“So have I.”
He turned away from her again, convinced they would spend hours pretending to sleep, but after a while he drifted off, no longer aware of her. It was the army’s one gift: you learned to sleep anywhere. When the rain started he was back at the cabin, listening to the steady drip on the roof, safe in his room. It got louder and he thought about the gutters, his father cleaning out the clumps of leaves so the water would run down the drainpipe at the corner, making a puddle near the porch.
A rattling noise woke him, and, disoriented, he was startled by the figure at the open window until he realized it was her. She was looking out, smoking, her head in profile against the dim light.
“What’s the matter?”
She jumped, as if he had tapped her on the shoulder. “Nothing,” she said quietly. “I couldn’t sleep, that’s all.”
“Would it be better if we had separate rooms?”
“It’s not that. Go back to sleep,” she said, her voice gentle again.
“You all right?”
“Just nerves. Middle-of-the-night stuff. That ever happen to you?”
He nodded in the dark. “What is it?”
“There’s no ‘it’.” It’s just that feeling you get when you know you’re going to make a mess of things. I do that a lot-make a mess of things.“ The rain blew in and she stepped back, brushing the front of her nightgown. ”And now I’m wet. My mother always said I didn’t have enough sense to come in out of the rain.“
“Do you want to go back?”
“Not now.” She stopped, talking into the dark as if she could see him. “That’s the thing about making a mess-you can’t help it, even when you see it coming.”
“What are you worried about?”
“You, I guess. I mean, I got you into this. And now you’re so-I don’t know, up for it.” She paused. “You never know how things will turn out.”
He sighed. “Then let me worry about it. I want to go, Molly. You just-came along for the ride, okay? Come on, get into bed. It’s late.”
She stood still for a minute, then started lifting the nightgown over her head. “I have to take this off. It’s wet.” He heard the rustle of cloth, then saw the pale white of her skin, indistinct in the dark. She slipped naked into bed, curling up on her side in a protective ball. “Nick?” she said. “Don’t expect too much, okay?”
“I know.”
“I mean, things never go the way you expect.”
“I know,” he said, but lightly this time, edging further away. “Look at us.”
The next day was bright and clear and she began to enjoy herself, as if the rain had washed away the nighttime jitters with the clouds. They drove past steep meadows dotted with cows and wide farmhouses with window boxes, a calendar landscape without a smudge. The road swung through the mountains in perfectly engineered switchbacks and tunnels, encouraging speed, and they seemed to fly through the high, thin air, not even pausing at the rest stops, where tourists photographed each other against patches of glacier and the miles of valley just over the rail. It all looked, in fact, the way Nick had imagined it, Heidi meadows and bright wildflowers, but more painted than lived in, and by midmorning, feeling guilty because it was beautiful, he began to be bored. He knew he was meant to admire it-think of America, raging in its streets-but after a while all he wanted to do was turn the radio on, to disturb the peace. “What kind of people stay neutral?” Molly said, somehow reading his mind. She was in jeans, down in the seat with her feet up, content to let him drive. “When you’re traveling, you never meet anyone who says he’s Swiss. Germans, yes, everywhere you go, but never Swiss. Imagine liking a place so much you never go anywhere.” She pulled out a cigarette, lighting it away from the draft at the window. “It must be nice, not taking sides.”
“Everybody takes sides.”
She looked at him for a second, then waved her hand toward the landscape. “They didn’t. They just let everybody go to hell. And they’re doing okay.”
“Up here in cloud-cuckoo-land. You wouldn’t last a day.”
“No? Maybe not. Anyway, it’s probably just the air. Not enough oxygen to decide anything one way or the other.”
“How much more of this?” he said, nodding toward the road.
“Miles. Austria’s pretty much the same. This part, anyway. You can hardly tell the difference.” She took a long pull on the cigarette, blowing the smoke out in a steady stream, suddenly moody. “Of course, they weren’t neutral there. They were Nazis.”
“So much for your theory,” he said. “About the air.”
“Maybe they got talked into it,” she said quietly, still looking ahead.
“That’s not the way I heard it.”
She glanced at him, surprised, as if he’d interrupted another thought, then shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe the air’s heavier over there.”
Oddly enough, it was. As they crossed the border the sky grew dark with clouds, so that the morning seemed more than ever like some bright Alpine mirage floating above the gray. The middle of Europe was overcast, too far from the sea for the winds to lift its gloomy cover. Even the buildings began to take on a leaden weight, dreary with concrete and slate. They had lunch on a terrace built for sun with a small cluster of middle-aged ladies wearing overcoats and hats.
“What’s it mean, anyway, briefs or boxers?” Nick said, to break her mood.
She smiled. “Well, boxers are a little country club, maybe.” She paused. “Can I ask you something? Why did you change your mind?”
He looked at her face, open and curious. “I didn’t change it,” he hedged. “You just took me by surprise. Of course I want to see him. Wouldn’t you?”
“I don’t know. If I felt the way you did-”
“How do I feel? I don’t know from one day to the next. I won’t know until I see him, I guess.”
“Okay,” she said, backing off.
He leaned over, putting his hand on hers. “Look, I think I owe him this much, that’s all.”
Her eyes widened. “Owe him?”
“Remember before when I said people always take sides? What if it’s the wrong one? That ever happen to you?” He felt her hand start under his, trapped, and he realized he’d been pressing down, so he released it. “It happened to me. I went to Vietnam. People change. Maybe he needs to tell somebody, get it out.”
She moved her hand away, drawing it down into her lap. “He’s been there a long time, Nick,” she said softly.
“Don’t expect too much-I know. So maybe he hasn’t changed. Maybe he just wants to tell me his war stories.”
“Are you nervous?”
He glanced up, feeling her eyes on him, then covered the moment by pulling out some notes to put on the bill. “Well. This isn’t getting us there.”
She watched him put the money on the plate. “Would you do something for me?” she said. “Let’s pretend we’re not going there. Until we do. Let’s just be tourists.”
“All the world wants to go to Prague,” he said.
She smiled. “But not today. Prague can wait a little.” They stayed the night in Salzburg and the next day left the main highway for the old road through the valley, storybook Europe with monasteries perched on bluffs over the river. The farther east they drove, the more remote the landscape felt. Nick saw the chemically sprayed vineyards and mechanized farms, but what he imagined were ox carts and peasant houses with superstitious chains of garlic at the window. Churches swirled in Baroque curves and flared out on top in bulbs. The German signs, funny and indecipherable at the same time, made the roads themselves seem unreal, as if they were traveling away from their own time.
They decided to stop at Durnstein, where the ruined castle, almost theatrically gloomy now at dusk, was likely to guarantee a few tourist hotels, and were amazed to find the town full. They went from one inn to another in a light drizzle, achy from the long day’s drive, until finally the desk clerk at the Golden Hind sent them to Frau
