Losing Julia (47 page)

“The first day of the Battle of the Somme was the bloodiest day of the war. The British alone suffered some sixty thousand casualties. Can you imagine such a thing? Rows of men fourteen miles long walking shoulder to shoulder into German machine-gun fire? The hospitals were so swamped that thousands of wounded were sent across the Channel to Britain without even having their wounds cleaned. The trains—endless gray trains—pulled up to Charing Cross and Paddington stations in London, full of the wounded. And over at Victoria Station, well that’s where many of the men began their journey to the front, hundreds of thousands of them waving good-bye to loved ones. If you go there you might stand still for a moment, close your eyes and then look for the sea of khaki on the platforms. Try to see their faces, if you can, and then look at the faces of their mothers and fathers and wives and children. During the war the stone archway there became known as the Gate of Good-bye.”

I paused and pulled a handkerchief from my pocket to wipe my forehead. “Did you know that on the eve of World War II more than three thousand British veterans of the previous war were still confined to mental asylums? No you didn’t, did you? And even now, around Verdun, some ten million unexploded shells still sleep in the soil.” I took a few steps back, struggling to maintain my balance. “Well, what else can I tell you about the war, about being a veteran of the war?” I wiped my forehead again, slowly folding the handkerchief before returning it to my pocket. Then I looked out into the white lights and felt a tremendous sadness that made it difficult to talk.

I can’t make them understand, Daniel. I can’t make anybody understand. Maybe you could have but I can’t. I never have been able to. Except for Julia. She understood.

I steadied myself and cleared my throat. “You probably didn’t know that I’m the last of them, did you? It’s true. All gone but me, an old cracked vessel that holds their lives frozen in my memory. But after me?”

I took another sip of water and then felt another sharp pain in my stomach as I gripped the podium. There was lots of coughing and throat-clearing, or maybe it wasn’t that. I listened closely, closing my eyes to hear better.

“Who’s out there?” I squinted into the lights but could not see. “Daniel?”

“Mr. Delaney?”

“Is that you, Daniel?”

“Mr. Delaney?”

“Our artillery hadn’t destroyed their entanglements. There was just no way through.”

“Sir, please?”

I stepped back, turning my head to listen. “Daniel, are you in the wire?”

“Please, Mr. Delaney.”

“Daniel’s in the wire.”

“Please, sir.”

The sudden wet warmth in my pants. Blood? Have I been hit? Oh God.

“Come sit down, Mr. Delaney.”

I SPENT
all day writing notes of apology to Jeffrey and Sarah and the school but nothing sounded adequate. Maybe tomorrow the proper words will come. Right now I must sleep.

“IT’S BEEN
two weeks since I last got a letter from my mysterious friend,” said Sarah, holding her clipboard up to her chest.

“Maybe he’s not well.”

“Wouldn’t he tell me? I hope he hasn’t lost interest.”

“I don’t imagine that.”

“If he was ill I’d want to help him.”

“Yes, of course you would.”

“Funny how important his letters have become to me. Can you miss someone you have never met?”

“Oh, I think so.”

“Well then I miss him.”

ON THE FOURTH
day I saw her. She was sitting at a cafe near the Arc de Triomphe drinking coffee and sketching on a small pad. She looked up as I approached and smiled.

“Julia.” I ran toward her and hugged her, feeling my eyes water as I held her and kissed her head, which she buried in the crook of my neck. “Thank God.”

“I had to come,” she said, whispering into my ear.

I pulled back from her and looked into her eyes, then hugged her again. After a moment we sat down. When the waiter came I ordered white wine for both of us.

“Can you stay for a while?” I asked.

“A few days.”

“Spend them with me.”

“But what about—”

“She’s off sight-seeing and shopping a lot with her sister.

I can get away, for a few hours at least.”

She studied my face, then looked down. “I didn’t know if I should come, but I had to.”

“I waited for you every day.”

She smiled and caressed the side of my face with the back of her hand.

When the wine arrived I took a long sip and pulled out my cigarettes, offering her one. She took it, then put her other hand on mine as we watched the pedestrians stroll by. Then she said, “You never told me how Daniel died.”

I finished my glass and set it down gently, then took a deep breath and began slowly, not looking at her: “We were attacking—it was like a seesaw: attack, retreat, counterattack—anyway, there were about five hundred yards between the lines and our sector was to break through at a point softened by our artillery. ‘Get the machine gunners and it’s a walk over,’ that’s what we were told.” I poured myself more wine and took a drink.

“Daniel didn’t seem nervous. He never did to me, but I was terrified. Most of us were. This was the big push. No stopping. ‘The armies of France are depending on you,’ that sort of thing.”

“And?”

“We couldn’t do it.”

“You couldn’t break through?”

“We couldn’t find any openings in the German wire.” I stubbed out my cigarette and lit another one.

“Did… ”

“It’s not an unusual story. Happened all the time.”

“Did you see Daniel?”

“He was right next to me when we went over the top.” I remembered his face; the strange look in his eyes and how he had just started to say something when the whistle went off. What was he going to say?

“He was always right next to me, like he was looking out for me.”

“And then… ”

“We were up and running. All of us. There was so much noise and smoke. Things were flying around. Like a tremendous storm.”

“Did Daniel get to the wire?”

I looked at her, then turned away.

“None of the boys had a chance. They were just cut down.” I heard my voice breaking.

“Did you see Daniel?”

“I saw Daniel.” I was whispering now.

“He was dead?”

I paused, staring up toward the sky.

“Please tell me the truth. It’s all I have left.” She was leaning forward now, holding my hands in hers.

“He was caught in the wire.”

“He died in the wire?”

“Yes.”

“You’re sure.”

I nodded.

“And how quickly did he die?”

“Not quickly enough.”

“You could hear him?”

“Yes, I could hear him.”

She buried her head in her hands.

After I paid the bill we got up and walked to Notre Dame and lit a candle. Then we sat near the back and looked up at the stained glass windows and wished to God we still knew how to pray.

“WHO IS SHE?”
Martin was standing over my sketch pad, which lay open on my bed.

“Who is who?”

“Who is the woman you keep drawing?”

“Oh, her.” I gestured toward the unfinished charcoal portrait of Julia, which I had drawn the day before. “Just a woman.”

“There is no such thing as ‘just a woman,’” he said, picking up the picture to examine it closely.

“Okay. It’s somebody I once knew.”

“Why do you keep drawing pictures of her?”

I shrugged.

“She’s very pretty.” He gently placed the pad back on the bed.

“She was much prettier than that.”

“Want to tell me about her?”

I thought about it for a moment. “What are your plans for the day?”

“Plans? I don’t have any plans. My schedule is wide open.” He grinned.

I spent the rest of the day telling Martin all about Julia.

THE UNEXAMINED
life may not be worth living, but are we sure the examined life is? After nearly a century of scrutinizing my life with forensic intensity, I have my doubts.

It’s late afternoon and I’m sitting at my desk, writing, thinking, puzzling over things; an old tea drinker reading his last cup of leaves, desperate for revelation. Through the window I can see Howard and Martin playing croquet. Helen crosses the lawn quickly, as though in pursuit of somebody. I draw the blinds, then turn to a fresh page of my journal.

Julia once asked me to what extent I felt I was really my true self in public, and all I could say was very little. She said it’s a pity what a gap there is between our public and private selves, probably the loneliest piece of no-man’s-land in the world, she called it. Then she told me that she was devastated the first time she realized how far apart everybody really was, even close friends.

“What about you and Daniel?” I asked.

“I think we were as close as two people can get, in the time we had.”

“Was it close enough?”

“It was close enough.”

And that’s what we all long for, isn’t it? To connect, if only momentarily, clasping hands across the chasm, which is why drinking buddies at the bar seem almost love-struck as they fall over each other in rapid and raucous agreement; why friends and lovers whisper in intimate code, attempting to bridge the divide with ropes and pulleys and secret handshakes that belie their permanent solitude.