throat. I place my hand on her warmth. We kiss deeply and, before I know what is happening, she is on top of me, her head back and mouth open.

She calls out and I worry others might hear. I raise my hand to her mouth and she bites me hard on the soft spot between my thumb and finger. Lisette drops her head down then, and her hair falls between us, tickling my chest. I can’t take that for long, and roll over gently and push inside so that we both groan. I want this to last, I want it to go on so that I never have to return to the front, but when Lisette grabs my waist and pulls me into her so hungrily, I feel myself slip over the edge like a canoe over rapids until we are both rushing down, the trees and rocks around us flying by, warm white water reaching up and swallowing us, sucking me down into a beautiful darkness until I can no longer stay under. I burst up for air, and look down to her. We are both wet from our movement. Lisette glistens under the rising moon.

We hold each other for a time and don’t say anything. When the night chill finds us, I pull our clothes over us and we kiss again. This time is slower. I stare down at the beautiful girl and she holds my head in her hands. When I sense that she is close I lean and kiss her small breasts, suck on them until she begins to shake and, without knowing that I do it, I move quicker too until we both shiver together once more.

“I must get back now,” Lisette says to me not long after, pulling her clothes back on in a hurry. “I have much work to do for my father.”

“I can walk you back?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “If anyone saw us, I would be in trouble.”

I want to ask to see her again, but she leans down and kisses me. Then she is gone. I lie in the little bit of moonlight and think of the ways I might find her again.

T
WO DAYS LATER
we are sent away from Saint-Eloi. We march to the trains and are packed on like livestock and begin the crawl to this place of brutal fighting. I am silent and unhappy for the whole ride, and it is obvious why, but Elijah knows enough to let me suffer. “The only cure is time,” he says to me, but I don’t answer.

Behind the lines we are given fresh clothing and new long winter coats and we are deloused once more and are infested again by the next morning. The command sends the Canadians new rifles, British Lee-Enfields.

The Ross proves to jam at the worst of times and is responsible for the deaths of many Canadians in the heat of battle. Once again it is the fault of the commanders, I see. They supplied the Canadian troops with British-made ammunition, and the British ammunition, a tiny bit bigger than ours, jams in our rifles when fired repeatedly. I keep the Mauser taken from the German sniper, and Elijah opts to keep his Ross, far better than the Enfield as a sniper rifle.

The troops pore over their equipment, especially their weapons, and are resupplied with fresh stocks of ammunition. Grey Eyes has sniffed out a medical box packed with morphine syringes. I lovingly disassemble my new Mauser and reassemble it, go out to the makeshift range with Elijah where we sight it in carefully and Elijah re-sights his old Ross. Not many rounds of ammunition for the Mauser can be located, and so I am careful not to waste any, but Elijah promises me that we will go on a raid specifically to acquire
some more. The weapon is beautiful and accurate, lighter than Elijah’s rifle. Its scope is magnificent. A leaf can be examined fifty yards away. I politely refuse all that Elijah offers in trade for the rifle.

Behind the Somme we make camp at a place called The Brickfields, a miserable landscape of rubble in which, like rats, we dig holes to sleep in. We mingle with many others who along with us await their turn to move up and fill the forward trenches. Brits and Canadians and blue-uniformed Frenchmen with long moustaches and even Australians in bush hats and Scotsmen in kilts queue up. Some approach Elijah and me and talk with us, and only then do I realize that we are building a reputation as a sniping and scouting team. Do these strangers know that Elijah has most of the kills and Elijah is the one who volunteers for most of the raiding parties? It seems obvious that his reputation around here precedes him. Gilberto, Grey Eyes, Fat, Graves, even McCaan puff up a little when complete strangers approach our section with handshakes and offers of cigarettes.

The only sight at The Brickfields that is not depressing is straight up in the air. Despite the wreck of the world below, the birds continue to fly above it as if nothing has changed. Elijah and I lie on our backs when we are afforded time from sentry duty or drill. Flocks of small sparrows swoop and chase each other endlessly.

A little over a year ago Elijah and I were very different from the soldiers we are now. But Elijah is still daring, still talkative. He still wants to fly.

He talks about the time we took a train from that town where we’d bought our clothes. It was our first time on a train. I felt sick to my stomach with the swaying, amazed and frightened at how fast the trees and creeks swept past us. We headed south. A man in a uniform said to us, soon as we got on, “No Indians in this car.” He pointed down the aisle. “You belong four cars to the back.”

I remember Elijah turning to explain in Cree to me, but I understand. We pick up our packs and walk through the river of people
who ignore us. We push our way through the doors to the next car, then the next, then the next.

Here it is much different. A few other Indians sit here, staring out the windows, not bothering to look up when we walk down the aisle. The seats are wood and uncomfortable. The smell of animals in the next car is strong.

We choose a bench and once again settle in with our packs at our feet. Elijah’s mind is not on being forced to leave the good car. He thinks taking this train will be something like flying. But he can see that I’m unhappy.

“Did we not pay the same price for tickets as the
wemistikoshiw
?” I ask angrily. “Do we not wear clothes just as fine as theirs?” If the situation were different, Elijah would egg me on more than he decides to do.

“Look at your moccasins!” he says, pointing down at them. “Not only are they falling apart, but the stink of them! That is the real reason we’ve been sent back here with the bush Indians.”

A few older ones close by laugh at his words.

Soon after, Elijah tells me that he does not think this is at all like flying. The train groans and lurches. It is more like we are on the back of a sick cow than an eagle. Elijah glances over at me. I know I look a little green with the swaying. The other Indians in the car do too. Some stare at their feet with their arms wrapped about their midsections. Others sleep restlessly. Elijah is impressed, though, with what passes by the window, the green smears of trees and the flash of black creeks coming into view, then gone for good. He stands up to see what this movement without moving his feet feels like. That is more like flying. He walks along the length of the car with arms outstretched, staring out the window. I know he imagines himself weightless.

“Xavier!” Elijah shouts. “Try this!” He swoops past me and caws, turning by the door to take another dive.

“Idiot,” I say. “You embarrass me, you.”

Elijah flies by me and drops an imaginary turd. He can feel the eyes of the other Indians on him. “What?” he says. “Have you never seen an osprey?”