The menu that the waiter brought them was in French, of course, the words printed in silky black ink on the creamy paper. Devon slowly parsed the French into English, describing various options that inevitably involved a great deal of butter and garlic, and all of which sounded delicious.
Overwhelmed by such richness, Stanley could hardly decide. Besides, being with Devon, like this, in this clean, well-lighted place seemed enough of a bounty that he didn’t need to eat. Though he did, he knew he did, so he thought about it and made up his mind.
“Which is the one again?” asked Stanley. He ran his fingers down the page to feel the smoothness of it. “The chicken in wine one?Cocko’ van?”
“Coq au vin,” said Devon, though he could hardly manage for laughing at Stanley’s mispronunciation of it. Not to mention that Stanley’s was the naughtier version, and it filled him with a sense of joy that he’d found a way to make Devon laugh. Playing the fool when he didn’t know the language was quite easy, and the result was Devon’s bright eyes and handsome smile.
The waiter came, delivered the wine and bread, and took their order. Once he discovered that only Devon knew French, even if very little, he focused his attention away from Stanley. Which was rude, in a way, but Stanley shrugged, reached for the bread and butter, and drank from the glass of red wine that the waiter poured for him, happy to be where he was, happy to be with Devon. If thoughts of the war intruded, he would simply push them back; he wouldn’t let time jerk him around anymore.
When the food came, Stanley’s dish contained a mess of chicken parts in red sauce. He was dubious, for it looked like stewed chicken, which he’d had back home and didn’t like very much. Except, when he ate it, the chicken was silky with butter and bursting with all sorts of flavors. He quickly inhaled the chicken and mopped up the sauce with more bread and butter, which the waiter disdainfully brought for them. Devon plowed silently through his steak and frites. To finish, they had sliced cheese and fruit. Stanley’s stomach was so full he was never going to have to eat again.
“We can get groceries and go back,” said Devon as the waiter brought him the bill to pay.
Devon took the bill and handed the waiter a thin bit of plastic from his wallet. He used the same motion someone might if they werehanding over cash. Only there was no cash. Stanley stared, but no matter how carefully he watched, no money changed hands.
The waiter didn’t seem to mind this, and went away. When he came back, he smiled with a bow as he gave the card back to Devon and gave Devon several slips of paper to sign. Then the host brought them their jackets and caps, and they stepped into the late afternoon street, the sunshine struggling to get through the clouds.
Several automobiles whizzed by them on the street and then two young men on a small, motorized bike. Again, Stanley had to work hard not to stare. He’d seen military vehicles, of course, but back home regular automobiles had been thin, black, spidery contraptions that belched smoke and bounced about. He’d ridden on the trolley car that you could get on for a nickel, which was a bit more reliable than automobiles.
He’d seen soldiers on motorized bikes before, too, but the young men were civilians, and it filled Stanley with the thought that if he stayed, if time allowed him to stay, he might get to ride one someday. With Devon in the front, and Stanley clinging on behind, his arms around Devon’s waist, and the wind in their hair.
“Better hurry,” said Devon, his words shaking Stanley out of his daze. “I think it’s going to start raining again.”
Devon led Stanley into a store that turned out to be a grocery store. The food was piled so high in every aisle that it was almost too much. Even in the middle of November, there were all the fruits of summer, shiny and polished, row upon row of red and yellow and green.
Stanley followed Devon around, carrying the basket, being of use. He ended up looking at the floor a great deal because it became overwhelming, otherwise. The food in that store would have fed every man in the battalion for a year, and then some.
It was a little better when they got to the bakery section; the smells were familiar, and the baker seemed happy to hand over samples. Devon dithered over his choices, and Stanley was content to breathe in the fresh baked bread smells, watching while various pastries and loaves were wrapped in silky waxed paper.
After they waited in line at the sleek-looking cash register, the bored clerk took each item and moved it from one part of the counter to the other in a ritual that Stanley didn’t understand. The machine somehow totted up a long line of numbers that represented what Devon had purchased, though as to how the machine knew that, Stanley could not fathom.
Devon again paid for everything with the thin card that he showed to the machine. Then they piled everything in the string bags that Devon had brought with him, stuffed in his pockets, and together they staggered out of the store and into the street.
“It’s only half a mile,” said Devon, as though Stanley needed encouragement. He couldn’t wait to get back, to be alone with Devon in the cottage. In the warm, still air, where the war seemed far away, and where the modern world had yet to encroach.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
As they came through the copse of leafless trees and down the hill to where the cottage was, it began to mist. On the edge of the horizon, the sun was sinking low behind the clouds, arcing the light in streams of purple and blue dusk. The white crosses, row on row, shone brilliant against the dark, green grass. As they got closer, Stanley’s gaze was drawn to them, again and again.
Isaac was beneath one of those crosses, or maybe he wasn’t. The crosses didn’t mark actual bodies, for the most part, but rather represented how many men had died. Some bodies were unidentifiable; other men’s bodies had never been found. Over two hundred crosses had been driven into the earth to mark the occasion of the end of one battalion’s futile struggle. Stanley’s stomach turned at the thought of it.
“What’s the matter, Stanley?” asked Devon.
He put his shopping bags down while he unlocked the door. When he saw where Stanley was looking, he quickly opened the door and ushered them both into the cottage and out of their caps and jackets. He bustled about, putting groceries away in the kitchen. Stanley lingered by the counter, wanting to help, but not knowing where everything went.
“You still look sad,” said Devon. “Even with food in your belly and all this food in front of you.”
The words started out half-joking, as though Devon had meant to jolly Stanley out of his mood. But then he seemed to realize that something deeper was amiss. He pulled Stanley to him and held him close. Stanley let himself breathe slowly in and out, his cheek on Devon’s shoulder, his nose buried in the collar of Devon’s shirt.
“Let me pour you some wine and then tell me.”
Stanley didn’t want wine, and he didn’t want to report on how he felt, as though this was something Devon could fix. As if this was something anybody could fix. But this was different; Devon’s intention seemed to be that he only wanted to help.
Devon poured wine into jelly jars for them both. Together they stood in the kitchen, hip to hip, while Devon fried onions and sausages and peppers in a pan, with the heat on low. Not because they were hungry, but because it seemed he liked having something to do with his hands and, besides, they had all the time in the world.
“I just wonder,” said Stanley, enjoying the warmth of Devon’s body next to his.
Devon looked up at him, his eyes dark and serious in a way that told Stanley that he was listening, really listening. That he probably wouldn’t dismiss what Stanley was about to say.
