Sparta (21 page)

Friendly's tone was brisk, glazed with a layer of official courtesy. Underneath that lay a deep current of condescension: Why would you tolerate the fact that you were a waiter, and subservient to customers, unless you believed that on some level you were better than they? And here was why you were better: the customer was a dick and you were not. The more the customer protested, the more that fundamental belief became apparent.

Conrad studied him.

“Do you want to leave?” Claire asked.

He could hear in her voice that she did not.

“No, it's fine.” He nodded at Friendly with dislike.

Conrad sat down with his back toward the wall. Friendly handed them menus solicitously.

“Have a good evening.” He swept away, the heels of his tasseled loafers clicking on the wooden floor.

Conrad looked around: The door to the kitchen on his right, the bar beyond. The door to the street straight ahead and to his left. Outside, beyond the plate-glass windows, the sidewalk streamed with people. Behind him were the two tables, people at them talking. He couldn't see them. This made him uncomfortable, the low, constant rattle out of sight. In front of him was a sea of tables: young couples, eyes locked on each other's faces; older couples in foursomes, leaning back and laughing; middle-aged women in pairs, talking earnestly. The noise was cacophonous.

After they ordered drinks, Conrad asked, “So, tell me something. Was that guy being offensive?”

Claire looked at him. “Do you want to leave? If you want, we'll leave.”

“No,” he said. “We're not leaving.”

“Is this really hard?”

What he didn't want was to seem damaged. “No, it's okay,” he said. “It's just different. From what I've been used to.”

He was working on two fronts. He was keeping the noise away from his brain, he was focusing on making it small, erasing it, and making himself seem normal. He knew he could do this because he had been normal before.

“What would you like to talk about?” he asked.

He was going to be normal.

He told her more about Haditha, the normal things. He told her about the bridge over the wide blue river. The fruit orchards that rippled across the hillsides, the groves of date palms along the river, with their stiff upright sprays of leaves. The herds of goats that flowed through the streets like a dry, shaggy tide, nodding and bleating.

“It sounds beautiful,” Claire said.

“Yeah,” he said. “Except they were always trying to kill us. That interfered with the scenery.”

He could see she didn't know whether to laugh or not.

“Travel advisory for Haditha,” Conrad said. “Food, great; population, homicidal.”

Now she laughed outright.

He grinned but didn't go on. You couldn't expect anyone here to get the humor, it would horrify them. In-country they'd made jokes of everything. The Haqlania Bridge, at the entrance to Haditha, had been where all the executions took place. Everyone lined up to watch them. It was called Agents' Bridge because so many locals were accused by the insurgents of spying and executed as agents. Then someone changed the name to Agents' Fridge because so many bodies were left there, ready for the morgue. It wasn't a joke you would tell here.

The drinks arrived, his beer, her glass of white wine.

“Chardonnay,” he said. “You used to drink beer. You've gone grown-up.”

She shrugged. “I guess.”

“Who do you see?” he asked abruptly. “Who do you hang out with? The guy from Oceanic Art?”

“Sometimes,” she said. “There's a bunch of people from work. They're fun.”

“Your crowd,” he said, watching her face.

She shrugged, looking guarded. Obviously she'd been going out with someone.

“Cold,” Conrad said. He touched the side of the beer bottle to his forehead. “It's miraculous. You have no idea.” He smiled at her, and Claire put her elbows on the table and leaned toward him. Shadowy hollows appeared beneath her collarbones. She smiled back, her mouth widening, the straight, dark eyebrows lowering. There were faint circles beneath her eyes: she'd been living, here, while he was living, there. She was older now. She seemed open to him, warm and compassionate. She seemed beautiful and merciful. She would save him.

He rolled the bottle along his forehead, taking pleasure in the coolness against his skin.

“In Haditha,” he told her, “we were garrisoned in a school administration building. There was a little courtyard behind it. The guys rigged up a kind of wading pool, a waterproof tarp with the edges draped over a circle of sandbags. Every so often they'd get water from the river and fill it. Then everyone who could fit would get in and lie down. Wall-to-wall bare-assed Marines, in four inches of water, pretending they were at the beach.”

Claire laughed.

“They'd start calling for a striptease.”

“Really? From who?”

“One of the guys. Molinos. He'd come out with a towel around his uniform. He'd start wiggling his hips and blowing kisses, and everyone would go nuts.”

“My god,” Claire said. “I love it.”

“He'd strip underneath the towel, unbuttoning his blouse and pulling it off sleeve by sleeve, and everyone would go wild, shouting and throwing water. He'd toss one boot away, then the other, balancing on one foot. He'd end up in his shorts, tossing the towel out into the crowd, and it would be nearly torn apart, everyone lunging for it.”

“But is he gay?” Claire asked.

“No. It's just imitation sex. Funny. Nothing.”

“I never get it.” Claire shook her head. “I never get how it is for you guys. I think I have it, and then I learn something else and it's all different.”

“Not for us,” said Conrad. “It seems really obvious to us. Like, if you can, then why
wouldn't
you have a wading pool and a striptease?”

“Right, obvious,” said Claire, laughing.

“But then we get home and it seems like we're from outer space.” He looked at her. “Aliens. No one knows what to do with us.”

“I'm sorry it feels like that,” said Claire, kind.

Conrad tilted his glass. He held the cool beer in his mouth for a second before swallowing.

“So where are we?” he asked. “You and me. Am I in or out?”

Claire looked down at her wineglass, sliding her finger around the rim. He could see the soft shifting of her eyes beneath her eyelids, like an underwater disturbance.

“I don't exactly know,” Claire said. “I don't know what to say. I feel like we've gone back and forth so much. Splitting up after you left, then sort of getting back together.”

“Sort of?”

“Yeah,” Claire said, “it was sort of. For me it was strange. I mean, I still love you, but it wasn't the same as it was at college. You know that. You know I went out with other guys. I felt like we were—like cousins or something. I loved you, and when you deployed, I wanted to be there for you.”

“Until you didn't.”

“Well, you were so strange when you came back that time. I felt like I didn't know you.”

“So you dumped me.” He hadn't meant to say this. He was trying not to be angry.

Her eyes flicked up at him. “I didn't dump you.”

“What would you call it?”

“I told you what I called it. I had to pull back. I couldn't write love letters to someone who scared me.”

“So you dumped me.”

“I didn't dump you, Con. I went on writing you. But I couldn't pretend. And it seemed like we weren't aligned. We were asymmetrical.”

“Ah.” Conrad nodded. “We couldn't have that. Asymmetry. That would be wrong.” He could feel this unrolling ahead of him, how it was going to go. It was going to go wrong.

“Conrad,” she said. “What do you want?”

“Were you fucking someone else?”

Her face went bright and stricken, as though he'd hit her.

“What do you want to know?” she asked. She leaned back, away from him. “Exactly what is it that you want to know?”

You stupid fuck,
he thought, furious at himself
. You stupid fuck. Now you've done it.

He paused, trying to steady himself. He was trying to withdraw from anger, trying to unlink himself from the bullying, hectoring, harrying self that took over. The stupid fuck that was going to wreck everything. But who was there to take his place?

The waitress appeared beside the table.

“Ready to order?” She was pretty but haggard, with straggly black hair and dark eyes with huge circles beneath them. “Would you like to hear the specials?”

“No, thanks,” said Conrad. “We're ready.” He didn't want to hear the recitation. Waiters loved to show off their memory skills. He wanted to get on with it.

“You sure?” The waitress smiled hopefully at Claire, who shook her head. They ordered, and the waitress picked up their menus and set off.

Conrad turned back to Claire.

“What would I like to know?” he said. “I'd like to know that we're calling an end to the time-out and we're resuming play.”

“It's not that simple,” Claire said. “I don't know how to talk to you now. Everything makes you angry. You're like someone holding a ticking bomb.”

“Were you fucking someone else?” He was sure she had been.

“Conrad.” She leaned back, pushing herself away from the table.

“What?”

“You make me feel like I'm on trial.”

A middle-aged couple had been inching their way through the surrounding chairs toward the table next to the wall, which was now empty. The woman was carrying a huge striped pocketbook. When she reached her chair, without looking, she swiveled to sit down and the bag slammed into Conrad's face. In the same instant he rose to his feet and grabbed it, holding it still, staring at her.

The pair were in their fifties, the man solid, with hooded eyes and heavy, silky cheeks. He wore a thin short-sleeved jersey that drooped off his shoulders like a gangster's. The woman was short and chunky, with coarse black hair and a bold gaze.

She turned, outraged. “Let go of my bag.”

“You just slammed it into my head,” Conrad said, not letting go.

“That doesn't mean you can steal it.” The woman's face was a mask of dislike. “Let it go or I'll call the manager.”

Conrad stared at her, holding the bag.

The man with her leaned toward Conrad. “Let it go, Mac.”

Conrad said nothing. He stared at the man. It was like being offered a treat, something small and delicious right in front of him.

“Conrad,” Claire said, her voice low. “Please let it go.”

Conrad could feel his blood thumping through his veins. But this wasn't worth it. Just as he thought this, the woman spoke.

“Yeah, listen to your girlfriend, schmuck,” she said, twitching the bag in his hands.

Joy flooded through him in a warm rush; he almost closed his eyes.

“Conrad,” Claire said to him again, now urgent. “I'm sorry,” she said to the woman. “He's had a shock.”

“He's gonna get another if he doesn't give me my bag back,” the woman said. She gave another tug, and this time Conrad let go. She staggered back a step. He stood facing her, his whole body ready, everything right there, not that he would touch her, hurt her, but showing her what was not going to happen to her.

In her startled face he saw that she could feel his heat, the great, furious readiness of his body, everything, his muscles, his heart and lungs hammering, the blood coursing through his chest, and she stepped back. Fear finally entered into her gaze.

“This guy's a maniac, Carl,” she said, but now not loudly. She drew away from Conrad. “I don't want to sit here.”

Carl had seen what Conrad was offering. “We're out of here.” He gave Conrad a look that was dirty but muted, offended but not quite offensive. They started off again, aggrievement written in their stiff backs, elevated chins.

Conrad watched them, still standing, his napkin in his hand. He felt a kind of itch in his fingers. He could feel the man's fat shoulder under the cotton shirt.

The two of them paraded toward the door, toward Friendly. Conrad stayed standing, watching, ready. He saw them stop to complain. Friendly listened, glancing discreetly up at Conrad. Conrad raised his hand in a wave. Friendly looked back at the couple. He nodded, solicitous, but they pushed out through the door. Conrad sat down, watching Friendly, but Friendly stayed busy at the reservations desk, not giving people tables by the wall, and wouldn't look over.

“Conrad,” Claire said.

“She nearly knocked me out of my chair.”

Claire studied him. “You can't do that,” she told him.

He stared at her, trying to hold on to the swollen, surging rush of excitement, the way he'd known exactly how to proceed, the sense of anticipatory pleasure. He could feel it draining away. It had been so clear and right, so juicy, but it was going, and it was wrong, and it was going in a swift, flooding rush, leaving nothing, leaving a black, poisonous taste in his mouth. He felt the approach of shame, and he turned away.

“I know,” he said.

He looked past her, watching another couple who were making their way through the tables. Not coming his way, but still. Their waitress, in a white shirt, slipped in and out of the tables, carrying trays. She came near and Conrad tensed, but then she twisted away in another direction.

He and Claire didn't speak until the food came.

Conrad had ordered a hamburger. In-country he'd dreamed of them. Occasionally, in Ramadi, they'd had frozen ones, gray and dense, without texture or taste, like hot boiled felt. He'd imagined real hamburgers, thick and running with juices, soft pink inside, darkly charred outside. The great American meal.

It arrived on a spongy seed-sprinkled bun, fringed with lettuce, flanked by a slice of pallid tomato. The hamburger looked swollen and bloody. He took a bite. It was greasy and flavorless, just salt and fat. He thought of the pungent stews, rich, savory dishes with lamb and prunes, apricots and spices. He put it down.