by Ray Cluley
“Good to meet you,” the General said, shaking my hand. Holding it just a moment longer than necessary.
“Likewise,” was all I could manage.
“And you organized all of this, did you?”
I nodded.
He released a breath as if it must have been an ordeal and said, “Bet that took some planning. We could have used someone like you in the Middle East.” He smiled.
His smile was as dazzling close up as I had imagined when seeing it from afar, but it was his eyes that drew me. They were deep hazel and met your own gaze with such intensity it was difficult to not look away.
“By all accounts,” I said, recovering enough to respond to his compliment, “it wasn’t much of a party out there.”
He laughed. I felt myself smile with the pleasure of having caused it and he clasped my upper arm, laughing still, and said, “It wasn’t.” I tensed, suddenly self-conscious about how my body might feel in the suit, but he released me quickly enough, with a friendly pat afterwards.
We talked for a short time about the party, though I barely heard the words. I was too focused on the musicality of his voice, the rise and fall of its timbre. It wasn’t difficult to believe he’d once yelled orders but already he had the orator’s skill he’d need in politics and I even wondered how he might sound singing. How his voice would sound when hushed into a whisper.
“This must feel like work,” the General noted, “all this talk of the party.”
I disagreed politely but he wasn’t fooled, and so we talked of other things. It was some time before I noticed my previous companion had gone. I didn’t care. The General was charming and well informed on a number of subjects, all of which he spoke of in a way that seemed to promise he could say more if only the two of you had a private moment elsewhere. His opinions felt like confidences and he heard my own with a seriousness that encouraged my honesty about a great many things. He seemed genuinely interested in anything and everything I had to say; if there was anything false about him, he was good at hiding it. He would do well in politics.
I tried to steer the conversation to his own exploits overseas, and he humoured the attempts with stories that held my attention while remaining modest. Indeed, his brave charge into enemy fire, his actions in the field, seemed all the more courageous for his reluctance to talk about them; he would always turn the conversation away again as soon as it was polite to do so. Where he became most particularly passionate was when talk turned to technology and advances in modern invention.
“It’s wonderful, isn’t it?” he concluded. “The things we can do today. The march of progress, the devices designed to make our lives easier. I mean, take our cell phones for example. Look at what they can do these days.”
It was a wonderful way into exchanging details. Smoothly done, and innocent enough to avoid any potential embarrassment.
“I may need to plan a huge party some day,” he said, filing my number away then looking around at all the guests mingling. I worried he was searching for a way out of our conversation, that I had kept him too long from other friends or obligations, but he was merely observing the size and nature of the group assembled. “Or perhaps not a party,” he said, “maybe a military operation, eh Thompson?”
My name is not Thompson, but I didn’t correct him. Indeed, I felt he’d made the error on purpose. Not as a slight, but as if to see how it would fit, or how I might respond to it. I tried to give him nothing outwardly, but he saw something that made him smile and that was how our conversation ended that first night.
S
Some nights I sleep through a thunder of gunfire, standing in a desert that is green and black, a foreign land of night-vision colours. A flare of white—bright, brief, dazzling—and the heavy concussion of a fired shell as dark shapes rush towards each other in the open plains. I call for John, but my voice is torn from me by a wind that carries the desert from one place to another; his name is taken from me in a gust of dust and sand. The air I breathe is full of it so I pull my pyjama shirt over my nose to filter the breaths I take. It does little to block the smell of burning metal, the stench of hot fires, or the acrid chemical odour of cannon blast. Later, when it is over, there will be the stench of roasting flesh, the lingering smell of fear and defeat. The victors will be suddenly gone and only a graveyard of machinery will remain behind. This is when the green light of goggles I do not wear disappears and I am alone in the night desert with torn vehicles and split lengths of track and huge discarded pop-top flowers. Black poppies in a field of sand. My fists are full of grains slipping between my fingers and I wait for John’s voice to answer my call. When it comes I’ll run to him. I will spread my hands open for speed, wind taking the sand from my palms, hurrying because his voice is so full of pain. So full.
I never manage to reach him.
S
Though John and I exchanged some messages after that first occasion of our meeting, it was some time before I saw him again, and even then it was a public and solemn affair. It was a memorial service, a formal event beginning at the grand cathedral for which our city is rather famous. I had arranged much of the event, was responsible for a couple of the speakers, and my presence was required to ensure it all went smoothly. Attending church is not a regular part of my life, except for such special functions, and I do not belong to an organized religion of any kind. I have my own relationship with God. The Reverend Drummond knows this, and accepts it, even if he doesn’t fully understand my reasons and probably wouldn’t accept them if he did. Still, we are friends, or close enough that I would often coordinate such ceremonies, especially if the city’s wealthier residents were to attend and donations were to be encouraged.
As the Reverend spoke at length about the futility of war, a hushed voice beside me said, “I hear you set this up?”
I turned to see who addressed me though there was little need; she’s worn the same perfume for all the years I’ve known her.
“Miss Arabella,” I greeted her. Our little joke.
“Mrs.,” she corrected as usual, waving her wedding ring at me as she always did. She had made a pass at me once and we’d agreed ever since to blame her marriage for her lack of success. Easier than to think my tastes would not extend to her, though she was boyish enough in build. There was still something of flirtation on her part whenever we spoke, as if she thought trying hard enough could one day “turn” me, but it was done in fun rather than frustration.
“Mrs.,” I said. “Of course. And how is your husband?”
She waved the question away because neither of us really cared. “So tell me about the General,” she said.
I was rather taken aback. The General and I had exchanged a few texts, a few phone calls, had even spoke via web-cam a few times (technology really is a wonderful thing) but I had not told anybody. My discretion is partly what makes me such a valued member of certain circles and plays no small part in the success of my business; I know who should receive invites to what and, more importantly, who should not, and I understood the subtleties of seating arrangements and the like. That Arabella should know something of my business with the General was almost as startling as my having no knowledge of him at all.
“Don’t look so surprised,” she said, “he’s quite taken with you.”
She laughed, for whatever surprise she had seen in me must have increased tenfold with such news.
“How sweet,” she said, “you’re blushing.”
“What do you know about—”
The Reverend raised his voice over our whispered conversation and presented us with a look that was not lost on myself, Arabella, or indeed any of the people gathered close by. We spent the next few minutes in quiet and I used the time to wonder at this turn in events.
Conversations between the General and I had been long and interesting but often circled anything that might be con
strued as personal, an exercise in caution on his part that I was happy to entertain, enjoying as I do the thrill of the chase, the flirtatious hesitancy that precedes any new relationship worth having. I understood how any relationship we might have could compromise him, even in this apparently more tolerant day and age. He had only recently become a public figure, with an interest in political progress, not to mention a military background that would permit little by way of sexual scandal. I was surprised he may have mentioned any of our communications. It did not surprise me, though, that having done so, Arabella would hear of it. Oh, not from him, certainly, but she knew people who knew people.
“Such a handsome man,” she said, whispering her opinion but not taking too much care as to how quietly. “Such a waste.” Her tone left her exact meaning ambiguous as to which man she meant; flirtation, to her, was breath.
By this point I had neither confirmed nor denied any of her suspicions, save to redden in the face. But I saw it as a positive sign that he had mentioned me at all, and I enjoyed entertaining the idea of a romantic connection.
“I hear he served in the Gulf,” I offered, steering the conversation away but keeping within the topic of her interest.
“Yes,” she said. “Tanks.”
“Saw a bit of action.”
We received another glance from the Reverend who was still delivering a suitably sombre speech. It was rude of me to ignore it, disrespectful even, but I couldn’t help pursuing this line of conversation. John was so reticent about the wars he’d served in.
“A bit of action,” Arabella said, smiling with sarcasm, but seeing the tilt of my head and inquisitive frown she covered her mouth and widened her eyes and said, “Really? You don’t know?”
“Don’t know what?”
“Jesus,” she said, though she knew full well where she was when she said it, at once appalled at the story she had and delighted that she could be the one to tell me. “Horrible. Tragic. The things that happened over there.”
I nodded my agreement, perhaps hurrying her along quicker than was politely appropriate. “I tried Google but there was nothing.”
“Well there wouldn’t be,” she said. Technology might have been bounding forward, but the internet had nothing on Arabella. “He was one of the ones who—”
“‘Man hath but a short time to live!’” the Reverend announced with more fervour than the solemn occasion called for, our chatter not unnoticed. He maintained eye contact. “‘He cometh up and is cut down like a flower.’”
I nodded at him, not in agreement but to acknowledge my fault and as a promise of quiet. I would ask Arabella about the General later.
Or, I decided, I would ask General John Smith himself. Man has a short time indeed, I thought, resolving to speak to him directly, honestly, and while I was being honest I would tell him how I felt. I would make the most of my life by offering to share some of it with him.
When the Reverend was finished, we filed out from our pews to a cenotaph in the churchyard where several servicemen made speeches about lost brothers in arms, remembering all who had sacrificed before them in wars we seemed to learn nothing from. The General was one of the speakers.
What a speech he made!
He was wearing full dress uniform and stood tall, proud, as he delivered a moving account of time spent on the battlefield, and of a more harrowing time spent with men in various military hospitals. He spoke eloquently, yet refrained from any poetics that might have added an unnecessary gloss to his words. At one point, speaking of lost friends, his voice, usually so strong and so clear, caught in his throat. He massaged the area for a moment, as if the fault lay in his larynx, and continued, not once referring to any prepared text. It seemed he had one, for he clutched a paper in one hand, but for most of the speech his hands were clasped behind his back. I admired the honesty with which he spoke and wondered if perhaps he had deviated from the prepared script. I could imagine something drafted by someone else, crafted to further the General’s political aspirations while offering sentiment and condolences, just as I could imagine him ignoring it.
I kept a close eye on him as he spoke, and afterwards tried to find a moment to talk with him, but he was always in the company of others, mostly soldiers, and I did not want to mingle with a crowd so fully his own. What did I know of war? So I looked for Arabella to perhaps pick up from where we’d left off, a poor substitute for the General’s company even as pleasant as she can be, but it appeared she’d already left. Many had, once the speeches were over; respects had been paid, and that was all that had been required.
The General noted my presence in the crowd, at least. He nodded to me, and smiled, though it was a smile somewhat lacking in its usual mirth. My nod in return was both a hello and a goodbye and I left him with his fellow servicemen.
It was as I settled into my car that I saw him finally snatch a moment to himself. He deposited what I had thought was his speech at the foot of the cenotaph and re-joined his friends as they were leaving. I watched them pile into a minibus I’d organized for the occasion, knowing it would take them to where a procession would move slowly through the park.
I sat in my vehicle for some moments, debating with myself. Eventually I pulled out into traffic and drove home.
S
That night I did not sleep. I lay awake, contemplating the events of the day, and the cruelties of war. I considered, too, the cruelties of love. I had a letter from John and I read it over and over, wishing it had been addressed to me. Just as I’m sure John wished he had given it to Thompson when he’d had the chance.
S
Several days passed before I spoke to the General again. It began with a text message, a polite enquiry as to my health and happiness, and proceeded to a web-cam conversation. I did not confess my feeling to him as I had planned because the distance between us felt too great when each of us was little more than a disembodied head on a fold-up screen. I longed to see more of him than this. But we exchanged some banter that finally crossed the line into undeniable flirtation and he spoke of arranging a meeting, something public but not too intimate. I told him of a coming performance I’d planned with the intention of garnering interest in a new acting company. The launch would offer just the right amount of excitement and frivolity together with the restraint of a public relations event.
“It won’t be difficult to get you an invite,” I told him.
“Not Shakespeare is it?” he asked.
“Er . . .”
He sighed, and we laughed. I told him there would be various acts to showcase individual talent, and a short play that presented the whole ensemble and he accepted the offer.
“‘In visions of the dark night I have dreamed of joy departed’,” he said.
“Is that Shakespeare?” I didn’t think it was, but I was hardly Patrick Stewart.
On screen, John shrugged. The buffering made the action awkward, like something automated, and I realized how much I longed to see him in the flesh. The meeting we’d planned could not come soon enough, and I told him as much; the bravest of my flirtations. To my surprise and delight, he reciprocated.
Of course, the days until then passed slowly.
I was to meet John at the launch, which was taking place at a reputable hotel. I had reserved two of their function rooms together with the exclusive use of the bar, and I had invited all those who could benefit, or would benefit from, a theatrical association. For myself, I had taken the liberty of reserving a room. Partly it was to save me the bother of returning home the same evening, but it was a double room; the hotel was one that could be counted on for discretion, and I had my hopes.
He was late. For half an hour I was forced to mingle, smiling my pleasantries, which was when I met an old acquaintance I had once assisted with an art installation. I’d found him difficult company then, and he quickly proved he hadn’t change
d.
“Very modern, all this, isn’t it,” he said, “the actors mixing with the audience, all of that.”
I agreed, but without the same expression of disdain. The performances were to occur amongst the guests rather than on a stage, an intimate and far more lively approach to theatre, I thought. It meant the people here were not all as they seemed, but apparently not everybody enjoyed the frisson of uncertainty.
“I could be chatting to some young thing only for her to suddenly take on some role,” he complained. “She’d start bellowing poetry, or worse, and all my efforts would have been wasted.”
I thought that any woman listening to him must already be an accomplished actress in order to feign interest, but I did not make the remark.
“Who are you with then?” he asked me. “Or do you have your sights set on someone here? Come on, who’s your target?”
He was eagerly eying up the women. He did not know me well at all.
“I thought the General was to be here this evening,” I said, answering his question indirectly but seeming, to him at least, to change the subject.
“Smith?”
I nodded, looking elsewhere as I sipped my drink. Acting the role of indifference.
“I hope so,” my companion said. “Good man. Terrible what happened. Cruel lot over there, aren’t they? Can’t do this, can’t do that. Hide their women under those God-awful sheets with eye slits. You see that film? You can’t even fly a kite in those countries.”
And so on. I tolerated as much as I could, hoping he might touch on something more personal about the General, but all I learned was how ignorant this man was, and how racist. He muddled countries throughout his soliloquy, or rather he lumped them all together as The Middle East or, honestly, “The Land of Tyrants and Terror.”
“T and T,” he said, “Tyrants and Terror. What they deserve is some TNT.” He mumbled an explosion and mimed it with his hands before laughing at his own pathetic joke. When he saw I was not amused he at least had the good grace to adapt his topic.