Autor: Tassilon-Stavros
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A
military post in peacetime is a monotonous place. Some things may
happen, but they are repeated again and again [Carson MC Cullers]... "They told me about a fort in the Northwest United States where, a few years ago, 1949
to be more exact, suicide and murder took place. The
participants in this fatality were: a military priest, a soldier, a captain, a
woman and a dog.
The deadliest enemy of the US army: suicide. A study analyzes
data of 200 years. Traditionally, suicide
rates among the military drop in periods of war, and the trend begins to change in peacetime. [JAMA Network Open]
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[The news coming from Asia (Korea and China) was not good. North Korea enjoyed the support of the People's Republic of China and the Soviet Union (DPRK), while the South Korean Peninsula enjoyed support only from the United Nations (UN). The Korean Peninsula had been a Japanese colony for 35 years, and after World War II, it was divided by the Soviet Union and the United States into two occupation zones along the so-called 38th Parallel North. People's China and the USSR were now trying to take advantage of the lack of protection left by the United Nations in the area of the 38th Parallel South. It was therefore not surprising that a feared offensive on the small peninsula was imminent. Time was running out, tinged with a certain triumphant tone on the part of the more patriotic North America. Despite everything, the enthusiastic grandiloquence that the famous and visionary champion Douglas MacArthur, who was actively serving in the cause of defending South Korea against the communists and leading the United Nations forces to defend it, was not enough to prevent the cooling of the minds of the vast majority of the American army, which found itself once again forced into a new militarist rebellion in a distant country of forgotten peasants, militarily impoverished, also deeply divided by the hunger of its several million empty stomachs, and whose elderly women and children must not have thought it a great deal that their barely rebuilt dignity was more or less violated for the second time, whether by Soviets or American democrats, after having finally left behind the Japanese tyranny and the remnants of the terrible world war that had devastated both the small country and half the planet. In the face of hardship, poverty and hunger are far more significant than a whole world of military ingenuity.
The quartered army, despite being a slave to so many unnecessary appetites, can also be an example of satisfied simplicity. But neither the exciting harmony of the national anthems, its flag, nor the repetitive, dry, suffocating, and hostile echo of the guttural roars of the drill officer, facing a new threat of war, can cease to be for the soldier a lost and unattainable memory of the world before war drove us mad. And the fort is then plunged into a deathly silence. But behind these embarrassing silences of the dreaded and close bellicosity, nothing disrupts the established order more than the gossip, the rumors that run rampant daily among the excited soldiery, forming its vicious circle during breakfast, lunch, or the recreation of the gymnasium or the canteen. Gossip is always like a first movement, carried out with caution, until laughter flows cleanly from the mouths, where gossip is manipulated with all the rules of unhealthy art. It is like a greasy but nourishing paste, hot and cold at the same time, or like a sweet treat whose sucking delights the individual, and which is never attacked with an air of disapproval, because the insult takes on the quality of a delicacy. It quickly twists in the mouth, becomes coated in saliva like a poison that neither harms nor kills, and is sucked again and again, and even licked without diminishing its voracity.
The words, feverish with gossip, now focused, intractable and filthy, on Father Merrick's last nocturnal appearance in the barracks occupied by soldier Tracy. The priest, the following day, did not reappear, neither at the midday meal nor at dinner after the retreat. He remained secluded in the depths of his chapel, his head drooping on his chest, brooding like a hermit. Probably the power of gossip had begun to irritate him more than terrify him. He knew for certain that the sentry from that previous night would recount to his companions the bitter indignity of the act committed before the sleeping soldier. What baseness! And after that, his clerical authority in the camp would finally fade away amid a haze of mockery and debasement. The main passion that surrounded his soul, which had nothing of the soulish kind, had rebelled before everyone's eyes against religion, which, of course, reproached his voluptuous attempts as another kind of sacrilege, which, after all, was the same one that has ruined the human race since its existence in this world, with its insinuating and even decadent reputations when it dreams of love. But sensual anxiety possesses an immovable breadth and consistency. And the fact that a man has the germ of vice does not mean he is vicious. Christian hypocrisy upholds divine omnipotence to allow procreation, but rejects sexual inclinations. And to Merrick, God seemed unjust for making him pass through the eye of the needle. Hiding a passion is like dying if you don't obtain the desired favor. And indeed, with the ravages of his shameful behavior now evident, the essence of his obligatory religiosity from that night and the following day would perish as if cornered in a dead end. The priest had evaded the eyes of all his believers, and especially of the ignoble troops in the barracks who were now abusing their victory, but always so preoccupied, however, with their own lust, substituting the laws of the spirit for those of the flesh, which are also the laws of the universe that created us. Man's reason was, therefore, identical to God's, whether one believed in Him or not. But a large part of that militarized society ignored the fact that everything rational is as legitimate as it is necessary, whether through pain or pleasure. And if the world around him was now offended by the evidence of that abominable paradox, the ecclesiastic did not cease to repeat to himself stoically that what had happened inside him was already something as just as it was irrevocable, and that the defamations that were going to circulate unequivocally through the military camp, as they sustained immoral theses among the cruel sense of that quartered mob and its disappointed and indiscreet women, even as a low and ignorant people that it was, could not but reveal the obscene profile of the rabble. And Merrick, without hesitation, prepared to respond how little he cared for the fruits of that mud.
In those October days, Captain Huntington was infuriated to the point of horror by the damned news he had recently been reading in the newspapers about the impending war on the Korean Peninsula, due to the war memories he had left behind, and which he had almost miraculously managed to survive. He found it intolerable to listen to the absurd reflections of those decorated old fogies from the fort about the integrity of the government, and the common sense defense of President Harry Truman against the intolerant rejection of communism, which was like insisting that the hard-won peace the world had finally achieved was once again losing all significance. And he couldn't help but tolerate such foolishness with a certain gloomy air in the face of his superiors, whom he considered, if the Korean conflict actually occurred, to be real oafs who would naturally remain safely in their already senile rearguard. Huntington, alone, deliberated again and again with that odious idea that the pacifist safeguard and the adversity of his strayings were once again balanced among those minds for whom the good of the human species was nothing more than a trivial and fleeting consolation. And in his mind, fear was distributed with the same ferocity as a fortune apportioned among beggars. And war, as Huntington had already reasoned on another occasion, served only to return to Nature what it had borrowed. During the night, after dinner in the officers' mess, he would lock himself in his office again, leaning his elbows on his desk, apathetic and plunged into a continual faint, imagining himself back at the front, fearing at last that monotonous, absurd, but immune military existence would be lost. Despite everything, it wasn't the first time that the thought of suicide had crossed his mind. But the procedure to reach it terrified him, because fear knew nothing of such tricks. Although hanging oneself or being shot wasn't actually cowardly, no matter how much it was said to be. But as a reprehensible action, he couldn't help but consider it a mockery, a sinister imbalance to his own detriment. And he abandoned the project, not only out of fear, but also because of the abomination of accepting such mental disorder. And faced with it, if he allowed himself to be overcome by anger, or rather, that kind of madness, it was like accepting that this mental disturbance had never known order. That night, the week before last in October, the temperature was strangely warm for the autumn season. He looked out the window, inhaled the night breeze, which brought him a strange sense of well-being, and his thoughts, rigorous until shortly before, subsided like waves of a rough sea that unexpectedly calmed. In any case, for the captain, who had managed to outwit death in the previous war, that hyperbole (as he liked to call it) that the word war represented for him, like a wicked and bloody outbreak between two worlds always dominated by constant political dissension and the innocent massacres of people, was in reality an absolute social immorality (Huntington knew no other way to describe it). And because war only usually satisfied its appetites with that cursed law that governs everything: the bravery of the soldier who offers himself as a scapegoat on its fields of death.
Indeed, before the end of October, the atmosphere was less heavy and no longer excessively cold. The sap of the plants continued to reveal its mysteries like a spring that had refused to wither with the arrival of autumn. Insects continued to buzz in the warm breezes, and the clouds, the entire nature of the forest surrounding part of the fort, flowed in coppery, gleaming colors, as if made of an unbreakable material, without losing their beauty, seduced by the force of a very yellowish and very red morning sun on its dim twilight horizon. The good weather also emboldened Merrick, and he had decided to confidently resume his parish duties, whether with the minimal portion of the Catholic troops or the rest of the inhabitants of the camp formed by the officers and their wives. The clergyman now imposed logic alongside folly. It was not an impossible task to try to separate the days and nights from their madness and anguish. The gossip and slander of the soldiery, whose reprobations and mockery must have already spread like wildfire throughout the barracks, nevertheless forced him not to stray from his paths, and, despite the looks of insatiable suspicion and harsh condemnation that awaited him from his few parishioners, and above all from the censuring officers' wives, from whom he no longer had to hide with the required rigor of his dignity the evil that gnawed at him, Merrick, knowing their dengues and stupidities, and once he was already determined to resume his functions, could care less about ending up irritating them with his new priestly circumspection, and that inwardly, even if they attended mass, they were devoured by a kind of torture that would also burn them from within because they could not openly reproach him for his sinful conduct contrary to masculine and clerical modesty. And because with his mass, he was prepared to laugh in the face of those unhealthy thoughts that rule the world everywhere. And if the devil had mingled with his flesh, allowing the spirit to shrug, with the same argument he could include in his substance the carnal envelope that also encases the second person of the Trinity. But the truth is that the doors were not closed to the priest. He remained quartered with respect, accepting the rumors that outside the church pointed at him like a rifle. The officers gathered. They couldn't neglect their duties and inspections of their military ideals, much less get bogged down in obscene remarks, especially during those days when political problems were more pressing and cast a shadow over the American army. It was a matter of rebalancing the honorable evidence of his superiority while avoiding suspicions of immorality in the barracks. And the censures of any ignominious comments attributed to one of its members, a representative of the Catholic Church, as gossip that might also tarnish the military honor of the camp, were silenced. That the priest, while the slander was circulating, now sought to reconcile himself with the world to which he belonged, even though he held certain licentious theses within himself, was not at that time the worst of the setbacks the army was facing. There was no doubt that military decorum had to be respected. But unfortunately, decorum varies, no matter how much purity one demands of it, and it will not always be irreproachable. Merrick had undermined the foundations of his probity, his chastity, as if it were a bad dream. Although the only evidence of such acts was the result of certain defamation by the troops and could not be proven. It was only assumed that the priest had dragged his ecclesiastical duties to such extremes of filth—without repentance?—the question remains. But since the evil of the species comforts no one, it was only right that the priest alone should feel the weight of the entire earth upon him.
The soldier Jason Tracy didn't read newspapers. He'd never been interested in world news, either before or after the war. His limited knowledge of English was compounded by a complete lack of formal learning. As for reading and writing, what little he had learned, he owed to his unfortunate childhood friend Maverick Bell. In the Black community, the "black shacks" according to the whites of White County, which Jason frequented with Maverick, there was a ramshackle schoolhouse where an old Black priest labored to teach English lessons and writing to the children who wandered around. Maverick Bell occasionally attended these classes, although he had barely managed to master the complicated rudiments of letters and reading. A few insights that, through a reading book given to him by the priest, he shared with Jason during their solitary walks through the cotton fields and their childhood gatherings on the banks of the Chattahoochee River. And when Tracy decided to show up at the enlistment office, the sergeant in charge of enlistments, a surly soldier who tended to attend to the newcomers without a trace of calm that would move him to indulgence, fueling their probable bad moods with this task he undertook with irritating daily routine, and with the evidence of the superiority his service conferred on him, allowing him to treat those boys like louts with no future in the army, asked his name. Tracy, although he wanted to answer, remained absorbed in his thoughts, as if searching for the answer to that simple question.
-What the hell is wrong with you? Are you mute or an idiot?- the sergeant inquired- What are you waiting for? We don't have any informative flies here if that's what you're looking for... Or are you such a fool, such a scumbag, that you don't even know your own name? Rest assured, if you want to join the United States Army, you'll have to start talking, and the first thing we're going to require is a name, you idiot!
Tracy didn't even flinch at the recruiting officer's sudden outburst of supremacy. He didn't mind being scrutinized as if he were something far removed from those institutional arrangements.
-Your name... you're going to tell me right now!- the sergeant demanded.-But you, where the hell did you escape from?- He burst out laughing- Instead of an army of soldiers with brains, we're going to cover ourselves in glory with such idiots as...
-Jason... Jason Tracy...- It was a cold response, far removed from the inexorable fear that the gruff soldier could inspire.
-Tracy, huh?... Too much of a last name for a jerk like you- the sergeant added, and offering him his enlistment card, he shouted: -Come on... write it down and sign... sign your full name... that's assuming you don't write like you speak... What are you waiting for? Or do you not know how to write either?...
Tracy looked at all that paperwork with the same indifferent look she had when she was asked for her name.
-What, do you or can't you write your damn name? Are you going to turn out to be illiterate too? What a brave army of brainless idiots we're recruiting to defend our flag!
Tracy took the pen, stared at the slip, but didn't move.
-Here... can you hear me? Steady, idiot!- the sergeant shouted in his haughty tone.
It wasn't easy for Tracy to extricate from her brain the spirit of the letter that had never been initiated into a solid foundation of schooling, and with which she could write her name on that sheet of paper filled with handwriting she didn't understand. But she signed with almost illegible irregularities.
-Fine, that's enough- agreed the grumpy sergeant, staring at Tracy's scribbled name. I hope you learn to handle a rifle better than a pen, although I wouldn't want to be standing right in front of you when you do... Go on, get lost and report to the corporal of the guard... The army will be your only schooling from today on... Go away! -And returning to his papers, he muttered: So, Tracy, eh... too much of a name for a dirt-snapper... -Then he shouted- Next useless one...
In the enlistment line, the boys looked and looked around with frightened eyes, like frightened young cats. And when another of them approached the enlistment table, he stood very erect for a second, and, placing his palm to his forehead, began an attempt at a military salute to the sergeant.
-What are you doing, you idiot?- the soldier shouted.
-Sorry, sir, but I thought...- the young man apologized.
-You don't have to believe anything, you idiot! So stop waving... You'll get tired of waving when you're in uniform. What a bunch of idiots I'm recruiting! Let's see, what the heck is your name?
Correcting soldier Tracy's intelligence and shaping his character was like trying to curb the thrift of a miser and the prodigality of a spendthrift. The only aspects worth considering in his character were neither in keeping, as was already known, with the subtle considerations of military discipline, nor even less so with the ever-confusing political order of his country. He obeyed the requests of the officers as a complicated jumble of multiple aspects, which also included reprimands for some careless mistake, one of the few he might commit, in the stables. For the soldier, there was no natural consequence other than a tendency not too demanding of physical order, and for this reason, he rarely reflected, neither now nor during past wars, on the instinct of self-preservation, which is what has always most concerned the human race. His mind was a kind of labyrinth where the world, its men and women, and naturally the centuries and countries, became entangled. From breakfast to dinner, he devoured his food with the avidity of a brute and the muteness of an animal. Since his last brawl in the dormitory, for which he made no attempt to justify himself, he locked himself in a silence that seemed to express the long emptiness of a lifetime. The autumn climate was hardly conducive to his escapades in the woods, so, in his evening leisure hours, he could be seen strolling along the barracks avenue or sitting on one of the benches. This time, he avoided the mess hall, chain-smoking, isolated from the rest of the soldiers in the barracks, although in all likelihood, in some recess of his inextricable subconscious, he was troubled by a secret and profound nostalgia for his past escapades in the woods. But to all this, there was one exception: Tracy adored his horses. In the stables, that sensitivity, almost bordering on delirium, that isolated him from men in order to love his animals, was heightened. She brushed them as if polishing precious talismans, pampered them with lumps of sugar she stole from breakfast, played with their ears, and even kissed their muzzles, murmuring a few compliments that the horses seemed to understand. And if Tracy had ever believed in the glorious yet mysterious virtues of the human soul that the priests preached, she would have snatched it from the men to grant it to the horses. It was then that a new, intense light illuminated the gray days of late October. And the scent of the grass revived in the full sun like a spring sigh that snatched from the autumn season the brutal sensations of its cold, rainy caresses. The days recovered unusually long moments of an almost summery bonanza and the forest was saturated with this verdant maximum as if flattered Nature, although trusting such a hope was doubtful, recovered its original consistency before yielding again to autumn and the coming winter.
Margaret Huntington had had a very dark morning, one of those when you don't know whether to laugh or cry. When she went down to breakfast, she found Roberta sobbing inconsolably. When Roberta cried, her repertoire of sorrows manifested itself in a kind of predilection for exaggerations that were usually unimportant. Then Margaret sighed, tried her best to look dismayed, and again used that affectionate tone as if she were addressing a dim-witted young girl. But this morning, the fact that was motivating the girl's little whimper was indisputable.
-I can't serve "yu" "yur" breakfast, Miss Margaret- Roberta said, still sniveling.
-Why, dear?- Margaret asked- What happened to you?
-Nothing's happened to me, miss, but I've already told you... I can't make "yur" breakfast.
-Look, sweetheart, if that's what's worrying you or anything else, you must tell me. And as for breakfast, it's not important, I can make it myself.
-No, Miss Margaret, "yu're" not going to be able to...
-But why, darling? Is this another one of those mysteries that get so stuck in your little head?
-No, this time it's not a mystery, Miss Margaret... It's just that there's nothing "lef" in the kitchen... There's no milk, no eggs... and no bread or potatoes... Nothing... Yes... a couple of tomatoes. But we have an empty refrigerator...
-How is that possible, Roberta? I can't believe it...- Margaret was astonished. Well, "yu're" going to have to believe it, Miss Margaret- the girl sobbed again.
-But if we didn't have any provisions, you should have told me before they ran out.
-"Do "yu" remember that soldier... that very nice soldier who was in charge of bringing us those provisions from the barracks kitchen for lunch and dinner...?
-Henry? The one on the bicycle?...
-Yes, miss, that one. Well, since the captain "dosn't" have breakfast, lunch, or dinner at the house...
-Are you going to tell me he's stopped providing for us?
-Yes, Miss Margaret, he hasn't been around for over two weeks... What are we going to do?
-That's our captain's doing. It's his fault, I'm sure of it! That sly fellow is still sulking at us and now wants to starve us to death. I wouldn't be surprised if he's ordered Henry not to provide us with any more provisions, as is his duty.
-Yes, miss...- Roberta continued whimpering.
- Stop crying, darling... I'll talk to the captain, and I swear he'll have to listen to me, whether he speaks to us or not... whether he likes it or not... And if what he wants is for us to eat the barracks' rations, I assure you he won't succeed. His duty obliges him to provide for our upkeep... The scoundrel! And if I have to turn... even if it's embarrassing...
-To whom, Miss Margaret? My mother won't be able to "hel" us...
-No, it's not about having to beg at Peterson's house, but her husband will have to listen to me... We won't have breakfast today, but we will have lunch, I assure you we will... And the captain, has he come down yet?
-Yes, Miss Margaret, he left very "arly". You know, since he hasn't had breakfast at home... Besides, he's got a bad cold.
-Yes, I know. I've heard him coughing all night- Margaret laughed- Let him suck it up. And if he's leaving so early, it's because he's afraid of missing his disgusting military breakfast in the mess hall. Besides, it's better this way... I have no desire to have a violent argument with that monster. I'm going to go to General Peterson... In a case like this, we have to go to the senior officers, and that idiot in uniform has to face the consequences. I don't think he'll find it as funny as he imagines. Our little soldier Henry will soon be back here with the necessary supplies, you can be sure of that, dear, so stop whining and worrying. And stop behaving like Prissy in "Gone with the Wind." I still insist that you drop that accent and stop eating your words. You are Roberta, and you are obliged to speak properly, like a proper lady.
-But "yu" know that's very "difficul" for me...
"
-You, Roberta... and no "difficul": difficult... difficult, dear. You know that I'm increasingly determined to leave this hateful military camp...
-And what about "yur" husband?- Roberta was astonished- "That's not going to sit very "wel" with the captain.
-Let him feel as he pleases. I don't care at all. I'm as fed up with him as I am with the camp. I'm sure he'll agree to grant me a divorce. I'll claim mistreatment. We've already secured the first proof: his intention to deprive us of food. And the army, as the wife of an officer, will be obliged to pay me alimony. But, if I divorce... -Margaret hesitated- Well, I'll think about it... There's a solution. But if I leave here, you'll come with me. That's why I want you to behave and speak as befits a young lady.
-I don't think my mom "wil" like that very much "eithe"...
-It'll be easy to convince your mom, you'll see. You're not going to spend your life serving these unbearable soldiers like she did. You have to go out into the world, darling. And the world isn't made up solely of Mrs. Petersons and scoundrel captains like ours.
-And "wher wil" we go, Miss Margaret?
-I don't know yet, darling. I'll think about it when the time comes. For now, we'll continue to endure... but not for long.
The next step had already been decided. Margaret, secretly, enjoyed imagining the effect her protest would have on the barracks. She remembered a saying her father often used when delivering his evangelical sermons to his believers: "A miser often discovers an army of rats in his barn and..." The rest of the sermon didn't interest her. And Margaret, out of complacency, ceded it to her father's deluded and faithful evangelists.
-But you won't find any rats in my barn- Margaret said.
-Rats, miss? We've never had rats in our kitchen!- Roberta retorted briskly.
-"There are many kinds of rats, dear. And here we have a very large one- Margaret said- But this is too much. Neither you nor I are going to submit to such stupidity. Our captain would like us to burst. But he won't succeed. Don't worry, sweetheart, we won't die of hunger. That brute with his poor stripes needs a good scolding. Since he's been living locked away in his silence, what he's really been crying out for is a good scolding from his bosses... Come on, Lissy, I have to dress for the occasion- Margaret added, as she headed to her room, determined to go to the officers' quarters to explain the dire situation of the lack of supplies- Go back to the kitchen, Roberta, and stop worrying. You'll see that our friendly Henry will soon appear here on his bicycle with everything we need.
There was no doubt that Captain Huntington, after Margaret's visit to General Peterson, had already received the usual reprimand from his superior officer. The next day, around noon, he returned home without saying a word, as was his custom lately, full of discouragement, wild-eyed, and coughing nonstop because he had indeed had a terrible cold and a slight fever for the past couple of days. The general's reprimand meant a clear and unpleasant moral damage to him, affecting the solid foundation of his prestige as an exemplary, decorated captain with no blemishes up to that point on his military record. And now, because of the intrigues of those two odious bitches, as he considered Margaret and her black maid, he had played the role of a fool by vindictively denying them the required refreshments for a couple of weeks. His prostate problems continued to worsen, and he had to resort to the bathroom constantly. And to top it all off, the damned catarrh didn't abate; his bronchial tubes emitted a hellish noise, and when he got into bed, he suffocated, and his cough wouldn't stop. But that didn't stop him from seeking medical help. He had tried aspirin, but it hadn't helped. In one of the medicinal vademecums he kept in his library, he had read some miraculous remedies about cinnabar baths and potassium iodide, which had expectorant effects indicated for respiratory problems such as asthma and bronchitis. But since the captain was such a mathematician and fearful, he had to be thoroughly informed of any effects, whether positive or negative, before taking any medication listed in the formulary. At a pharmacy in the city, he inquired about the properties that iodide could contribute to his catarrh. And Huntington observed a certain look of smiling irony on the pharmacist's face when he inquired about the possible healing effects of said iodide on his insufferable cold. Iodide, the pharmacologist replied, was already medicinally an element far removed from therapeutic progress, although its use had been widely erroneously overused in the nineteenth century. So the captain had to settle for purchasing, on the pharmacist's advice, a mint-flavored cough syrup, with the recommendation at the same time that he make eucalyptus and camphor vapors. Then, during the night, the captain wandered around the galley, boiling water, which he then poured into a small basin. And with great care, he went up to his room, so that neither Margaret nor the maid would notice what he was doing to carry out the suffocating aspersions they had recommended. But the truth was, he didn't see any therapeutic value in it.
Unexpectedly, one morning later, Roberta's mother, Octavia, who served in General Peterson's house, showed up at the Huntingtons' house, her face beaming with satisfaction. She was carrying a succulent breakfast she had prepared for Margaret and her daughter, including, of course, the captain, if he deigned to appreciate the attention due to Mrs. Peterson's petulant generosity, who had ordered said refreshments, confidentially informed by her husband without a shadow of a doubt of the tangled event that had generated the lack of provisions at Margaret Huntington's house. Deep down, Peterson detested the contemptuous and intractable pride that she believed evidenced in that marriage. Margaret had stopped attending their parties, and the captain usually disappeared from them as quickly as if hiding behind his wife's skirts. And this display of generosity in sending them a good breakfast, to the Huntingtons' bewilderment, needed no further explanation. The meddlesome Peterson dished out her know-it-all, overbearing gestures as if she were handing out Sacred Heart holy cards, although her boastful, materialism, which had nothing spiritual about it, was well known in the camp. And thinking about that feigned and humiliating generosity, Huntington didn't eat breakfast. He was sick of General Peterson and his wife. Sick of Margaret and the little black girl, whom he never called by name. And he left the house in a hurry, enraged by both the cough from the cursed catarrh and the urinary urges he tried to camouflage. And being a fastidious gourmet, during those last few weeks he had lost all interest in food. He certainly had no excuse for such stupidity, but he had had to settle for the fort's meager fare, forgoing some of the special dishes that Margaret and her maid cooked. And as for that morning's breakfast, Margaret wouldn't eat it either.
-So, aren't "yu" going to have breakfast, Miss Margaret?- Roberta asked, puzzled, after her mother returned to the Peterson residence.
-No, dear... I'm not hungry... We'll wait for our cyclist... I'm sure he won't be long in showing up. We'll prepare a good lunch then- And since Lissy kept barking, she added- Give our Lissy some of your breakfast. She'll make a good living out of it... Fortunately, Lissy doesn't understand pious courtesies...
We mustn't forget that Thomas Huntington had always been so unsociable that he hadn't even managed to gain the slightest sympathy from his students in the ethics and military tactics classes he taught at school every morning. Bah, in his deep-rooted conviction as a scholar, no matter how hard he hammered his teachings, he assumed that his students' minds were unremarkable. So it wasn't worth the effort to instruct them. He responded to her greetings and nothing more. Nor did he engage in any friendly conversation during mealtimes, maintaining the same inactive and solitary circumspection of those distant Sundays when Margaret had met him at the city's Coffee Bar. It was as if he lived his military veteranhood in a social shadow of inexplicable suffocation, of hermetic attitudes, and a very bitter sorrow within him, as if the water or the little alcohol he drank were made of burning bile. And to add insult to injury, he now had the fears of war that were undoubtedly looming. He felt very ill (perhaps imaginary), but he tried his best, through his well-uniformed bearing, to continue appearing like a proper active-duty soldier, since he couldn't have borne anyone to give him even the slightest look of pity. A former comrade of the same rank, promotion, and age with whom he had maintained a somewhat friendly, though scarcely helpful, relationship during the last war, had fallen seriously ill. He had been diagnosed with terminal cancer, granted immediate leave of absence, and, along with his wife and two daughters, left the fort for a military hospital far from the barracks. Thomas Huntington didn't even dare to say goodbye. He was so horrified that he didn't even dare to wonder what would happen to this survivor of the war, like himself. The most horrifying thing of all was that his house, very close to his own, now utterly silent, lacking the alternating camaraderie the patient had maintained with other comrades or the laughter of his now-grown daughters, who had only a short time before still played in the garden. It seemed to him possessed by a kind of disturbing misfortune so enigmatic that it allowed the cowering Huntington to pass through the walls and feel in its rooms the sentimental vapor of that now vanished family, and even to notice in his master bedroom, where a terminally ill patient had once been, the presence of a deceased person who had never been removed. He therefore had to banish from his mind all metaphysical ideas, and that fateful trial, as agonizing as it was painful, with which life can shake us all. Finally, he accepted with a certain satisfaction that his office was his refuge, his shield, and his key to escape the intimacy of each home, and that putting aside every foreign affliction was what could most favor his peace of mind. It was true that on the days when he had felt most restless, he had remained out of it as much as possible, because his mind wandered with that unbearable feeling of seeing himself caught in a trap. But since his sick companion disappeared forever from the barracks, he wanted to practice a new kind of self-denial and immerse himself in a kind of spiritual life, imbuing his intelligence with monastic virtues as some saint might have done. But it wasn't a perfect solution, because the anguish, the bad mood caused by how bad he felt, and the need to continue hating everything around him, took hold of him again every morning, and he couldn't do without the seconal.
One of those late October evenings, before dark, before the retreat, the captain, now more than recovered from his cold, was walking absentmindedly along the avenue bordered by two rows of maples whose branches, still intact, their coral-colored leaves, provided the street with a covering like a protective but torn canvas. Then he spotted soldierTracy sitting on one of the benches. He considered turning around and moving away from him, because his silhouette stirred an inner impulse of shameful evil. His aversion was always centered on the memory that only the soldier carried, and because of this, his presence, which he always tried to avoid like that of a mangy dog, had acquired in the captain that emotional inadequacy that breeds hatred. But he didn't retreat, and the soldier rose submissively in the last light of dusk, extended his hand to his forehead, and saluted him with a not-so-excessive effusion, so moderate and indifferent that Huntington would have preferred that he not rise from the bench to salute him, although that would have forced him to reprimand the boy. Then the captain's dry, nervous hand responded to the salute. Military correctness should be, above all, the school of respect for military rules, and since the soldier had reciprocated, he could excuse him. But the few times the captain met him, he only considered his gaze to be a look that gave off a stalking, cowardly look, because his cowardice lived locked in the distrust of that youthful mind, revealing itself with eager eyes and a hard frown. "He still doesn't trust me," Huntington said to himself.
-Rest, soldier- he ordered, although inside his voice cracked with bitterness.
Tracy didn't wait and sat back down on the bench. Huntington quickened his pace as much as he could, trembling because the anger that settled in his heart was as foolish as it was unbearable.
-"I never want to meet that bastard again..."- he thought as he walked away.
Deep down, this decision seemed as absurd and improbable as if he were telling himself repeatedly that he was trying to rid himself of the innate insolence of men. But the reason for his haste was actually a pressing need to go to the bathroom.
At the end of October, it was natural for the days to become considerably shorter. But the evenings weren't too cold, even though the weather forecasts were already announcing upcoming storms and inevitable sharp drops in temperature on the radio. At least the time change before the onset of winter had made the evenings a little longer. SoldierTracy had already indulged himself during the last week of October in the joy of his escapes to the woods, in that intimate contemplation of the evening. Feeling the fallen leaves beneath his feet on the dead grass and the touch of the damp autumn leaves and trunks on his body was like intimately perceiving the mysterious circulation that gave life to the foliage and its groves. The forest was still filled with white clouds like a healthy, captive, and glorious garment that protected him as he descended to the bowers, and Tracy remained entranced beneath that untouched nakedness of the sky until dusk complacently devoured it with the red flame of the setting sun, dyeing its clouds scarlet, and the blue clarity died, virgin and pure, giving way to the immediate darkness of nightfall. Then the soldier, although he couldn't explain it, felt himself immobilized in moments of delicious sensuality as he began the return to the barracks, trapped by the fragrances exhaled by the dew. And when he entered the enormous dining room for dinner, it was as if a prince had arrived from his complacent kingdom. Then, without leaving those seditious groups formed by his companions with whom he had always been so unsociable, Tracy, without saying a word and collecting the varied fare served to him by the cook on a large tray, would unexpectedly sit down on the corner of a table shared by six or seven soldiers, and the roar of their voices, comments, and laughter would cease for a moment, surprised that the introverted Tracy had deigned to sit down to dinner with them. The truth was that the soldier hadn't had the slightest clue what had happened in the bedroom the last night when Russell Merrick had appeared there to spy on his sleep, and, cautiously immersed in the darkness, had without the slightest hesitation forced himself to the sensual dare of kissing him while he slept, while the imaginary girl approached him, illuminating him with her lantern, astonished and amused. Tracy's quiet and singular calm as he ate his supper led them the following night to a certain indulgence with their silent companion, although there were some chuckles and ironic glances between them. And Tracy, although clearly aware of those grimaces she didn't understand, had watched them a couple or three times and seemed about to ask them something. But he said nothing and continued eating. A few minutes later, he got up from the table, followed by the mocking glances of his companions, and left as quietly as he had arrived, although he still had time to hear one of them exclaim:
-Watch out for the priest, Tracy, and his nightly Our Fathers!
There were some bursts of laughter incomprehensible to Tracy, while another of the soldiers warned:
-Don't go tickling that guy, you know how he does it!
One afternoon that same month, once the provisioning problem, which had caused the captain renewed domestic discord with Margaret, had been resolved, the latter suggested that Roberta accompany her on one of those customary walks through the woods she had taken during the summer. But the girl, no matter how much she esteemed her young lady, flatly refused to join another of those escapades that frightened her.
-"Yu" know how "afrai" I am of that wood- Roberta admitted- And "yu shouln't" go off into those backwoods alone again...
-I'm not going alone, darling. Lissy is coming with me.
-But Miss Margaret, it's about to "ge dark". Night is about to close in on "yu"... Aren't "yu" afraid?
-No, sweetheart, I'm not afraid. Besides, we still have an hour or more of daylight before it gets dark.
-That forest, "yu" know, is "ful" of mysteries, and I don't want "yu" "waking" around there at "nigh". What if you run into that soldier... Don't "yu" ·remembe him" "waking" around "nake"?
-It was summer then, and the heat was so unbearable that even I would have walked around naked.
"
-Miss!
-Yes, my dear. I understand very well why the poor soldier walked around the forest the way he came into the world. Although now I doubt very much that he will. In any case, he was very kind to us, and you know I'm not easily shocked... All right, sweetheart, stay home and prepare something for when I return...
-Miss Margaret, what if the captain comes and "ask" for "yu", what "shou" I say?
-The captain, ask for me?- Margaret laughed.- But what cherry tree did you fall from, my dear? Our captain hasn't cared about anything you and I do for a long time now. And as soon as he has dinner at the barracks, all he'll do is lock himself in his office. So stop worrying... Come on, Lissy...
-Did I frighten you?- he asked.
"
-No, not at all. I knew it could be no one but you enjoying your walks in the woods again. And this time on horseback.
The soldier stroked Lissy for a few moments, and Margaret watched him, pleased.
-You never cease to amaze me.
-Why?
But Margaret didn't respond; she approached the horse and ran a hand over its back, and the animal meekly accepted the gesture.
- It's a very beautiful horse.
-It's a mare-Tracy clarified.
-I don't understand horses. But that doesn't make it any less beautiful. Isn't she sick too?
-She's pregnant... She needs to ride from time to time, so that when the time comes for her to give birth, she'll suffer less.
-So she's going to have a foal.
-She still has seven months to go.
-I hope the colt is as beautiful as she is.
-So is her father. A thoroughbred stallion.
-The only horses I've ever seen were the poor Percherons that pulled wagons or plowed the fields near where I lived.
-Do you want to ride her?-Tracy suggested.
-Bareback?-Margaret exclaimed, smiling- No, for God's sake!
-She's very docile... She won't throw you.
-But I've never ridden a horse in my life. And if I did now, I'd probably end up rolling on the ground.
-Molly is very gentle... a very easy-going mare.
-You shouldn't risk being prosecuted for taking her out of the stables. From what I understand, you're subject to disciplinary action.
-My stable sergeant is in town. He's married. He visits his family several days a week. And Molly needs to enjoy these walks. The sergeant is a very unreasonable old codger. He cares very little for the needs of our horses. He's the one who should be disqualified for neglecting them. A horse is a perfect animal, the noblest creature in the world. It needs to feel free once in a while...
-How about you?
There was a silence. Lissy rested at Margaret's feet, and Tracy led the mare to a corner that was still somewhat sunny.
-What happened to your maid?- he asked next- Why didn't she accompany you?
-Roberta is afraid of the woods- Margaret said, smiling- She claims it's full of mysteries.
-Mysteries? What kind of mysteries?.
-Mysteries brewing in her naive little head. Mysteries she couldn't even explain... But I love her. Her affection is a great relief to me. Life in this camp is so monotonous... But you're not bored. You have your horses... and your forest. As for me, I think Roberta and I will leave here one day.
-Will you abandon the captain?
-It's quite possible that I will end up doing so...
-Well, soldier, I think we should head back. It's going to get dark very soon... and my poor Roberta will be very worried about my safety. She's afraid that the night and its innocent mysteries might devour Lissy and me... Ugh, and it's dripping... I think we'll have a nighttime downpour.
-I can walk you home- said Tracy.
-No, no... there's no need. Go back to the stables, soldier, and get your Molly under cover. We mustn't forget that she's an expectant mother and needs a lot of pampering... Well, not that I doubt you'll do it...
-When the foal is born, you can visit him in the stables- said Tracy.
-I'd very much like that. But I don't think I'll still be around when that happens... Good night, soldier.
That night, when the captain returned from dinner in the officers' mess, the weather suddenly changed. A hurricane-force wind sprang up, and it had begun to rain so hard that the drops were like darts. The gale blew them as if sweeping the rain into the air. Huntington returned, wrapped in his military greatcoat, completely drenched. The downpour, from the peak of his military cap, trickled down his chest and all over his back, and did so so violently that the water got into his boots, and even his socks were so wet that as he hurried along the avenue that led up to the officers' quarters, he seemed to be splashing through puddles, as if his feet had been beaten down by the undertow of an invisible beach. It was difficult to walk because he might slip terribly and even break his leg. He quickly crossed the puddled garden and, once on the porch, tried to shake the water off his greatcoat. The house was completely dark. Margaret and Roberta had already retired to their respective bedrooms. But he had taken so long to get there that he couldn't contain his urine, and his trousers, although protected by his dripping overcoat, were completely damp. He immediately turned on the living room light without bothering to scrub his wet boots on the entry rug. He threw off his overcoat and kicked it to the floor before reaching the stairs, which were now lit only by the living room lamp. The rain and his incontinence had made him furious, and he was also scared. His fear was naturally physical, but his mind unconsciously acted as if he were now reflected in an enormous mirror that showed him as a perfect, significantly magnified and distorted monster. If Margaret were to suddenly appear and turn on the light upstairs where the bedrooms were, she would certainly be repulsed to see him like that, panting, and more soaked with urine than rainwater. He might even notice the fetid bacteriuric odor of his prolonged urination, which he feared his trousers would emit. He had to go up to his room as slowly as possible before that damned Lissy sniffed at his presence and began to growl or bark. That irritating dog he hated so much, and whose hatred was reciprocated by the vengeful, greedy, spoiled mutt, instinctively favoring all the defects the captain attributed to Margaret and his silly servant, was the equivalent of a permanent torture that he was forced to face as much as avoid in his own house. He had long assumed that his constant indignation at the presence of the intolerable animal, whom he had longed to be rid of from the first day Margaret came home with him, made him look like an idiot. The situation from then on had something of a comic and humiliating farce in many and varied acts of stupidity, the apotheosis of which always fell on him. Then, before he stepped onto the first step, the light from the back of the kitchen illuminated him. And his face must have paled, as if he were about to faint. He felt so distraught, so restless that his head was spinning. And because he had undoubtedly caught a chill on the way from the dining rooms, although luckily, he had already recovered from the cold he'd suffered a few days earlier. Roberta appeared. She stopped, holding a glass of milk, and asked one of her classic incoherent questions.
-"Yu" captain?...
-Who else, you stupid bitch?- Huntington replied indignantly, nodding his head with a dismissive gesture.
-"Yu" "frightene" me... I was "jus" taking a glass of milk to Miss Margaret...
-Turn off that damn light right now! shouted the captain, who now saw himself before Roberta as the most clumsy interpreter of this unexpected situation.
-But I have to take the milk...
-Then put down the glass... but turn off that light right now.
-"Yu" be careful, captain... it's very "we"... I can get...
-I don't need you to bring me anything... Go on, take the milk to your miss... It doesn't matter. I'll turn off the lights- Huntington feared that Roberta would pay too much attention to his appearance or notice the smell of urine.- Now get out of the way!
He turned around and turned off the living room lamp.
-Aren't "yu" going up, captain?- Roberta, now with the kitchen light behind her, gave a kind of magnanimous little smile that puffed out her cheekbones and revealed the whiteness of her teeth in her swarthy face.
-I'll come up whenever I want... Go away now!
-All "righ", captain... But the stairs are very dark. Will "yu" let me turn on the "ligh"?
-"I hope you break your head"- Huntington muttered.- Turn it on... You're not going up in the dark... I don't know what the hell good your brains are. But don't let your miss get up and bark her repellent little bug.
-Yes, captain... whatever "yu" say- Roberta admitted timidly.
Huntington then headed into the kitchen and waited for the timid maid to disappear. When he was certain that Margaret and Lissy hadn't left the room, and that Roberta would surely have explained to Margaret his sudden appearance a few minutes earlier, soaked by the rain, he decided to go upstairs in the dark. As he approached the bottom steps, which were made of excessively smoothed wood, he couldn't contain a new and imperative need to urinate, and he tried to do so with such fury that he drew in one of his legs, lost his balance, and rolled down the stairs like a ball. The crash caused by the fall provoked shrill barking from Lissy. Margaret got out of bed and appeared in the corridor that led to the stairs and the bedrooms, and turned on the light. Roberta also came out.
-Shut up, Lissy!- Margaret exclaimed, casually watching the captain cowering on the bottom step. Have you hurt yourself?
Roberta was terrified. In her naive mind, after the brutal crash, she'd already thought the captain was dead, as he neither moved nor stood up, remaining in the same position as when he'd fallen.
-Lissy, don't move-Margaret said, preparing to get out- You've probably broken something...- she added. Roberta, go to the kitchen and get...
-I don't need anything!- Huntington shouted. His eyes blazed, but he didn't look at them. He had turned red with anger, and he couldn't bring himself to get up because his whole body was trembling- I don't need your help! Leave me alone, I can manage on my own... Go to hell, both of you!- and when Lissy started barking again, he exclaimed, beside himself- And make that damned mutt shut up!... Even that gossip Peterson will be listening to us and she'll show up here imagining God knows what..."
-All right- Margaret said.- Come on, Lissy, and you, Roberta, can go back to your room. There's no other way with the captain. We must honor the brave soldier- she joked- And let him manage as he pleases. We'll leave the light on for you at least, so you don't kill yourself this time trying to get up there... assuming you can.
Margaret's words, as she lay on the floor, meant another hard blow. The two women soon retraced their steps, disappearing from the captain's sight at the top of the corridor.
"Damn idiot, I hate you"- Huntington grumbled, hobbling to his feet with an irritated expression, although he had apparently only sprained his foot, and felt a slight pain in both elbows. Then he remembered the pistol he kept in one of the drawers of his office desk.
-“One day you'll make me use it, I swear... and I'll get rid of your repulsive mutt too"- he ranted to himself.
When Huntington managed to reach his room, he immediately undressed. He was freezing. One window pane was ajar; the wind was constantly beating against it, and some water had entered the room, while the rain drummed relentlessly against the other pane. He didn't remember leaving his window open that morning before leaving for class.
-"It must have been that idiot- he said to himself, thinking of Roberta- "She's bound to have been snooping around here... And I've forbidden her from entering my room while I'm out... But it must have been Margaret's doing... That fool only does what she's told, and what I say doesn't matter a fig to either of them... Someday I'll really get fed up..."
But the reality was that he felt deeply hurt in his pride, and offended by the insulting triviality of Margaret and her maid. He knew very well, even though they had offered to help him, how much they detested him. And now he was overcome by an enormous emptiness, as if he were coming out of a sleepless night.
-"Yeah... I won't even be able to sleep. I might need three Seconal tablets and an aspirin".
He turned on the shower and waited for the hot water to flow from the showerhead. One ankle was slightly swollen, and he soaked it insistently in the warmth of the water. And when he got out of the shower, since the bathroom mirror was fogged up, he looked at his elbows in the mirror in the bedroom. They were completely scraped, and one of them had bled, staining the towel. He tried to staunch the bleeding by covering it with a piece of toilet paper. Then he reached for the seconal and the aspirin, but before getting into bed, he paused as he did every night in front of the window. The distant glow of the streetlights illuminating the fort seemed to recede further and further as the raging veil of rain shook their glimmering lights. The maples, also wrapped in a crystalline blanket, were swayed by the force of the wind, not merging into a single mass of somber rows, but completely individualized, each with its own tremendously battered silhouette.
-What a lousy time!- Huntington exclaimed- The end of the cursed autumn giving way to the more than irritating winter.
He had to go to the bathroom again. Then, once in bed, the seconal took a while to take effect. His head still ached, though his mind was now blank. In the darkness, the only thing he could identify while he waited to fall asleep was the insistent splashing of the downpour against the glass and the rustling of the wind, like a cold, wild gust that had clung intensely to the night storm.
It has already been said that the officers' houses in the fort were not very isolated from one another. To top it all off, General Peterson's was one of the closest to the Huntingtons', much less sumptuous, extremely disorderly, and therefore less well-maintained than most of the ostentatious ones that stood nearby. From this arose the captain's fear that the nosy, gossiping Mrs. Peterson might always be aware of everything that happened in his house, like an unbearable gossip who walked with her ears glued to his doors. For Huntington, this was like a new and insufferable delirium of the senses, as if this sort of female leader adopted a more authoritarian, police-like tone with each of the few families living in the camp than that of her own husband, who, after all, was now nothing more than an arrogant old man dominated by his wife. The captain, who had spent most of his childhood and youth uncompromisingly trapped under the vexatious guardianship of his paternal aunt, always regarded women with a mordacity bordering on hatred. And for that very reason, unable to venture to win the affection, let alone the love, of a potential girlfriend, he resorted to the most hesitant and ridiculous prospect of finding a wife. The fear that had plagued him for so long, believing he could get the Coffee Bar employee he'd had his eye on to finally give in to his absurd pretension, tormented him and made his heart pound before he decided to propose such an absurdity, which could prove as humiliating as it was repulsive. That was why he panted, drenched in sweat, every time Margaret was kind enough to serve him his usual Sunday sandwiches at the bar. He had so many flaws in his life, before and after having been involved in his militaristic recruitment—never desired—that nothing else on earth had prevented him from becoming not only a coward but also an austere failure, even though his cultural and intellectual foundations elevated him far above other military men. His conduct was also far removed from certain assertions such as benevolence, the virility attributed to all soldiers, and especially from the dynamic love, commonly known as eroticism. The worst part was that he feared that his overly deep tensions would damage his stubborn bachelor brain. He had read, I don't know where, while still very young, that if sex isn't exercised, it atrophies. He was therefore obliged to end that degrading bachelorhood by emulating the majority of married soldiers, even those with children, he knew. His celibacy might further favor the defects that gnawed at him internally with their many unspeakable aspects, or the physical structure of his presumptuous masculinity might become the object of pernicious suspicions. His intimidation reached that point. He had meditated a thousand times on his visible envelope as a vigorous man in the face of the erotic impulse toward women, but his reflections only combined a timid and equivocal persuasion toward the opposite sex, and the breath of a simple and normal idea of attraction that might draw him toward them, pushing him on the adventure of finding a partner, disappeared with a shudder of cowardice and shame. This was undoubtedly a new tragedy that exceeded his limits as a sexually limited man, and it awakened in his mind other more plausible, cold, and disturbing ideas: those of not seeing any usefulness in marriage, and imposing on all this the overwhelming certainty of a new physical disorder known as misogyny. A misogyny born of a failed conscience, and as if probed and scrutinized in the enigmas of a metaphysics applicable to human morality. Therefore, everything was as if Nature had worked with a cruel end in him. Or perhaps as if the educational principles, positive or negative, that inevitably exist for the happiness or pain of individuals, are reiterated all the more harmful the less they are needed. And for that very reason, the physical disorder he was convinced he suffered was, in all likelihood, nothing more than revenge for the dry and regulated moral education he had received from a woman, and from which had germinated an indecorous twist to apply to his passions; and even an easily understandable discordance; or the consequence of principles as generic as death itself that had plunged Huntington into a darkness reinforced by a totally absurd ethical decorum. And neither a dogma nor any physical requirement, except that of a profound virginity in whose inextricable web lay only an oppressive and filthy impotence toward sex.
And no matter how hard the captain searched for an answer to his mental oscillations, he found none. His distortions only managed to deliberate on a single determining motivation: experiencing contempt and rejection toward the female sex for considering all women equal, and thus distancing himself from the most sacred things in this world: family, marriage, and children. But he who condemns himself, faced with such infinite uncertainty, must also be infinitely punished. By accepting that murky agreement with an unknown bar employee like Margaret—about whose life he knew nothing—delving deeper into it wasn't worth the effort, because he was already immersed in a dangerous current. And when she accepted it without granting him any details of that acquiescence or the purpose of selling herself to an introverted and sour bidder who offered her shelter and food, he had once again deceived the term of morality with that naked realm of misogyny. And after all that, what could he have expected? Nothing more than that the marital transaction had served him very little. A culprit was therefore to be held responsible for such nonsense, and if he played at omitting his own out of pride, it had to be someone else's, in this case Margaret's, although, of course, she had never offered to love him either as a man, much less as a spouse, even if she agreed to share a roof with him, but not a bed. What a brave parody! The captain's world, so defenseless and pure, but also sexually inconceivable, was going to continue rolling among the endless multitude of his equals. Fortunately, he kept telling himself, he was also convinced that he was a reluctant misanthrope, and for that very reason the realization that he could consider himself an "invert" was as completely questionable as it was unacceptable.
The soldier in charge of trucking in the horse feed two days earlier, under the torrential force of a downpour in that first week of November, had abandoned the truck in the city and fled. It was said that he had been thinking about this for several days because he longed for a distant girlfriend he hadn't heard from in over a year, and the silence was unbearable. And as a deserter, he was being hunted by the military police. The sergeant had almost lost his temper over what had happened, although his attitude wasn't unusual, while Tracy gave the impression that he was expecting a routine reprimand for something he wasn't guilty of.
-And you, you beast of burden, can't think of any solution?- the sergeant exclaimed- Are you just going to stand there, silent as a fool? Sometimes I wonder if you ever think.
That external circumstance, which endangered the feeding of his horses, to the sergeant's surprise, roused Tracy from his singular lunatic inconstancies, and for the first time since he'd been stable-sitting, he cast aside his cool serenity and fixed his gaze with a defiant sharpness on the sergeant's disturbed mood.
-Give me a pass... and I'll bring the truck and the feed- Tracy suggested.
-You?- the officer was surprised- What a freak you are, a clod-snapper! Aren't you going to tell me now that you know how to drive... not a car, but a truck, no less?
-I learned at Pearl Harbor...
-And you've kept it a secret until now? I've always believed that by playing dumb, you're certainly much more quadrupedal than a donkey!... Okay, I'll give you the pass, but if you're lying to me...
Tracy's gaze now stood out more strongly, bright and lively, but he didn't respond to the sergeant. It was as if, for an instant, the taciturn Tracy showed another unexpected side of his unfathomable personality and felt the need to return to the positive world to which he militarily belonged.
-Well, I hope you're not capable of it... and that you don't even think of doing the same thing that womanizing deserter did...- said the sergeant, who until that moment seemed to have been the only one participating in such behavior with his usual insulting intemperance- Well, I'm going to allow myself to doubt it, because I can't imagine a girlfriend waiting for you somewhere. And how will you find the truck...? Tell me, you know-it-all.
-I'll bring it...
-Don't you like taking care of our horses that much? Well, if you'd spoken up when you were put in charge of the stables, you could have taken charge of the fodder too a long time ago. I keep wondering why the hell you like to act so silent... And as for me, I'm sure you think I should choke on all that nonsense, or that, unlike you, I talk too much, right?...
-I don't think anything... But give me the pass.
-Ah, you're insufferable!... I insist! We don't have mules here, but with a four-legged donkey like you, we'll damn well need them! I'll give you the damn pass... Oh, and don't you dare take Molly for another walk in your damned woods. Did you think I wouldn't notice? I ought to give you a good cigar. But this time I'll turn a blind eye... Here we go, clod-rippers!... And don't make me regret it.
-Roberta... my poor Roberta... She's inside... she's inside... trapped...! She didn't manage to get out! God... God... we have to save her...! I don't want her to die... I don't want...!
-Ma'am... ma'am... move away...!! The house is still burning!!...Can’t you see this is madness!!– shouted one of the soldiers.
Then she let go of Lissy, trying to free her eyes from the liquid that was overflowing with tears. And Tracy ran toward her, taking her arm. Margaret turned toward the young man, and upon recognizing him, since she hadn't noticed him before, leaned on his shoulder and exclaimed:
-Roberta, soldier... my poor Roberta!! I was going to join her! I wanted to... to do it... God!...
-Leave it alone, madam... It's impossible...
-You have to back down now...!!- shouted another of the soldiers who were trying to put out the fire.
-Understand, madam- Tracy tried to comfort her- It's useless... There's nothing you can do now...
They moved away from the flames, followed by Lissy, Margaret leaning on Tracy, still turning her head toward the house, as if reproaching herself for letting herself be dragged from the scene of the fire. Very close by, now that the flickering was fading, controlled by the nine or ten fire extinguishers the troops were handling, a painful exclamation arose from the anguished crowd of residents who hadn't turned away from the terrifying spectacle of flames: "Roberta... my Roberta!!!" It was a heart-rending scream accompanied by a terrifying cry that rose to the sky as if crowned by a bunch of those destructive sparks. And Octavia fainted into Mrs. Peterson's arms. Minutes later, when Thomas Huntington reached the fire, he had hurriedly retreated, taking several strides. Then he saw Margaret, still weeping, being helped and carried away by that meddling soldier he hated so much. The captain watched his house burn with cold serenity. This was not a misinterpretation of the disaster on his part. If the grieving Margaret had been able to come face to face with him, as she had so often before, she would have observed that his eyes, as he watched the flames, did not express even simple confusion or distress at what had happened, but rather, probably to make her suffer to the depths of her being, he sketched a hurtful and malignant smile, or perhaps a provocative and stimulating joy.
The Petersons handled the funeral for the unfortunate Roberta. Margaret remained hospitalized, and Thomas Huntington did not attend the service. In this regard, Yvonne Peterson displayed the same precise organization she usually displayed at her reunions and house parties, although on this sad occasion she imbued them with her most acclaimed devotional tone. A service was held in the camp church, and one of the parishioners, an officer's wife, played a mournful threnounce on the small harmonium while the distraught Octavia, who in her youth had dabbled in gospel choirs, tearfully intoned a hymn for her daughter. It was the only response during the sacred ceremony, which was celebrated in absolute silence by Russell Merrick. The ecclesiastical apostolate violated by the priest, distancing himself from the great fundamental truths of the Church: God, faith, justice, merit, decorum, continued to spread an icy chill of silent recriminations among the female audience, their husbands, and a small portion of the troops present. Merrick knew his military dismissal was almost certain. The Eucharistic morality he had flouted had to be avenged. How stupid! Because for Merrick, the army was far from understanding it, just as it was easy to attribute all crimes against humanity, generation after generation, to the war intrigues of its leaders. And the priest who decided to ignore the rite of Communion disappeared in an unedifying manner under the shelter of his vicarage, leaving behind in his parish what could very well be defined as "wounds of the soul," which for the páter were not much different from a personal spiritual revenge. The coffin was immediately carried out on the shoulders of four soldiers, including Tracy. About five officer vehicles—Octavia shared one with Mrs. Peterson—transported it for burial in the neighboring town. Upon her return, Yvonne Peterson organized a traditional mourning evening in her splendid home, hosting a large gathering with a varied catering service, punch, and some bourbon. The gathering was attended only by a dozen officers, their wives, and a pair of black maids who were responsible for carefully serving all the guests. Octavia was thus replaced by Peterson and remained in her room throughout the evening. Despite the mournful occasion of the reception, the noise of conversation continued throughout the afternoon, although the terrible incident of the fire did not circulate again among the gossip of those present. The officers became completely engrossed in political commentary, and the most prominent topic centered on the likely impending war on the Korean peninsula. But among the women, the most talked-about topic was the unexplained absence of Captain Huntington, whose whereabouts, for the moment, were unknown—of course, given his somewhat sullen nature, perhaps he was in the city trying to escape the painful situation the terrible event had placed him in—and the inconsolable state of his wife due to the death of the young servant, who was still keeping her in a painful hospital bed. Some somewhat out-of-tune female voices considered Huntington's emotional decline over the death of a maid somewhat excessive. Others felt obliged to bring up the accumulation of setbacks and dangers suffered during the recent World War, in which some of his family members had fallen on the battlefield. But Mrs. Peterson, who felt a true adoration for Octavia, firmly held her presence of mind, distancing herself from those whispered impertinences of some of her friends, who, observing in her a certain expression of annoyance, immediately passed into another role.
Thomas Huntington returned to camp three days after the disaster and was immediately summoned to command, appearing before two of the fort's generals, Peterson and Miller, with a deep seriousness on his face. His absence from the barracks was not reproached; on the contrary, those eminent military officers were very understanding of his reason for deciding to disassociate himself from the funeral services that had taken place at the fort, including the painful dejection that had befallen his wife, who would be released from the hospital that same day, more recovered. What his generals could not suspect was that the captain had taken advantage of the terrible incident to distance himself from all that disastrous uproar at will for those three days in the city, and that he would have preferred that Margaret and his hated Lissy, along with the silly little black girl Roberta, had also perished in the flames. He stayed for two nights in a remote, shabby hotel, and before returning to camp, he withdrew about one hundred dollars from his bank account. Margaret was listed as a joint account holder, per a marital agreement he had accepted when he agreed to marry her, and he couldn't exclude her because the process was too humiliating, since without the wife's physical presence and signature, it couldn't be carried out. Therefore, the attempt had been of little use. Moreover, although he now seemed to have forgotten some of Margaret's escapades to the city with her maid, he had foolishly allowed Margaret to withdraw during those three years of marriage some small amounts of money for personal expenses and to pay for Roberta's domestic services. Those domestic matters, from which he had always preferred to stay away and to which Margaret subscribed by full legal right, suddenly took shape in his mind like the delirium of a perfect imbecile plunged into an irremediable marital hell. He saw himself, therefore, as a lost man, incapable of controlling one of the most serious moments of his life. It was a vulnerability as grotesque as it was shameful. And he was nothing more than a true coward whose only motivation was anger, and anger can only be met with violence. He then toured a part of the city in search of a gun shop and, to the astonishment of the seller because it was a uniformed buyer, bought a revolver and a reload. But the imminent disaster in the captain's life was to be aggravated by a new, much more diffuse and agonizing perspective. General Peterson—despite the many rumors circulating around the barracks about Huntington's somewhat unsociable nature—considered the captain to be a highly respectable figure of military integrity, because he faithfully fulfilled his commendable duties as a tactical instructor at the military school. For this reason, and because he was a highly decorated officer, he deemed him worthy of immediate compensation for the difficult situation both he and his young wife had endured, losing everything.
-The suffering experienced, dear Captain Huntington, among soldiers, always capable of waging great battles, is not meant to be an atonement- Peterson solemnly proclaimed- But rather a remedy, a discipline, a tribute to our military brotherhood. And you cannot and should not be removed from these honorable provisions.
To Thomas Huntington, General Peterson's pompous verbosity, confirmed by a satisfied smile from Miller, tasted like the incongruous talk of a ragman dressing him up like an oppressed, naked beggar. And he suffered them equally like a pair of high-class fops in uniform, moved by a tiresome indulgence they now granted him as if he had committed a justifiable crime.
-Your new quarters in the camp have already been decided, Captain Huntington. You and your wife will, with all the right that accrues to you due to the tragedy you have experienced, occupy the house of your comrade Clyton, whose unfortunate illness and death we have all lamented in the barracks.
Not even a bucket of ice water on Huntington's head would have been more damaging to the convolutions of his troubled brain, on the verge of a stroke, than being forced now to accept that no less icy earthly frost of a reward that offered him a new experiential perspective with the taste of death.
-What do you think, Huntington?- General Peterson waited for a reply.
-You're speechless with surprise- Miller ventured.
You and your wife can occupy the Clyton family home starting now... Today, naturally... And the army will also see to it... well, more accurately, Mrs. Peterson will arrange for you to find a new servant who can take care of your most pressing domestic needs as soon as possible...
Both generals shook Huntington's hand, who, exposed to the horror of this communication, saluted his officers in complete silence.
-Well, we understand that you have nothing to say... And, of course, you don't need to.
Had he been able to speak to express the flame of internal fury that was assailing him and had not yet been extinguished, his words would have been far above any demonic inspiration with which to strike down those two decrepit remnants of the most degrading militarism. He was completely lost, terrified, and this act of compassion offered to him by his cursed army, which he had in reality hated all his life, would be seen as a splendid reward rather than the most pernicious punishment he could have endured. From that very moment, he understood that it was all over for him. He would never accept living in the house of a dead man! It was a crazy option, compounded by the anguishing prospect of having to share it with a woman who detested him.
Margaret had abandoned the hospitable relief the camp had offered her. She couldn't return to a dwelling that no longer existed. She was told that General Peterson was waiting for her in his office. He had an important matter to discuss with her. However, with a mixture of confusion and doubt, she felt unwilling to endure the enormous annoyance that such a meeting could cause her. Some of the soldiers who had put out the fire commented that Captain Huntington's wife had lost her mind because she failed to respond to the general's summons and, breathing heavily, left the barracks without a word when two young recruits asked if they could offer any assistance. They considered this painful agitation a lamentable sign of the tragedy they had experienced, and they followed her, convinced that such a disturbance was dragging her to the place where the tragedy had unfolded.
-We should notify the captain- advised one of the soldiers.
-The captain isn't at camp, you idiot...
-He's back. And the two old men, Peterson and Miller, have already caught him!- another soldier exclaimed, laughing, ironically ignoring the address he received from his officers.
-Hey!- a shout rang out- That crazy woman's headed for the stables! Tracy and the captain's wife! The priest has a competitor!
-Yes, but the competitor is a woman! Poor páter, he's out of nighttime strolls! Huntington has beaten him to the punch!
These last exclamations reached the ears of the captain, who had just left the general's office. He felt dizzy, swayed, and almost lost his balance as he walked among the soldiers who greeted him, trying to hide some ironic grimaces. It was as if those sarcastic glances pierced him through and through.
-"He's going to end up a codger too"- Huntington heard behind him that other sarcastic whisper, accompanied by a few broken chuckles.
Margaret, in fact, headed toward the stables. Soldier Tracy said nothing. He stared at her, and as surprising as this appearance was, the reason that could have brought her there could find in the young man's mind only one of his characteristic carefree and silent associations.
-I need your help, soldier- Margaret said, her breathing heavy- I'm leaving here... Help me!
-If you leave, ma'am, I don't know how I can help you- Tracy replied evasively-I don't think the captain...
-I don't care what the captain says!- Margaret exclaimed- I'm thinking of divorcing him... But I have to get out of this damned camp. And I'm sure your captain will try to stop me. General Peterson summoned me to his office, and I refused to listen to him.
-You shouldn't have...
-Do you think I'm not afraid of what they were trying to tell me? I'll never go back to Huntington. Help me escape this trap, soldier. I have no one to turn to.
Soldiere Tracy turned to one of the horses he was grooming, without nodding in any way of consent.
-You won't help me? My husband isn't in the camp; he's been wandering around town since the fire and hasn't returned.
-And you think he won't look for you?
-You know very well how much he hates me. And you also know how much I hate him...
-Ma'am, if what you need is money- Tracy reacted very differently than the woman expected- I can... I've saved enough, and it's no use to me.
Margaret felt her resistance cracking, and she hugged Tracy.
-Don't do that, ma'am- the soldier rejected her.
And she looked at him for a long time, in astonishment.
-It's not money I need! I'm just asking you to help me...
-But you're the captain's wife...
-I never was... Help me, soldier!... My Lassy is at Peterson's house. Come with me... I'll pick you up... I know you drive a feed truck for your horses. Take me to the city... That's all I ask. Rest assured, I'll find a way to disappear... I thought I could count on you... Understand, I must get out of this hellhole at once!
-You know that if I help you, they can court-martial me.
-You've taken risks taking your horses into the woods before, and you've never minded.
Then Tracy decided not to seek further explanations for the captain's wife's decision.
-All right... Go get your Lissy and come back here... But don't talk to that woman... She has a bad habit of sticking her nose into everything.
-Aren't you going with me?
-It's much better if you don't... But I'll wait for you...- Tracy finally suggested.
The captain wasn't far behind. He couldn't believe the comments he'd heard. He walked past the burned-out remains of what had been his home since he'd been assigned to the fort. The empty Clyton family home wasn't too far away. But he had to go around the Petersons' home and heard barking. The general's wife didn't have a dog, and the barking reminded him of the hated Lissy. When he stood before the Clytons' withered garden, he repeated to himself that he would never set foot in that house. It was as if, observing the cold emptiness of its windows, its partitions, and the porch where some flowerpots displayed their withered shoots, as dead as the entire house, he perceived beyond the glass an immaterial transparency of the human figures that had inhabited it. What Huntington was contemplating was not a typical house, but a kind of supernatural cave, as symbolic as the death it had harbored. And a terror that penetrated to his heart was deeply disturbing him when, suddenly, in the distance, he saw a female figure hurrying away from the Peterson mansion. He heard happy barking. And he knew at once that it was Lissy in Margaret's arms. The general's wife remained on her porch, slowly scanning that nervous march with spiteful eyes. The afternoon sun still held its own firmly enough to avoid obscuring Margaret's image, whose hurried movement was now fading into the distance like a blurred glimmer. Huntington followed her, unaware that Peterson was also staring at him in astonishment as he crossed her splendid parterre. But now the captain's full attention was focused on his wife. He realized that the troop's malicious comments were not misplaced, because Margaret was heading toward the stables.
"Later the captain would say that at that moment he knew everything" [Carson McCullers]
Huntington had to stop for a moment. In that clear, not-yet-too-cold November sky, the sun was still squarely in his face. He tried to stop the glare of the star, as if it were also burning him, by lowering the peak of his military cap. He tried to reflect on why he had undertaken that mad chase. But his mind kept repeating that he would do it some other day. All that remained in his mind was the distant edge of an inexplicably threatening horizon, where, if he didn't hurry, the sun would soon set, offering him only a line lost in the darkness, and then a final consequence that could be as inextricable as death itself.
Facing a mysterious purpose of the mind is like trying to sense decisive events that don't yet exist. But there is a higher level of thought capable of reinterpreting the things of this world and transforming them into unexpected surprises. And when one of these surprises emerges and sharpens before us, reasoning takes on a kind of value that rests on a solid but deceptive foundation, because its primordial substance is often also based on disaster. A disaster that our rationality, if not supernatural, would never have foreseen, although when it occurs, our battered sensitivity ends up legitimizing it.
The captain made sure his revolver was still in one of the pockets of his military jacket when he reached the stables. He hadn't been able to stop himself from urinating on himself, and his pants, half hidden by the jacket, were completely soaked. It was his silent torture. A bodily roughness that continued to batter him. A demonic possession that was deteriorating his body. And when he saw Margaret with Lissy in her arms and the soldier he hated so much beside her, he told himself he knew what they both intended. That thought petrified him, and a kind of shame at not having been able to contain his urination prevented him for a moment from taking another step. The memory of his cowardice in the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, of his pants once again soaked with his urine, and the silent, but what the captain judged to be haughty and heroic, gaze of soldierTracy, assaulted him like anguished recollections he hadn't been able to forget. That memory, and the presence of Margaret and Tracy ignoring him as proof of yet another failure, yet another cowardice, so upset him that, enraged, he pulled his pistol from his pocket. Then Lissy, driven by the instinctive animal phobia she felt for Huntington, leaped from her mistress's arms and ran toward the captain, growling threateningly.
-No, Lissy!!- Margaret cried.- Enough!!... Come back here!!... Lissy!!
In the height of his exasperation, the captain, who was an expert marksman, ended the animal's life with a single shot. The bullet passed through the pit bull's small body, and, shot deep inside, it collapsed dizzily in an instant, uttering a high-pitched howl, bleeding and dead not far from Margaret.
-Lissyyyyy!!- her owner screamed convulsively, running toward the animal- You bastard!!... You killed my Lissy!!... Damn you!!... Coward!!
The sun's light was fading toward sunset, but it was still enough to cast a somewhat faded autumnal light over the three of them. Then Huntington pretended not to hear Margaret and pointed his revolver at her. So much disdain, so much contention, so much torment! His moral compass was still rock bottom. He had to finish that woman off once and for all.
-No captain!!... - Tracy then shouted- Don't be crazy!!...
"Then the captain began to cry with loud moans" [Carson McCullers]
... The horrified Margaret quickly left the camp. How much had happened in those three years! A military court would have to rule on Captain Huntington's guilt for allegedly shooting and killing a soldier under his jurisdiction. The captain was imprisoned pending a Court Martial. The Court Martial and its Military Prosecutor would take over the case, and the prisoner would face the disciplinary measures imposed by the army for that unthinkable murder
