A Troubled Peace by L. M. Elliott

Author:L. M. Elliott
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2009-09-15T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER NINETEEN

“Ever been to Paris?”

Henry sat in the passenger bench of a large U.S. Army supply truck next to a young private. A sergeant was driving and a long convoy stretched out behind them.

“No, I haven’t,” Henry answered. Despite his sorrow and worries, he was excited to see “the city of lights.” He wondered if the Louvre would be open. He had never been in a museum before. Patsy loved to draw and was forever checking out library books about painters. She’d told Henry that a portrait of a woman by Leonardo da Vinci called the Mona Lisa was at the Louvre. Mona Lisa’s eyes would follow him around the room, she’d said. Henry would sure like to see that painting so he could tell Patsy if the woman’s eyes really were that magical, to show he’d been thinking of her in France. Was she thinking of him? he wondered.

“Don’t expect too much,” grumbled the driver.

“Excuse me?” Henry asked, startled. Could this guy know what he was thinking about?

“Don’t expect too much from Paris,” the driver repeated irritably. “It’s overrated.”

“Ah, come on, Sarge, it’s the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen,” said the private, who smiled at Henry. He was from Oklahoma and his openness reminded Henry of wide fields and clean breezes. “Notre Dame, the Eiffel Tower, the Seine…”

“Yeah, the Seine,” barked the sergeant. “It stinks. It’s full of garbage. They relieve themselves in pissoirs on the street that I bet just dump straight into the river. The people stink, too. Don’t they ever shower?”

“They explained that to us, Sarge. Most of them don’t have any hot water. And soap is rationed to two cakes a month per family.” He elbowed the sergeant. “Bet you need that much soap every time you shower to smell good.”

“Ha ha ha. You’re a laugh riot, Joe,” grumbled the sergeant. “Listen, kid,” he said to Henry, “just watch you don’t get soaked. All of Paris is a clip joint as far as I’m concerned. They charge ninety francs for one shot of watered-down cognac. I went to the Folies Bergère and the usher girl demanded a tip for showing me to my seat. What a racket!”

“But they don’t pay them anything,” the private interrupted again. “It’s like our tipping taxi drivers or redcaps. It’s how they make a living.” The private turned to Henry. “It’s worth a tip just to meet them, sir. They are some of the prettiest gals I’ve ever seen. And real nice if you talk to them. Of course, they don’t hold a candle to my Millie, but it’s fun to look.” He grinned.

“Well, they won’t look back,” grumbled the sergeant. “The French don’t like us, Joe. I’m telling you. They never thank us for anything. Since October our engineer corps has removed thirty demolished bridges and built two new ones across the Seine. But all the French do is complain that we have too good of a time when we’re on leave. Complain, complain, complain.”

The private looked at Henry and rolled his eyes as if to say, Look who’s talking.

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