“I won’t even read the stories,” she said.
He shrugged and then wiped a hand over his face. Outside, the sky was beginning to darken with sudden summer rain clouds. He walked to the big picture window. Aimlessly, he said, “Rain coming.”
“Yes.”
She could see his face, could see the beginning of a tic at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t let them bother you,” she said. “McNalley or Pierce or any of the others. Just do your job.”
“Yes,” he said, and he nodded.
In the distance, lightning flashed across the sky, followed instantly by the low rumble of thunder. He turned to her.
“Karin?”
“Yes?”
“Could — could we go upstairs?”
“Yes, darling,” she said. She took his hand and led him to the steps. She could feel tension surging like electricity through his fingers. A lightning bolt crashed closer, and she felt him start unconsciously, wince when the thunder bellowed its near answer. He pulled her to him suddenly, fiercely. Standing on the step below her, he pressed his face to her bosom. His body was stiff, his jaws clamped together, the trembling visible.
“I need you,” he said. “Karin, I need you so much.”
She did not answer. She took his hand and led him to their bedroom and she could remember the first time he’d said those words to her, so long ago, the first time she began to know a little about the man she loved so much. They had driven out of Berlin on a Friday afternoon, a weekend pass tucked into the pocket of his blouse, the jeep bouncing along bomb-pitted roads under a sky as bright as blue enamel. He looked very handsome in his captain’s tunic, the twin silver bars gleaming on his shoulders, his eyes reflecting the blue of the flawless sky. They had found an inn a hundred kilometers from the city, the familiar Zimmer sign hanging out front. He had joked about the word on the drive to the inn, thinking it amazing that this family named Zimmer had managed to corner the market on all the hotels in Germany. They’d eaten dinner alone in the small dining room while the proprietor hovered over them, pouring from a bottle of French wine he’d managed to save from “the good days.” They’d gone up to the room then, and he’d begun unpacking his small bag while she undressed. He was taking out his pajamas when she whispered, “Hank.”
He turned to her. She stood naked, one arm crossed over her breasts, the other arm extended.
“Give me the top,” she said. “I want to wear your pajama top.” There was a curious look in her eyes. He went to her, sensing that it was very important that he give her the pajama top. Her eyes made it an important thing. He handed it to her, and she put it on and then hugged her arms across her body.
“It’s nice,” she said. “It’s very nice. I knew it would be nice.” She reached up to put her arms around his neck, shorter now without her high-heeled pumps, looking very small and very vulnerable in the overlarge pajama top. “May I kiss you, please?” she asked.
“What for?”
“To thank you.”
“What for?”
“For finding me. For taking me away from Berlin this weekend. For lending me your pajama top.”
“Karin...”
“Are you very tired?” she asked, a slight smile on her mouth.
“Tired?”
“After all that driving,” she said.
“No, I’m not.”
“I thought you might be tired,” she said.
“No,” he answered, returning the smile, “I’m not tired at all,” and she kissed him.
She could not remember afterward how many times she awakened him during the night. She could not sleep at all. Lying in the circle of his arms, she was sure this was not real, this untouched inn hung with medieval gables, leaded windows that had not been shattered by bombs, clean white sheets, and Hank beside her with a three-day pass, no rush to the base in the morning, this could not be real. In the darkness of the ancient room, the fat mattress cradling them, embracing them, the windows open, the town silent and still except for the occasional rumble of an airplane droning toward Berlin, she lay wide awake, her eyes saucer-wide, a small smile of childish disbelief on her mouth.
She woke him the first time to ask, “Are you real?”
He blinked at her in the darkness. “Yes,” he said sleepily. “I’m real.”
“Why don’t you make love to me?” she said.
“Now?”
“Can you think of a better time?”
“Yes. Tomorrow morning.”
“That’s a good time,” she agreed. “But now is a good time, too.”
She lay awake afterwards, thinking, He’s had a very tiring drive in a jeep, he must be exhausted, I mustn’t demand too much of him, but I want to touch him, I want him to be awake, I want to know that he is real, I want hours and hours and hours of him, I never want to leave this bed, I want to stay in this bed for the whole three days, I love his pajama top.
“Hank?”
“Mmmm?”
“I love your pajama top.”
“Mmmm.”
“You’ll never be able to wear it again without thinking of me.”
“Mmm.”
“Will you?”
“No. Won’t.”
“Do you want to sleep?”
“Don’t you?”
“I want to talk. Hank, we can sleep all day tomorrow. We have three whole days together. Can we talk?”
“All right.”
“Isn’t Mr. Vettiger nice?”
“The proprietor? Yes. Adorable.”
“Are you very sleepy?”
“No, no, notatall.”
“Do you think he knows we’re not married?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re not very talkative.”
“I’m listening.”
“I think he knows,” she said.
“I don’t think he cares,” Hank answered.
“He likes us. We’re a wonderful couple.”
“Mmm.”
“You looked so handsome today.”
“Go to sleep,” he said.
“I’ll wake you later.”
“All right.”
“You’ll know you’re being awakened.”
“Will I?”
“Yes. You’ll know,”
“Why don’t you go to sleep?”
“I’m too excited. I love you too much. We’ve got three days together, Hank. Oh, I’m so happy, I’m so damn happy!” She chuckled and then caught herself. “I mustn’t,” she said.
“Why not?”
“Laugh on Friday, cry on Sunday,” she said. “Don’t you know that expression?”
“This is Saturday,” Hank said. “It’s past midnight.”
“Yes, but it’s really Friday,” Karin said adamantly.
“That’s not logical. It’s not even sensible.”
“Laugh on Friday, cry on Sunday. I don’t want to cry on Sunday.”
“This is Saturday. You can laugh all you want.”
“When I was a little girl, all I did was wet my pants and cry. That’s what my father said, anyway. He used to call me ‘Benässen und Weinen.’”
“What’s that?”
“It means ‘Wet and cry.’”
“It’s a good name. I’ll call you that from now on.”
“Don’t you dare! Go to sleep. I’ll wake you later.”
“You twisted my arm,” he said.
He was asleep again almost instantly. She listened to his heavy breathing and she thought again, He’s so tired, I should let him sleep. She got out of bed and walked to the dresser where he’d put his cigarettes and his billfold and his dog tags. She shook a cigarette free from the pack, lighted it, and then went to stand at the window, looking out over the fields, silvery white in the moonlight. The floor was cold. She stood by the window for just a little while, one arm folded across his pajama top, the other moving to her face each time she sucked in on the cigarette.
She put out the cigarette then and went back to the bed. “You’re so warm,” she said. He grunted in his sleep and she grinned delightedly and thought, He really is. He’s the warmest human being I know. He’s always so warm. His feet are never cold. How does he keep his feet so warm?