“That’s also why Socrates, though he did not reject the young Alcibiades’ love, also did not agree to its consummation.”
“How’s that?”
“True love requires separation. Plato specifies that the desired union of the two halves that so appeals to your imaginations must never take place. The love of beauty must remain open-ended. Therefore, it’s always in a state of disequilibrium. Its extremes can drive a man to the most shameless acts.”
3
From the first officer of the night watch to the second officer:
You’re punctual, sergeant. It’s time for the changing of the guard. But I’m not going to bed. I’ll stay up to keep you company. Half an hour ago I would have said things seemed quiet and peaceful; the hours of sentry duty had gone by in their usual drowsy haze. But suddenly I saw something new. I won’t waste words describing it. Here, take these binoculars and look out, into the darkness. Do you see that large, glowing body descending towards us through the fog? What is it? An old spacecraft re-entering the atmosphere? A UFO from a distant planet? Or am I just seeing things, as my troops always claimed? Use your fresh, young eyes, sergeant, and tell me what’s out there. Should we wake the CO or wait to get a closer look? I don’t want to end up a laughingstock.
I’ve been serving this country for over fifty years. The best years of my life have been spent right here. But the wild swings from military to civilian existence have left me depressed. I don’t know what I am any more. Who can believe that a huge, state-of-the-art installation, dug into the ground in top secrecy, one of the most closely guarded bases in our vast and powerful land, is now a tourist site run by a small, undisciplined garrison?
Do you have any idea, my young friend, just how deep the nuclear shelter beneath us is? Would you believe that once upon a time an infernal elevator burrowed ten floors into the ground before it hit a false bottom? Do you realize that underneath the command rooms and storerooms are comfortable apartments, equipped for our politicians and generals to stay in with their families? That at a depth of dozens of metres are double beds for lovers, tables set for banquets, an ultramodern kitchen with an enormous freezer filled with every delicacy — all to addvariety and spice to long months of hiding from radioactive poisons? Has anyone told you about the library of great books, the playrooms and games for children? There’s even a hospital with maternity wards and operating theatres.
They say the threat of nuclear destruction has passed. Our former enemies are now our friends and the doomsday weapons are rotting in their silos. The pinpricks of terrorists and suicide bombers don’t call for underground cities. And that, young man, has spelled the end of a career soldier’s world. I, who once served in war’s inner sanctum, have become a butler and a lackey. In the old command rooms, in which every drill made history’s heart skip a beat, I entertain the tourists with Disneywars.
You tell me, young man: Is it so? Is peace here to stay? Can we be so surethat a new threat — now, today, tonight — won’t send usback into hiding?
After all, even if we trust your twenty-twenty vision, you can’t deny there’s something worrying about an unfamiliar armoured vehicle approaching the gate with its lights raking over us, especially when it has a coffin in tow. That’s a bad omen for an ageing sergeant whom nobody needs anymore.
The “minor detour” to the newly opened tourist site in an old and still partially functioning military base turned out to be a difficult two-hour journey, climbing precipitously and then dropping just as fast. Perhaps this was why, when stopped at the gate by a beetle-browed veteran sergeant with a mouth full of gold teeth, who insisted that security regulations forbade the entry of unidentified military vehicles, the tired drivers put up no resistance and left their vehicle outside, instructing their passengers to take their personal belongings and follow the old warrior several hundred metres to their lodgings. Leaving the coffin on its trailer, they let themselves be led, not to the guesthouse, which was half a floor underground, but to the barracks room, where three soldiers lay asleep by a crackling stove. The sergeant handed them blankets, pointed to some mattresses stacked against a wall, and suggested they get some sleep; the reception officer would register them properly in the morning.
The elderly consul, by now exhausted, took a mattress, dragged it to a corner, pulled off his coat and shoes, and collapsed, taking a last rueful look at his disappointing detour before covering his head with an army blanket. The human resources manager said nothing. His military experience had taught him that a stern silence was the best tactic when his troops were aware of a blunder. Choosing a mattress, he added two blankets to the one he’d been given and lay down in the corner opposite the consul’s. The two brothers chose the third corner, where they nested side by side; the fourth corner was claimed by the journalist. In high spirits after his well-received homily on love, he invited the photographer to join him and even to take his picture in commemoration of the day’s trek before he bundled up and turned his head to the wall.
The boy alone took his time finding a place. After standing pensively in the middle of the room in his pilot’s cap, as if looking for something he had lost, he knelt by the stove and tossed a few scattered coals into the fire. He had slept most of the way and did not seem tired now. When the old sergeant arrived with a pail of hot tea, he helped pour it into cups and hand it out to the travellers.
The human resources manager, having learned the local word for thank you from the consul, murmured it when the boy bashfully offered him a carefully held cup of steaming tea. The boy smiled at him, his delicate, coal-smudged fingers grazing the manager’s own. The sweet beverage hit the spot. He would have liked a second cup, but the sergeant had already taken away the pail. There was nothing left to do but signal the boy to turn out the lights.
“What is this? Boot camp all over again?”
The giggly voice from under the blanket was the weasel’s. The resource manager, knowing that he would have trouble falling asleep and that any banter would only make it worse, shut his eyes. At once his ears were assailed by the snoring of the consul, whose saw strokes were answered by those of a sleeping soldier.
It was 2.30 a.m. As if mesmerized by the flames that illuminated his perfect features, the boy went on crouching by the stove. Now that the others were asleep, the emissary could look at him more closely. Though he knew that the boy was aware of his gaze, he could not take his eyes off him. It’s all because of his mother, he thought. I wouldn’t look at her in the morgue and now I can’t stop looking at her reflection.
He was not the only one. The old sergeant, too, could not sleep. Returning, ostensibly to add coals to the stove, he was soon questioning the youngster and listening to his version of their strange expedition. The conversation took place in low tones, and the human resources manager followed it by watching the boy’s gestures and the white-haired sergeant’s expression. Like others of his age, the sergeant inspired the resource manager’s confidence and trust; he even made him miss the grand old man himself, the company owner. Recollecting that he had been out of touch with him for nearly a day, he rose from his mattress and displayed the satellite phone and its charger to the talking pair, miming the empty battery and notching two fingers for an outlet.