Letters to Mrs Hernandez

by C S Gibbs

  “I'm not sure I can explain it . . . it's rather a long story . . .” was all that Ben could muster in reply.

  The passenger seat was not impressed. “Well, I heartily suggest that you abridge your story right now, young pilgrim, 'cause we're about to haul you back to HQ for a whole lot of interrogation.”

  Ben had not got this far to fall at the final hurdle. “Listen, please . . . I know you've got a job to do, but I don't want to cause trouble. I just . . . I need to find . . . I need to find her. I can't go back without trying to find her. She's the reason I'm here.”

  “You got yourself a woman here, so soon? My, my, you are one fast worker, young pilgrim!” Laughed the Southerner.

  “We met before the war . . . I need to find her . . . I know the address is here, somewhere.” Ben was becoming desperate; the Southerner was running out of patience.

  “I see no reason to listen to this idle banter, pilgrim – give me a reason to believe your story.”

  Ben had only one card to play. “Well, there is this reason.” He reached in to his duffle bag, but this was not viewed well by the Virginian eyes currently scrutinizing him. A gun was drawn and pointed straight at Ben. The Southern drawl issued forth:

  “Hold it right there, pilgrim. Now, ease your hand out of that there bag, nice and slowly. So as I can see the hairs growing on your lily-white arm.”

  Brooklyn tried to ease the situation, “Aw, c'mon, pal. We've seen worse than this, together. Cut the Limey some slack, will ya?”

  Ben was still too concerned with the gun pointing at him and obliged, following the instructions to the letter. His near-petrified hand withdrew from the neck of the duffle bag at a snail's pace, exiting with a half-full bottle of MacAllan's whiskey held within its grasp.

  “Is this a good enough reason, fellas?” Asked Ben.

  It had been almost three years since James Carruthers had given him the bottle, but his reasoning had never been more accurate. The two Americans may have been upholders of the law, but they, too, had been stuck on board of 'dry' ships and were more than happy to entertain this finely matured Scottish bargaining tool.

  Ben explained his story and the two men listened as they drank, then drank as they listened, then drank some more. He even showed them photographs of he and Setsu, including one that Setsu had given him, which showed her with her family outside their house.

  “Okay,” said Brooklyn, “I say we help the kid. It's been a quiet kinda day and this'll be a good story for my wife.”

  “I say,” hissed the Virginian as he stared at Ben, “That we proceed with caution. One false move, boy, and I'll send you back to your momma in a casket.”

  That was still encouragement enough for Ben and he jumped in to the passenger seat of the jeep as Brooklyn fired up the engine and set off. The Virginian sat behind Ben, with a suspicious hand still on his revolver.

  “Don't take too much heed of old red neck in the back, there,” smiled Brooklyn as he sped the jeep forward, “He's always itchin' for a lynchin', but he ain't such a bad guy, once you gets to knowin' him.

  “Y'see, I was a cabbie in New York before all this war started, an' I think I'm pretty good at readin' people. Y'always gotta be able t'read people, the way they's actin'. It helps you get by on the street. I'm lookin' at you and I'm thinkin': 'This kid's for real.' You got yourself an honest face an' I don't think you'd be out here riskin' your butt if it wasn't for a broad. Hey, she must be kinda special, huh?”

  Ben nodded, then returned to his map. This was it. They were at Setsu's street.

  Brooklyn slowed the jeep to a stop.

  “Are y'sure this is the place, kid? There ain't too much left of it.”

  Ben nodded again. He was sure that this was the right street, but every house was a burned out shell. Surely, she wasn't living there? Did she die there? His heart sank. Love and blind optimism had driven him forward to this point, chasing as hopeless a dream as was possible. Still, he had to see this to the end. If he was to find Setsu's final resting place, then he could somehow walk away again.

  “I think it's just down there. If you don't mind, I'd like to go there on my own.”

  Slinging his duffle bag over his shoulder, he set off at a funereal pace.

  As they watched him trudge away, The Virginian turned to Brooklyn with a quizzical face.

  “Why did you not just drive the vehicle up to the doorway? Must we really go through this morbid ritual?”

  “If we're about to see a grown man cry,” said Brooklyn softly, “I don't want to be close enough to see the tears.”

  Ben was far enough away, now, and he had found the house. He looked again at the photograph of the house. He had gazed at that picture so many times and wondered what it would feel like to walk up to that house and enter it. But now, it was all gone. He walked over the stumpy remnants of fence posts and struts that stuck out from the charred ground, gazing around and trying to imagine which room was which. He stopped at the small, stone square, near which lay a burned out kama kettle.

  This was all that remained.

  He reached in to his duffle bag and pulled out a bundle of Setsu's letters and her pen. Clasping them between his hands, he raised them to his face and sobbed.

  “Aw, look at the poor kid . . . it hurts a man to see it,” said Brooklyn from afar.

  “You Italians get so sentimental – you shouldn't indulge a man in such pointless pursuits.”

  “Just put your burning cross down for once and have a heart, will ya? It's because I am Italian that I understand what this kid's goin' through. The trouble with you Southerners is that you ain't never been to the opera. For cryin' out loud, man, can't you see that this is goddamn Madame Butterfly in reverse? I'm gonna go and get the kid and we'll take him back.”

  “What are we going to charge him with? Just a regular AWOL?”

  “We ain't gonna charge him with nuthin'! It's kinda like what the French got . . . whadda they call it? A crime of passion? Yeah, that's it, a crime of passion. Any man can understand that, except maybe you! Besides, he ain't hurt nobody and we got a good shot of scotch off of the kid.”

  “Well, then go and get him. I am mightily hungry and it's going to get dark, soon.”

  “Okay, okay, I'm goin' already!”

  Brooklyn turned and set on his way to retrieve Ben, but stopped after only a few paces. He stood still and watched the scene ahead of him.

  Most of the houses on the street were in utter ruin, so there were very few people around. A couple of women stood talking in the doorway of one of the remaining buildings and were at first oblivious to the wandering foreigner in their midst. One of the women then caught sight of Ben and pointed at the invader.

  At first, they motioned to go indoors and keep out of the way of this tall, pale stranger, but one of the women remained in the street and stared.

  This fragile looking woman then began to fixedly approach Ben from behind and increase her walking pace. Brooklyn pulled his revolver and began to move hastily towards Ben – if this woman was about to do something, then he needed to get in range for a clear shot. The woman reached in to her jacket as if to pull out a weapon. If Brooklyn was going to shoot, then now was the time. One clear shot to the head would do it. He took aim.

  “Stop!”

  The Virginian's hand stayed Brooklyn's pistol. The two Americans stood and watched as the figure approached and gently tapped the Englishman's shoulder.

  “Ben . . ? Is it you? You have come for me?”

  Ben turned and looked at Setsu and immediately the pair embraced. The months of suffering were showing on her face but suddenly she could smile through it.

  “I have walked for days to come back here. It has not been safe until now. How did you know to come here?”

  Lost for words and choking back his tears, Ben held up her letters and fountain pen.

  “I was wondering if you might need your pen back . . .”

  For the first time in an age, Setsu laughed, reaching
in to her bundle, she pulled out Ben's pen.

  “It's alright,” she said, “I've got one right here . . !”

  They held up the pens to each other, laughed, cried and finally kissed.

  Brooklyn held his breath, then exhaled and smiled. “I think we're gonna be okay,” he said, turning to the Virginian, only to find that the icy man of the south was himself moved tears by the spectacle. Brooklyn laughed, shoved him on the shoulder and bundled him back to the jeep.

  “I think we both need another drink, buddy!” he chuckled, “Now, where's the rest of that Scotch?”

   

   

  Chapter Forty-four - Closing Number

  “The post has arrived, Señora,” called Sandra from the hallway.

  “Bring it to me at the piano, please,” replied Vero.

  Sandra strolled in with a single letter on a platter, complete with letter opener, which she gently placed on the top of the piano.

  Vero opened it with eagerness, pausing before opening the letter to turn and smile at Sandra, who was nosily leaning over the piano for a better look.

   

  Rio de Janeiro,

  Brazil

  26th of April, 1946

   

  Dear Vero and Hector,

  Greetings from sunny Brazil! We have been here for two days and already we have learned to do a new dance called the samba! It is not as graceful as the tango, but once you've had a couple of drinks, it's a lot of fun.

  Once again, we cannot thank you enough for all that you did. Shipping mum and Mr Carruthers over to Argentina for the wedding was such a kind gift.

  Have you got the photographs, yet? We are enclosing one of us on the beach, just in case you forget what we look like.

  We'll be back in about ten days, so behave yourselves until then.

   

  Lots of love to all at Estancia Fuga,

  Ben & Setsu

  (aka Mr & Mrs Hutchinson!)

   

  Vero stroked the picture lovingly, then turned and slipped it on to the front of another picture frame atop the piano. This picture had just arrived from the photographers and showed her and Hector standing alongside Liza, Charles and the happy couple.

  It was a beautiful day, so she flung open the windows, sat back at the piano and began to play another joyous tango.

   

  The End

   Acknowledgements

  I would like to offer the greatest of thanks to the following people, whose kindness has brought this book to life: Jacqui Barrow for her support and wonderful proof reading, not to mention her tolerance and tempering of my excessive use of commas – I would never have finished this book without your support; Mia Kan and Trudi Wigg for guiding and correcting my Japanese details and language; Jim East for his time, details and encouragement; Michael Wynd and all those who allowed me to research at the Royal New Zealand Navy Museum in Devonport; Peter Bonney, Historian of the HMS Indefatigable Association, for his blessing – your words made me realize that I ought to make this book a reality; the staff of La Vasquita in Mercedes, Argentina, for your tranquillity, inspirational setting and divine cuisine; Patricia Terremere and Silvia Corvalan for correcting my spelling and pronunciation in Spanish.