soaring upward swoop.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It sure does.’ They descended steps, through a door; they were in a narrow stone passage; the policeman opened a door and they entered an anteroom; the policeman closed the door behind them. The room contained a cot, a desk, a telephone, a chair. The Iowan went to the desk and began to shift the papers on it.
‘You can remember you were here without having to check it off, cant you?’ Buchwald said.
‘It aint for me,’ the Iowan said, tumbling the papers through. ‘It’s for the girl I’m engaged to. I promised her ——’
‘Does she like pigs too?’ Buchwald said.
‘—what?’ the Iowan said. He stopped and turned his head; still half stooped over the desk, he gave Buchwald his mild open reliant and alarmless look. ‘Why not?’ he said. ‘What’s wrong with pigs?’
‘Okay,’ Buchwald said. ‘So you promised her.’
‘That’s right,’ the Iowan said. ‘When we found out I was coming to France I promised to take a map and mark off on it all the places I went to, especially the ones you always hear about, like Paris. I got Blois, and Brest, and I’ll get Paris for volunteering for this, and now I’m even going to have Chaulnesmont, the Grand Headquarters of the whole shebang as soon as I can find a pencil.’ He began to search the desk again.
‘What you going to do with it?’ Buchwald said. ‘The map. When you get it back home?’
‘Frame it and hang it on the wall,’ the Iowan said. ‘What did you think I was going to do with it?’
‘Are you sure you’re going to want this one marked on it?’ Buchwald said.
‘What?’ the Iowan said. Then he said, ‘Why?’
‘Dont you know what you volunteered for?’ Buchwald said.
‘Sure,’ the Iowan said. ‘For a chance to visit Chaulnesmont.’
‘I mean, didn’t anybody tell you what you were going to do here?’ Buchwald said.
‘You haven’t been in the army very long, have you?’ the Iowan said. ‘In the army, you dont ask what you are going to do: you just do it. In fact, the way to get along in any army is never even to wonder why they want something done or what they are going to do with it after it’s finished, but just do it and then get out of sight so that they cant just happen to see you by accident and then think up something for you to do, but instead they will have to have thought up something to be done, and then hunt for somebody to do it. Durn it, I dont believe they have a pencil here either.’
‘Maybe Sambo’s got one,’ Buchwald said. He looked at the Negro. ‘What did you volunteer for this for besides a three-day Paris pass? To see Chaulnesmont too?’
‘What did you call me?’ the Negro said.
‘Sambo,’ Buchwald said. ‘You no like?’
‘My name’s Philip Manigault Beauchamp,’ the Negro said.
‘Go on,’ Buchwald said.
‘It’s spelled Manigault but you pronounce it Mannygo,’ the Negro said.
‘Oh hush,’ Buchwald said.
‘You got a pencil, buddy?’ the Iowan said to the Negro.
‘No,’ the Negro said. He didn’t even look at the Iowan. He was still looking at Buchwald. ‘You want to make something of it?’
‘Me?’ Buchwald said. ‘What part of Texas you from?’
‘Texas,’ the Negro said with a sort of bemused contempt. He glanced at the nails of his right hand, then rubbed them briskly against his flank. ‘Mississippi. Going to live in Chicago soon as this crap’s over. Be an undertaker, if you’re interested.’
‘An undertaker?’ Buchwald said. ‘You like dead people, huh?’
‘Hasn’t anybody in this whole durn war got a pencil?’ the Iowan said.
‘Yes,’ the Negro said. He stood, tall, slender, not studied: just poised; suddenly he gave Buchwald a look feminine and defiant. ‘I like the work. So what?’
‘So you know what you volunteered for, do you?’
‘Maybe I do and maybe I dont,’ the Negro said. ‘Why did you volunteer for it? Besides a three-day pass in Paris?’
‘Because I love Wilson,’ Buchwald said.
‘Wilson?’ the Iowan said. ‘Do you know Sergeant Wilson? He’s the best sergeant in the army.’
‘Then I dont know him,’ Buchwald said without looking at the Iowan. ‘All the N.C.O.’s I know are sons of bitches.’ He said to the Negro, ‘Did they tell you, or didn’t they?’ Now the Iowan had begun to look from one to the other of them.
‘What is going on here?’ he said. The door opened. It was an American sergeant-major. He entered rapidly and looked rapidly at them. He was carrying an attache case.
‘Who’s in charge?’ he said. He looked at Buchwald. ‘You.’ He opened the attache case and took something from it which he extended to Buchwald. It was a pistol.
‘That’s a German pistol,’ the Iowan said. Buchwald took it. The sergeant-major reached into the attache case again; this time it was a key, a door key; he extended it to Buchwald.
