The Aeronaut

by Bryan Young

  Kissing her back, I grabbed her at the shoulders and held her tight until I could hear someone clearing their throat behind me.

  “Nurse Preston,” a voice said, and I knew my time was up.

  “I’ll wait for you at home,” I told her.

  She smiled her bright, beautiful smile, and pecked me on the lips once more. “I’ll be home as soon as I can.”

  She turned and bustled off, back into the fray of wounded warriors, leaving me to make my way to our flat on my own, walking twice as slowly as before.

  If Sara wasn’t going to be there, then there was no point in rushing. She was the only thing that made it home. Empty of her presence it may have well been a dugout in a trench somewhere along the front. It was physically warmer and drier, and the bed was more comfortable and the walls kept out the wind and the gas, but it simply felt cold.

  Empty.

  Vacant.

  When I got home, I did the only thing I could think of that would take the sting from the loneliness and the pressure of my pending suicide mission: I pulled the cork from a bottle of wine and drank the whole thing down.

  It soon elevated me to that starry-eyed haze that felt like I’d floated toward the moon and heavens. The edge was taken from my frustration. I got to our bed and stripped down to my skivvies, still sucking on the remnants of the bottle and feeling deflated, like a downed reconnaissance balloon. I took deep breaths, hoping to calm my feelings, but they were too much. They were getting away from me no matter how hard I struggled to pull them back within my grasp.

  Images of Sara bathing the wounds of that soldier flashed in my head, but things descended from there. I could see glimpses of closer intimacies, the rag against his skin and her fingers lightly brushing against his chest, teasing him. Suddenly he wasn’t wounded anymore, but virile, touching her back.

  “Andre,” she said, and the image was no longer anonymous, but had transformed into LeBeau.

  His hand reached up and lightly pinned her hair behind her ear. Thick, manly fingers caressed her delicately puckered lips...

  ...when the images stopped, they were replaced by scenarios whereby I could see Sara committing such acts. Could she help it? Could she stop herself? That was all preposterous, she loved me, how could she do something like that to me? But what if it wasn’t consensual? What if one of those salty old bastards forced themselves on her? What if they pinned her down, forced her into the supply closet, lured her out to the hill?

  I could take no more and screamed myself hoarse, crying into the desolate night.

  A key hit the lock and I could hear a footfall creep across the front room culminating a delicate click at the bedroom door.

  “Sara?” I called quietly toward the growing sliver of light from the door. “Is that you?”

  “Why aren’t you asleep, my love?” In an instant, her voice soothed all the worry away.

  “I had a nightmare.”

  Sara undressed quickly and made her way to bed, curling up under my arm and running her hand along my face, cooing soothing sounds at me until she broke out into an old lullaby. “Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ra,” she sang to me, “Too-ra-loo-ra-li. Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ra, hush now, don’t you cry...”

  The warm blackness of sleep consumed me and the next thing I remembered was snapping awake, alone in the bed. Her spot was rumpled, her pillow sideways. She’d definitely gone to sleep next to me, but where had she gone?

  The smell of coffee and bacon gave me my answer.

  What better place to break the bad news than at the breakfast table crammed into our tiny sliver of a kitchen?

  The eggs were perfect, the bacon crispy, the coffee hot and black. It was almost as perfect as she was, especially after such a trying night and day. Without even realizing, I’d forced her to ask me what was happening before I said anything.

  “How did your briefing go?” she asked, finally.

  “It went.”

  She smiled and sipped at her tea. “What does that mean?”

  “I’ve been assigned a mission,” I said.

  “You’re not leaving me, are you?” The concern in her voice came with a quiver.

  I wanted to curl into a ball and cry. “I’ll never leave you, my dear.”

  “That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

  “I’ll have to go for a while, yes. I can’t talk about it, but it’s important. Very important.”

  “Isn’t it always?” She pouted, dropping her cup to the saucer with a clink. It filled my heart with confidence about her, about us, but sadness all the same.

  “It is, yes, but this time it’s worse than all that. This mission really could turn the tide of the war...”

  “It could also get you killed.” She flattened her palms against the tablecloth, restraining herself.

  “Any assignment could, so going behind enemy lines isn’t any greater risk of death.”

  Her face went slack, her mouth agape.

  I’d said too much. “That is, rather... If I were going behind enemy lines. It wouldn’t be any more of a risk. This way or that way, the war is equally lethal.”

  Sara’s cheeks flushed, red with anger. Her jaw clenched. “You know what they do if you’re caught behind the lines? They shoot you. You know that, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “You can’t let them send you.”

  “I don’t have a choice.”

  “We always have a choice, don’t we?”

  “What choice would I have, Sara? Orders are orders.”

  Her voice softened as she pled, like the wife of a convict pleading to the court for clemency. “We could disappear somewhere. They’d never find us. We could cross into Spain and they’d have to leave us alone, the Spanish don’t care. Or we could take the overnight blimp to America and things would be done as fast as that.”

  “But they need us. They need you at the hospital and they need me doing...what it is they need me doing.”

  “We can leave.”

  “They shoot deserters faster than they shoot spies. At least with spies they want to find out what you know, first. Cowards have nothing to say. They just go.”

  “It’s not cowardly.”

  “How isn’t it?”

  She shoved her saucer away from her, knocking the empty cup over across the table. “What is everyone fighting for? It’s not land or power or treaties or anything like everyone says it is. Why are you fighting? It’s because you felt a call to the greater good. It’s the same reason I’m here, a nurse, doing my best to ease the suffering of the poor fellows too stupid to stay out of this God forsaken war. Well what could be a greater good than living? Living. With me?”

  She was emphatic now, almost in tears.

  I blinked tears of my own away from my eyes.

  There was a purity to her, sitting across from me at the breakfast table, suppressing tears and talking with all the conviction of a woman begging for her life. Her hands rested softly on the table, the rest of her body was obscured by her terry robe. Her hair was undone, slept in, and the look of hurt love in her eyes was heartbreaking.

  It was love. Pure love.

  This is how I want to remember her.

  This moment.

  But this moment is hard to come by, not something I can summon at will. I had to come to this memory in the proper order.

  I’m not sure if I could have loved her any more than in that moment.

  And, like a fool, I said the wrong thing. “I don’t for a single second disagree with anything you’re saying. But they would shoot us both if we left now.”

  “Then we’d die together.”

  “Is that what you want? What happened to the woman who found joy through the bitterness?”

  “I’d rather die with you than bear the thought of the uncertainty. Will I have lost you on some anonymous battlefield? Or on some secret mission? Or could we go arm in arm, as man and wife, fifty years from now, having lived a life full of love and passion and survived long beyond all this? Tha
t’s the only thing that survives. The only thing fighting the war does is prolong it. It will never end. If I could, I’d do everything in my power to end the damn thing. That’s all I want. That’s all I’ll ever want. I’m allowed my weaknesses.”

  My chair made a screech against the floor as I dragged it around, closer to Sara, so I could hold and comfort her. She was crying with force and fury.

  “Shh,” I whispered at her. “Shh... Everything will be all right. Nothing is going to happen to me. I’ll be back before you even know I was gone.”

  “You won’t leave with me?”

  I wanted to. But I thought I had to be brave. Brave enough for the both of us. “No. We’d both be shot as deserters and where would that get us?”

  She wiped the indignant tears from her eyes, wrapped one arm around me, and placed her other hand on my chest. “It wouldn’t have to be like that. You’re smarter than that. We could go live in the United States and get away from everything. They won’t get in the war and they don’t shoot deserters, do they?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Then why not?”

  “It’s a beautiful dream.” I meant it. Of course I wanted to pack up my things and flee the country, my duty, and the war. I want it now, twice as much.

  But the war had other plans for me.

  “Will you write me, at least?” she said. Her chin quivered as she worked to hold back her tears.

  I was struck by the shape of her frown, even in her sadness there was a visible kindness. “If they let me. Will you write me?”

  “Every day.”

  “What if they won’t give me your letters?”

  “Even if they don’t, you’ll have them all to read when you return and I’ll watch you read them and it will be wonderful.”

  “You make it sound as though I’ll be leaving for a long time.”

  “Aren’t you?” She wiped her eyes.

  “I haven’t the faintest idea.”

  She nuzzled into me. “It doesn’t matter if you’re gone for one day or a hundred, I’ll miss you just the same and write a letter for each and every one.”

  “Why would you want me gone for a hundred?”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “That’s what it sounded like.”

  She nestled her head into my neck, blowing her breath gently against me. “You know I love you.”

  “I know,” I said.

  “It wasn’t easy at first,” she said.

  “Why wasn’t it?”

  “Because I didn’t want to.”

  “I know. I’m still difficult to love.”

  “You’re charming, though. I could see right through your hurt facade. You were a kind soul. Much kinder than you give yourself credit for. And for the way your friends spoke of you. Renault and LeBeau love you so. And when someone as kind and wonderful as LeBeau thinks so highly of you, it’s not hard to follow suit.”

  “I’m glad to hear.”

  I knew the real reason I was hard for her to love. She saw me bristle at the mentions of her former lovers and the other men she had to interact with.

  It was awful of me. I shouldn’t have dwelled so much on the past, hers or mine.

  “When are you leaving?” She exhaled across my back.

  The hairs on my neck stood up. “This morning. I’m to report to a day of briefing and then I’m off to...” I trailed off, wanting to tell her, but I couldn’t.

  “...the war. Will I see you before you leave?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Then we’d better make the most of now then, hadn’t we?” She ran her hands delicately up my shirt, rubbing her fingers against the bare skin of my chest.

  It was the best advice I could have ever asked for.

  Her mouth finally met mine and we kissed.

  After our kiss, we found ourselves on the floor of our flat, making love for the last time before I had to set out on my dangerous mission.

  I never wanted to leave her warming fire again, for fear of being forever left in the cold.

  But duty called.

  I left the flat after she fell back asleep, knowing that saying goodbye would be too difficult to bear. I took one last look at the brick building with longing. Who knew how long it would be before I saw it again?

  On my way to my briefing, I stopped by the café for one last drink.

  For courage.

  And who else was there, seeking his own liquid courage, but Andre LeBeau.

  “What are you doing here so early in the morning?” I asked him. “I thought your sort caroused about all night and slept through the day, like some sort of vampire.”

  “Would a vampire buy you a drink for no better reason than seeing an old friend,” he said, raising two fingers to the waiter. “Une bouteille de vin rouge, s’il vous plaît.”

  I nodded my thanks without another word.

  “But I might ask you the same question, mon ami. What brings you here so early in the morning?”

  “I’m leaving. They’re shipping me out on a mission.”

  “In that case I’ll buy two bottles.”

  “You’ll have to drink the second yourself. I just stopped in for a quick one before my briefing.”

  The waiter arrived at the bar with a bottle of cheap red wine and poured two glasses for us. It was dry and sweet.

  “I’m sorry to hear you’re leaving, Preston.”

  “So am I, old friend,” I said, thinking of nothing but Sara, just a few blocks away and sleeping like an angel.

  His eyes softened and he put on his best look of concern. “I can look in on your wife for you, while you are gone. It won’t be long that they have you gone, will it?”

  The thought of LeBeau looking in on Sara while I was gone filled me with nothing but dread. “No. That won’t be necessary.”

  “I’m serious. It would be, how you say, aucune difficulté? No trouble. She and I have always gotten along well. And who knows what help she might need with you away.”

  The scenarios I played in my head filled me with panic. I could see LeBeau knocking on the door and her answering. With his easy and well-liked charm, he’d delicately grab her by the hand and kiss the tops of her fingers.

  I did my best to suppress a shudder, but the action was involuntary. I tried to mask it with a nip of the wine.

  There was nothing I could do. My revulsion must have shown through, because LeBeau asked me then if I was all right. “You look suddenly ill.”

  “Perhaps it’s the wine,” I lied. “I should be going. I’ll be late.”

  Spinning around to leave, I found myself turned back and gathered up into LeBeau’s arms. He embraced me. “I’m glad to have run into you, to see you before you leave.”

  He kissed me on each cheek, and I wondered if he’d greet Sara the same way.

  “Be careful out there, and take care of yourself. We don’t want to make your beautiful wife a widow.”

  “No.” I stammered. “No, we don’t.”

  LeBeau had his hands gripped at my shoulders and it seemed as though he was about to cry. His eyes, red with fatigue, welled with moisture and I couldn’t tell if he had been up all night and hadn’t slept or genuinely feared for my safety.

  “I worry about you, mon ami. Please promise me you’ll take care, Preston.”

  “Of course I’ll be careful, but I really must be going.”

  He let go of me, and I straightened my uniform as I walked from the café.

  The only thing I could think of was how much I wanted to like him–how much I loved him–but how little I trusted him with Sara.

  I told myself these feelings and thoughts weren’t rational, but justified them in wishing to take no chances with my beloved wife.

  All I could hear repeating in my mind on the way to my briefing was LeBeau’s voice. “I can look in on your wife.”

  It repeated in my head.

  Over and over.

  “I can look in on your wife.”

&
nbsp; Over my dead body.

  Before we move on, I want you to know how difficult it is for me to remain clear-headed and impartial to the events as they happened.

  I know I look disgusting in places, behaved badly, and done, said, and thought things that I’m ashamed of. But I’ve done nothing to rosy up the story and these feelings about LeBeau and Sara should be proof enough of that.

  This tome is for me to stew in my mistakes like a rabbit in a boiling pot and it would do me a disservice to whitewash things, no matter how much regret I’ve spent on them and no matter how much I wish I could change them.

  If we can’t learn from our mistakes, we’re doomed to repeat them. Isn’t that what they say?

  Part Three

  20

  I was sent away before a bitter spring frost hit my proverbial garden. Before I left, I spent ten full hours locked up in Lorick’s sparse office with the windows drawn, tending to a garden of his design and memorizing all manner of pertinent data I’d need on my mission. Information to lull Dr. Jamert into enough complacent security to hand over his precious cards.

  Sitting there, on the receiving end of his desk, being handed paper after paper, I was given names, dates, and places of things that I felt would be impossible to remember. By the end of the day, I was sure I’d have done a better job memorizing the sway of the gray curtains, the pattern of the carpet, and the titles of the books on Lorick’s shelves than all the information they gave me.

  Lorick himself paced back and forth on the other side of the desk, his sleeves rolled up and his tie loosened, pounding an open palm with his fist as he spoke as though he were pounding the facts into my brain. His nameless British associate smoked a pipe from a chair behind me, listening more than anything, but interjecting here and there for clarification.

  This part of intelligence work was neither glamorous nor risky, but someone had to do it and I wasn’t given a choice.

  I was given nothing whole, just fragments. Enough shades of truth to base my lies on.

  After I’d been fed enough vague data points about the war and places I was alleged to have been doing various things for the German effort, we began a list of names of various mid-level scientists and intelligence operatives I might have known or Jamert might have had contact with.