Silver Stars. Майкл Грант

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ swirls and hovers and is parted by the squad’s entry into the room. At least twenty GIs are crammed in so tightly that the two small round tables have become de facto stools.

      Rio has been in British pubs, and those could be raucous at times—she has sidestepped more than one drunken brawl between American GIs and British Tommies. Or between American GIs and American sailors. Or between white GIs and black GIs. Or . . . Well, fit, energetic young men far from their families had a tendency to get into trouble, especially when drunk. But the tone of this place is subtly different. Here there is more weariness on the one hand and on the other hand a more desperate edge to the braying laughter. There are silent, sullen drinkers and loud, lit-up, electrified drinkers who are all raw nerve.

      Rio checks shoulder patches and the condition of uniforms and the look in men’s eyes and knows these are not rear-echelon soldiers but men who had been in the fight.

      There are a number of long looks plus the inevitable catcalls and lewd propositions as Rio, Jenou, Jillion, and Cat, with their male escort Beebee, walk in. The more civilized men offer to buy them drinks; others offer to give them a baby so they can muster out and go home.

      The four women have very different ways of dealing with this. Jenou smiles and in a loud, welcoming voice says, “I’ll decide who buys me a drink, and it ain’t you, short stuff. I want handsome and I want rich. If you’re rich enough, I’ll give a pass on the handsome.”

      This confuses most of the men and leaves them temporarily stalled, unsure how to proceed. They might be veterans, these men, but few are over twenty-five and none of them are suave or sophisticated with women.

      Cat Preeling has a different approach. When a rowdy, red-faced buck sergeant comes up demanding a dance—despite the absence of music or room to dance—Cat says, “Aw, fug that. Pull up and tell me a war story, Sarge.” In five minutes Cat has a gaggle of men around her, all competing to come up with the best story, or failing that then the most extravagant complaint about the army. And of course Cat is giving back as good as she gets.

      Jillion is the lost lamb, clinging nervously beside Rio, glancing toward every new sound. Rio manages to push her way up to the bar—actually a section of perforated steel resting at a noticeable angle on a sawhorse and a chest of drawers. The man behind the bar glares at her with naked hostility as she says, “A beer, please, and one for my buddy here.”

      The barman ignores her. So Rio pulls the knife and scabbard from her belt and lays it on the bar, examining her recent purchase. She draws the blade, holds it up to the smoky light and runs her finger carefully along both sharpened edges.

      The beers appear, and the knife is put away.

      “I wish I could do that,” Jillion says ruefully.

      “It’s all bluff,” Rio says. “But don’t tell anyone.” She avoids smiling because she knows her grin, which is slow to arrive but dazzling when it does appear, makes her look even younger than her current just-barely eighteen years.

      “I’ve only ever tasted beer once,” Jillion says. “I didn’t like it then. But now I like anything wet.” She offers Rio a cigarette, which Rio declines, then lights one for herself.

      She’s a fussy person, Jillion, with quick, small movements and an air of alertness that makes Rio think of a squirrel hiding its nuts. She has none of the physical robustness that Rio, Jenou, and Cat all share, and Rio wonders, not for the first time, how Jillion made it through basic training. She can’t picture this nervous squirrel running five miles in full gear, though to be fair she’s always kept up with the rest of the squad. Not much of a fighter, maybe, and a bit of a goldbrick, but there are others in the platoon as useless. Or almost as useless.

      “So, what’s your story, Magraff ?” Rio asks, partly from curiosity, more just to have an excuse to shut out the noise around her.

      “Me?” It comes out almost as a squeak. “Well . . .” She has to think about it while hunching her shoulders around her drink as if afraid it will be snatched out her hands. “I’m from a place called Chapel Hill in North Carolina. It’s where the university is.”

      “Uh-huh.”

      “Small town really, I guess. My father works in a print shop. I was figuring to go to work there maybe someday.”

      “What does he print?”

      “Oh, you know, flyers and church bulletins and diner menus and such. But they do some artwork sometimes and well, I kind of, uh . . .”

      “You like art?”

      Jillion nods and looks away as if admitting something shameful.

      “I see you drawing some times in that notebook you have.”

      “It passes the time.”

      “What do you draw?” Rio asks, and now she’s actually interested. The closest she’s come to knowing anyone with artistic interests is Strand, who enjoys taking pictures. Her hand moves involuntarily to the inner pocket where she keeps her photographs and letters.

      “The squad, mostly. Folks from the rest of the platoon too, whoever is sitting still long enough but won’t notice me. It makes people nervous, but it keeps me from getting nervous.”

      Rio half turns to favor her with a skeptical look. If this is Jillion Magraff not being nervous she’d hate to see her nervous.

      “Would you like to see?” Jillion asks.

      “Sure.”

      Jillion draws her bent, sweat-stained sketch pad from under her blouse. She opens it to a page and shyly holds it for Rio to see.

      “That’s Castain! Hey, Jenou, come here.” But Jenou is busy flirting with a drunk but darkly attractive staff sergeant. “You got one of me?”

      Jillion pales. “Um . . . I have a few of you.”

      “Well, let’s see.”

      “Okay, but, you know, I’m just an amateur,” Jillion says deprecatingly. “This is the first one I did of you.”

      The sketch is of a girl, in partial profile, looking off to one side and smiling. The girl is in uniform, but without a helmet, and she looks just ready to start laughing.

      “Oh man, my freckles,” Rio says. Jillion starts to put it away, but Rio puts her hand on the page, stopping her. “Who was I looking at when you drew this?”

      “I don’t remember,” Jillion says.

      But Jillion blushes, and it’s pretty clear she’s lying. Why, though? Who would she smile at that way? Not Stick. One of the other girls? Certainly not Pang or Tilo. She hopes it wasn’t Cassel, but then the answer slowly dawns: Jack. Of course. She was looking at Jack, ready to laugh.

      “Okay,” Rio says, confused as to how exactly she should be reacting. She wants to compliment Jillion: it’s a very good likeness, but it’s also, maybe . . . revealing. Rio swallows and forces a laugh. “Any others?”

      Jillion, perhaps reading Rio’s uncertainty, shakes her head.

      “Come on, Magraff, you said there were others.” Rio dreads seeing something equally revealing, but dreads more СКАЧАТЬ