Lovely War(67)

     About Time—February 13, 1918





THEY ATE. They gazed into each other’s eyes. They fed each other bites of their dinner. They did all the adorable things a young couple does together in public, when they imagine they are subtle and discreet. In fact, they brought a great deal of warmhearted amusement to many at the restaurant, who loved seeing a young British soldier and his petite amie. The lovebirds were blithely oblivious.

But it was time. Ares, Apollo, I know how you feel; I felt the same way. James and Hazel both felt it.

But where? Once upon a time James had wanted to plan something perfectly romantic.

Paris, I told him, is romantic enough. Get on with it.

So when the genial server finally brought their bill—he had not charged them for the profiteroles for dessert—James paid the tab, and they ventured out into the cold. Ostensibly they were walking home, toward Colette’s aunt’s home, but in reality, they were both looking for the right spot.

They found it. A tiny park, just a corner, really, with a few naked trees, and an empty fishpond, and a statue of my own dear Cupid, bless the darling child. Made to order, and in fact it was, though I do not like to tip my hand. It was dark, but I parted the clouds overhead and painted the sky with stars. It was cold, but I sent the wind rushing past on either side of the park and left a comfortable bubble of stillness there.

The duffel bag and the flowers found their way to a park bench while the two sweethearts strolled a bit about, arm in arm. Dried leaves crunched under their feet when they left the cobblestone paths. They both knew what came next. They would not allow hurry or urgency to get in their way.

“Hazel?”

“Yes, James?”

“Dance with me.”

So they danced in the park to Hazel humming a tune. And when she forgot how the next bit went, and the silliness of what they were doing caught up to them, and they began to laugh, nothing could be easier than folding themselves into each other’s arms.

“Oh, you,” he whispered. “How can you be real?”

“When I’m with you,” she said, “I’m not sure that I am.”

And before he knew it, he had slid his hands behind her ears, and threaded his fingers through her hair. He kissed her forehead, there, and there, and found her cheek and kissed it, there, and her nose. Then slowly, slowly, he brought his mouth to hers, and gently, reverently, kissed her.





DECEMBER 1942


    An Answered Prayer





“THANK GOD,” sighs Ares.

   Aphrodite says: “You’re welcome.”





APHRODITE


     When We Were Young—February 13, 1918





WAS THERE EVER a time when we were young?

We’ll never grow old, of course; we have eternal beauty and passion and vigor, but was there ever a moment when we were new? When had we any firsts?

Can you recall your first real kiss? All that rushed upward from your feet to your face, all that awoke in you that you hadn’t realized was sleeping?

There’s nothing like the rightness of it. Nothing like its wonder. If I see it a trillion more times before this world spirals into the sun, I’ll still be an awed spectator, right to the last, drinking in its nectar in holy jealousy.



* * *





How shall I waltz you through the next twenty-four hours?

I don’t want to embarrass James and Hazel, yet I don’t want to miss any of it.

James had kissed a girl or two before. They were statues, in a way; they held their breath, they allowed themselves to be kissed, passively, coolly, without response. Perhaps it was a feminine fad. Some fellows even seemed to like it. This ice maiden, they seemed to feel, could be melted; it was a challenge that could be conquered by dint of manly effort.

Not so, Hazel. She kissed him back. Any other girl he’d ever kissed eroded into dust.

Well.

A good time was had by all.

They eventually found their way back to Colette’s aunt’s home. There were many, many stops along the way, but I leave these to your imagination. Colette and her aunt Solange had stayed up, keeping themselves awake with violet-flavored candies and endless rounds of Le Tourn’oie, a board game Hazel knew as the Game of the Goose. It would be the hospitable thing, Tante Solange insisted, to wait up to greet them, no matter how late.

“Pah,” was Colette’s reply. “You want to see how handsome is Hazel’s British soldier.”

Tante Solange shrugged. “Bien s?r,” she said, without a speck of apology.

When Hazel and James finally rang the bell, Tante Solange availed herself of that dubious privilege of older Continental women to comment upon his height, kiss his cheeks, pinch them, admire his shoulders, and generally mortify her guest till he was redder than a tomato. When he produced francs to pay for his lodgings, Tante Solange waved them away and showed him his room. That matter settled, she retired to bed. Colette followed her lead.

The kitchen was the farthest from the bedrooms, so James and Hazel found their way there. Left to their own devices, they discovered that kisses sans overcoats were an entirely new pleasure to be explored, and they might be in that kitchen still, had Tante Solange not emerged for an urgently needed pair of nail scissors kept, naturally, in the utensil drawer. So they bid each other adieu for the night, each certain that sleep would be utterly impossible