Post Delayed

The third story is taking some time to finish, so please check back on April 9.

Last Visit to Old Vienna

            --What I don’t understand is what made them make the telephone call if they didn’t intend to come.

            I was sitting with Max in the row of booths in the alcove near the pinball machine behind the bar.  We were drinking a Scholle and a coca cola, respectively, the bearer of which beverages had given the information, on request, that Gravidson had not been in that night nor several nights previously.  We were, in fact, not to see him again.

            --Are you sure the call was from Paris?  asked Max.

            --Of course.  Their hotel got me on the phone first, you know.

            --No, I don’t know.  What did they say exactly?

            Max was annoyed because he felt he had failed.  He had justified it by saying to me that it was mostly my fault.  There had been so much confusion in the beginning as to whether the UBS was to speak for Angela Davis or against American imperialism that it was not surprising they had not turned up.

            Stalinists are pessimists, Trotskyists optimists.  They have tried and failed, our chance is before us.

            --But they did come, I repeated.  They telephoned.

            Failed what?

            --I want to know exactly what was said on that telephone, said Max.

            To establish the dictatorship of the proletariat.

            --Hello.

            --Who said hello?

            --The hotel man.

            --And then?

            --He asked if this was my number, and I said it was, and he said someone wanted to talk to me and not to quit and so I held on.

            --Are you sure he was calling from France?

            --Sure I’m sure.  That is just the way small hotels work—the owner or the manager gets the number at the switchboard and tells you to wait.  The international operator has a completely different voice—first of all, she is usually a woman.  This was a man.  And the ring is different.

            --What happened then?

            --An American, a black American voice got on the phone and said—

            Not finishing my sentences as usual.

            --Go ahead

            --Hello.

            --Then what?

            Max’s game this.  No way to get on his nerves.

            --That he was a friend from Heidelberg.  I asked him his first name and he said      William.  That’s Gravidson, isn’t it?

            --Yes, that’s Gravidson.

            --Maybe I should have insisted.  To go to the hotel where they were.  But they said they were tired and that they would come to my place in the morning.  I didn’t want to push.  What I thought was, if they had finally come when I hadn’t pushed here in Heidelberg, I should not start pushing now.

            --That was the time to start pushing, said Max.

            --Yes.  Well, we arranged that they should come to my place in the morning.

            --Did they agree?

            Did they?

            --They wanted to know where the meeting was.  He, William, wanted the address, the Metro stop, everything.  So it did occur to me they intended to go straight to the meeting and check it out.  That’s why I waited outside.

                        --Outside?

            --On the steps.  I thought I would see them as they came to the Mutualité.  But as far as I know, they didn’t turn up.  Mitzi waited with me until well after the meeting started.  By the end of the meeting, every militant was asking every black if they were soldiers.

            --Maybe they weren’t calling from Paris, said Max again.

            --Hello, Max.

            A long thin black basketball player smiled and sat down.

            --Willie?

            --That’s right.

            --You know June?

            --No.

            --Willie was the guy who got sent to Jordan, said Max.

            --Jordan?

            --They wrote him up in Propergander.

            --I don’t know where it was, said Willie.  I was in a place up near a border someplace.

            --But you were in the Middle East?

            --That’s what they told us.  In the desert.  It was near a place called Serious or something.

            --That’s a star, said June.

            --There were a lot of stars there—but this place wasn’t no star.

            The Dog Star.

            --Serious?

            --Something like that.

            --Syria!

            --Yeah, that was it.

            --I thought you said Jordan, I said to Max.

            --It was Jordan, said Max.  They went there with the Red Cross.

            --I don’t know where we were, said Willie.  It sounded like what you just said.

            --Maybe it was the Syrian border, said June.  Or Israel?

            --It was the desert.  I know that.

            --Didn’t they tell you where they were sending you?

            --They just told us to get our things ready, we were leaving.  They ship us out of Rhein Main in the middle of the night.  They never did tell us where we was going.

            --How many of you were there?

            --About thirty.

            --Where did you leave from?

            Sounds like we’re spies fishing for information.  Did we do this with the UBS?  No wonder they didn’t trust us.  But he doesn’t seem to care.

            --Rhein Main.

            --What did you do when you got there?

            --Nothin’.  We just stayed out in the desert in a camp.  Then they brought us back.

            --Did you have guns?

            --The officers had guns.  They said they’d give us guns if we needed them, but I never saw no guns.  They were probably locked up somewhere only the officers could get to.  If an attack come, we didn’t have nothin’.

            --Who did you expect to attack you?

            --I don’t know.  They never told us.  But must have been someone goin’ to attack us or why they send us there?

            --Would you go to Vietnam?  I asked.

            --I wouldn’t go to Munich, said Willie.

-           -Why not?

            --They try to send me there, but I said no.

            --Munich?

            --Yeah.

            --Why?

            --To go to school?

            Willie shrugged.

            --They want me to go to radar or ballistics or some school there to learn how to do somethin’ for them.  I said no.

            --You don’t want to go to school?

            --I play basketball for them, but that’s all I’ll do for them.

            --I told you that he played basketball, said Max.  He’s on the team.

            --In training, said Willie.  We just play other posts.

            --That’s all you have to do?

            --Not bad.

            Maybe he would have spoken at the meeting.  Well, anyway, it’s over.  Of course he turns on.  But not in Old Vienna.  No one turns on in Old Vienna.  Discipline.  Revolutionary?  Danger of it closing down.  Shit might change hands here, but no smoking.  No dancing either tonight.  Why?

            Willie went over to play pinball.

            --Guess they’re not coming in tonight, said Max.

            --Why no dancing?

            --You need a special license.  The proprietor would probably love to have dancing, but he can get closed if he’s caught.  A maneuver of the authorities to crack down on Old Vienna.  Well, if they’re not coming, they’re not coming, said Max.  I have to see Gunther at eleven.

            The edge of the deserted dance floor was already invaded by tables.  Crossing, I heard my name.

            --June?

            A young man left one of the invading tables, came up to me.  A deep purple shirt sent plum-colored reflections upward, hi-lighting dark face, kind eyes.

            --Yes?

            --You remember me?  I’m Jesse.

            I didn’t but smiled.  Getting as bad as Max.

            --You were in here with Gravidson one night.

            --Yeah.  What happened with your meeting?  I told Gravidson I couldn’t make it that Tuesday.

            --I think he came to Paris..But he couldn’t make the meeting.  That’s what I’m here for, to find out.

            Max joined us on the ex-dance floor and I told him that Jesse knew him—or rather that he knew Jesse since Jesse obviously had no trouble remembering people whereas Max had—and that Jesse had known about the meeting.

            --The only thing we don’t know is why they came all the way to Paris and then didn’t turn up, said Max.

            --You want to go ask him?  asked Jesse.  We can go over there.

            --You know where he lives?

            --He over to Patton.

            --I took him up to Mannheim one night to see Rose, said Max.  She lives outside of Taylor somewhere, but I could never find it again.

            --Rose lives out at Taylor, said Jesse.  But Gravidson is at Patton.  I’ll take you if you want.  We don’t need to be here more than half an hour.

            --Couldn’t we go right away?  asked Max.  I have an appointment in half an hour.

            --Maybe, said Jesse.  I’ll ask my friend.

            We waited on the edge of the converted floor.

            --Did you recognize him?  asked Max.

            --Not at first.  He was very conservatively dressed before.  Tonight I saw the purple shirt before I saw him.

            --Where’s Willie?

            --Playing pinball.

            At a mushroom table newly installed on the inoperative dance floor, Jesse stood over, then stood back for, a light brown man with a moustache, middle-aged, thickening around the waist, who glanced at me, passed ahead out the door.

            --You want to go in my car?  asked Max.

            --He has a car, said Jesse.  We go in his car.  It’ll be better to get on base.

            Military plates.

            --No trouble getting on base after nine?  asked Max dubiously.  Even with her?

            --No, said Jesse, No trouble.

            The man with a moustache was at the wheel of a light green 1967 Buick sedan.  Jesse got in front and I got in the back seat.  The German waitress came out on the sidewalk and stopped Max.

            --Pay, she said.

            --Didn’t I pay?

            She shook her head.  Max paid.

            --All in a day’s work.

            --He wants to know if you have a sister, said Jesse.

            --Who?

            --My friend here.

            Long time I haven’t been asked that.

            --No.  I have hundreds of children though.

            --Now I can’t believe that, said the driver.

            --My name is June.  Jesse didn’t tell me your name.

            --Chesterton.  My name is Chesterton.

            --You in the military?

            --He’s a NCO, said Jesse.

            --Seventeen years, said Chesterton.  Two and a half more and I’ll have my pension.

            Early forties.

            Max got in the car and was introduced to Chesterton.

            Stalinist meets lifer.

            --How long have you been in Germany?  asked Max.

            --Since November, said Jesse.

            --I just got here, said Chesterton.  It’s a sad country.

            --You been in ‘Nam.

            --I was wounded in ‘Nam.

            Karlsruhestrasse, Rohrbacherstrasse—Patton Barracks.  Black letters painted on a white sign above the gate, dimly lit.  A guard house between two driveways—an in and an out.  The MP inside, black, with a white gun holster, absently raised two fingers in a peace sign as the Buick rolled through.

            --No trouble getting on base, observed Max redundantly.  What about inside the barracks?  She can’t go in, can she?

            --No, said Jesse.  I’ll go up.

            The Buick parked diagonally to the entry of a dark building in the maze of barracks.

            Maze?  To whom?  Not to the soldiers.

            --Yes, began Chesterton when Jesse had disappeared inside.  I was wounded in ‘Nam.  When they brought me in, they said I was never going to be able to—if you’ll excuse me—have a normal sexual life again.  But they were wrong;  it’s better than before.  I was the only one of my patrol came back and for two days and two nights I had to crawl on my hands and knees through the jungle, living on coconuts and fruit, until I got to the base.  But I prayed God I would survive and He helped me.

Max and I watched almost mesmerized Chesterton’s hawk like profile against the flat wet glass of the windshield.  How had he teamed up with Jesse?

            --How did you get to know Jesse?  I asked. 

            --We met here, said Chesterton.  I’ve just been here a week.

            Jesse came back to the car, got in the front seat next to Chesterton and said Gravidson wasn’t there.

            --Maybe he’s at the NCO Club, he said.  You want to go over there?

            --Sure, I said.

            --What’s there tonight?

            --Fasching.

            --Fasching?

            A German word familiar to GI’s.  Not to me, until once in a fashion magazine in Klosters, Fasching was written under the photo of a Viennese debutante.

            --Carnival, said Max.

            In white tulle.

At the NCO Club, larger-than-lifers wives jumped and jiggled, screeched and giggled on a baby dance floor.  Their partners, husbands and other NCO’s, dressed as sailors, waiters, a gaucho with a whip, a cook, danced tiredly between bursts of bouncing as if they had been up for duty at six that morning and their feet hurt.  A black pirate danced with a white Columbine.  In white tulle.  Music was made by a saxophone, an electric guitar, and snare drums played by country and western men in a corner near the dance floor. 

It was late for an Army party.  The special Fasching dinner dance had begun at six.  Long tables stretched down the middle of the narrow rooms, strewn with the debris of paper hats and horns, paper table cloths with party motives, confetti snakes lying uncoiled under dancing feet.

The gaucho contemplated his grey bull whip coiled about his upper arm and fondled it over the plump shoulder of his partner, bespangled and beruffled in dotted swiss, thigh high, dancing.

            --I’ll ask if Gravidson’s been in, said Jesse, sitting them down at a ringside table.

            Gravidson’s very name seemed alienated from the Walpurgis night of the Patton Fasching.

            --Do you come here often?

            --We mostly go over to the Club at the hospital, said Chesterton.  The music isn’t much here.

            Country and western.

            A German waitress came and asked what they wanted to drink.

            Local girl?  Like the Old Vienna waitress?

            Coca cola and gin.  Only Cola for me, coke and gin for Max.

            --I’ll have a coke too, said Jesse from behind the waitress.

            He sat down and Chesterton got up, left, following a lifer not unlike himself to the door and out.

            --You see the guy Chesterton went after?  asked Jesse.

            Max, his eye on the long, lean, lanky wife of the NCO Club concessionaire, had not.

            --Who is he?  asked June, who had.

            --He’s no good, said Jesse.  He brought his wife over here because she is expecting a baby.  Twice he’s beaten her and thrown her out in the middle of the night.  She has no place to go.  She don’t know no one here at all.

            --Why doesn't she leave him?

            --He say he kill her she leave him, said Jesse.  She scared.  The lieutenant fix it for her to go back, and the Army to pay for her trip, but she was too scared to go.  He said he kill her when she go back tonight, that’s why Chesterton gone after him, tell him the brothers going to kill him, he touch her again.

            --Is Chesterton UBS?

            --He interested.  That’s her over there.

            A young woman, hanging her head, heavy with child, sat looking down at her hands, lengths away across the table.  Two young brothers stood above her, one leaning down slightly to speak.

            --We found a place for her to stay tonight, continued Jesse.  But she don’t like to go.  She don’t know the people—she don’t want to disturb them.  But if she go back to him, he beat her.

            --It’s hard to come between a couple, I contributed.  Sometimes, even if they disagree, they prefer each other.

            --She don’t want no other men, said Jesse.  When she first come here, lots of the brothers tried to take her over.  But she not interested.  He going to be the father of her child, she come to be with him.  And so we try to help her.  One night she stay out there on base all night ‘cause he threw her out.

            --When is she having the baby?

            --In a month.  But the way he been beating her, she think it dead.

            The young men, one proceeding, one accompanying the rejected wife, crossed the confetti strewn floor and left to the sound of white country music, hard and discordant to soul-tuned ears.

            --She all right for tonight then, said Jesse.

            He opened his wallet, took out a picture.

            --That my wife, he said.  And my baby.

            A thin, print-clad Vietnamese girl was sitting on what looked like the lowest steps of a stadium, a sleeping baby on her knees.

            --You left her there?  I asked.

            --Obviously, said Max.  How would he bring her out?

            --If he married her?

            --The Army discourages Vietnamese marriages.

            --I’ve put in to go back, said Jesse.  Since I been here.  But they don’t seem to pay much heed.

            --How old are you?

            --Twenty.

            --And you’ve been in since?

            --They got me when I was seventeen, said Jesse.

            --RA?

            Gravidson was RA too.

            --In a way.  I mean, I am down as a volunteer, but it was that or going to jail.

            --What did you do?  asked Max.  Steal a car?

            Jesse laughed.

            --I had a friend—one of the first deserters in Paris—, who had that happen to him, said Max reminiscently.

            --The first time I got off, said Jesse.  My mother came back from Germany to talk to them, and they let me off.

            -Your mother’s a German?

            --No.  My father’s stationed here.  He was, that is.  Now he has his retirement.

            --That’s why they let you off?

            --They wouldn’t of got me except I went through a stop sign.

            --In a stolen car?

            Jesse smiled and shrugged.

            --Yeah.  I didn’t really go through though.  I made a sort of half stop to shift gears, and when I didn’t see no one coming, I went on.  I didn’t see the cop either.  So he asked for my license, and I didn’t have one, and then he asked for the car regıstration and called up to see if it was stole.

            --You didn’t have a driver’s license?

            --No.  But once the car was reported stole, they didn’t check that out again.

            Counter irritation deceives cops.

            --But your mother got you off?

            --The first time.

            --What happened the second time?

            --I didn’t steal that car to drive it.  I just wanted to get some things off it for my car.

            I remembered Buster, our deserter, had been picked up sitting in the car he stole, listening to the radio.

            --You left it in front of your house?

            Jesse laughed.

            --Down the street, he said.  So I got sent off to Basic.

            --Where?

            --Fort Lewis.

            --Where did you got for AIT?

            --Fort Ord.

            --And from there to ‘Nam?

            --That’s it.

            --What did you do in ‘Nam?

            --I was a helicopter mechanic.  There were four of us, and we were real cool.  We just fly around up there and then come back.  No one checked us out, where we gone or nothin’.

            Chesterton waved to them from across the room.

            --What time is it?  asked Max.

            --I’ll ask Chesterton, said Jesse.

            His large plum-colored sleeves, pulled in at the wrists, left no room for a watch.  He gave Chesterton a look and Chesterton came over, consulted a flat gold dial on his left wrist and said it was eleven.

            --Oh my god, said Max.  I should have been at Gunther’s five minutes ago.

            And where was his watch?

            He pushed back his chair, got to his feet.

            --Have you paid? I asked.

            --It’s been taken care of, said Chesterton.

            --Thank you.

            In the green Buick on the way back to Old Vienna, Jesse said they could try the EM-NCO club at the hospital.

            --He more like to be there.

            --No one makes the Patton Club except for the Fasching, said Chesterton.  What a lugubrious place!

            I laughed.

            --You go, said Max.  I won’t stand up Gunther.  I’d like to stay with you guys, but when I say I’m going to be somewhere, I must be there.  I don’t always succeed, but if it’s something I can control--

            I had heard this before—many times, so I said:

            --Yes, we understand that you are a noble character.

            --It’s not a question of being noble, it’s something that you learn with experience.

            --Then go to Gunther and we’ll go to the NCO club at the hospital.

            --You don’t mind if I don’t go?

            --We’ll try to muddle through.

            The light green Buick pulled up parallel to Max’s Citroen on the sidewalk opposite Old Vienna.  Max got out.

            --I’ll come back for you, he said.  We’ll meet inside the Old Vienna.  In about an hour?

            Chesterton took off towards the hospital.

            --You sure you don’t have any sisters?  he asked.

            --I’m old enough to be your mother.

            The hospital sprung up at them on the right of Rohrbacherstrasse.  A sign over the entrance indicated its healing function.  No guard sat in the lighted booth between the in-and-out driveways.  No barrier barred access.

            --Much more sympathetic than Patton.

            The EM-NCO club was right ahead of them at the end of a parking lot.  Like Patton, the hospital area at night was a concrete maze of winding roads separated by plots of grass, pools of concrete and icebergs of barracks dominated by the actual hospital building.  A square beam of light in this totalitarian complex was the entrance of the Club.  Across from it, one part of the parking lot was Reserved for Officers.

The approach to this EM-NCO club, called High Nine indicating the highest ranking NCO, was roofed over by a cement block upheld by an open cement structure offering some protection from wind and rain.

            But this is the story of a starry night.

            Inside the club a discreet screening process was effected:  a small table with an open book on it was set up to the left of the door and a roving manager in a grey suit was in orbit, describing an irregular course around the lobby from club entrance to kitchen to office and back to the small table.  He glanced at me and away as Jesse walked to the table and signed me in the book.

            Easy.  Like going in a night club when you know the headwaiter, crossing the border in a luxury car, entering Congress with a congressman.  Whereas doing any of these things when you were poor, badly dressed, long-haired and alone was often difficult, disagreeable, and sometimes impossible.  Democratic army?  Co-optation?

            --I’ll get Max a guest card, said Chesterton.  Then you can go in by yourselves.  Until recently, anyone could go in the club.  In fact, men still can.  But we have to sign in the women.

            --Men can?

            Chesterton thought it over.

            --Maybe not a German man.  If you look American, it’s all right.

            --Max looks like a communist with a bomb, I said.  I can’t see him strolling in here unobserved.

            Jesse laughed.

            --I’ll get him a guest card, promised Chesterton.

            The club was crowded, spacious, and well-ventilated.  Whether for further possibilities of screening if the occasion arose, or to take care of overflow crowds, a long aisle ran for ten yards inside the archway.  To the left was a glassed-in bar, to the right a wrought iron railing running along a raised level where about twenty-five tables were set out, filling in a sixty foot square area between the railing and the outside windows,closed and curtained for the night.  The room widened out on both sides beyond the floor and bandstand to the right, another raised floor level under the windows with another wrought iron railing forming a small balcony for two rows of tables.  Although no one was standing, the tables were all occupied.

            --Wait here, said, Jesse.  I’ll get us a table.

            --Why don’t we have a quiet dinner some night?  asked Chesterton.

            A thin man in a white shirt was standing before a thin microphone singing in a thin voice which carried to every corner of the large. Well-ventilated room:

really want to see you,

really want to know you,

really want to see you

Lord

But it takes so long…my sweet Lord…

            --Sure, I said. Call me.

            --Then we could really talk quietly, said Chesterton, and went to help Jesse coming out of a room behind the bandstand, holding three chairs piled on each other.

He put them down at one of the tables on the small balcony where a very black soldier sat with his right arm around a German girl, a cigarette in his left hand, and a long drink before him.

            --He’s a friend of mine, said Jesse.  June, this is Brighton.

            Brighton nodded.

            Chesterton went off.

            A white German waitress, decidedly older than the Old Vienna or Patton Barracks waitresses, stopped for their order.

            --What are you drinking?  I asked Brighton.  It looks good.

            --Bourbon and coke.

            --I’ll have that.

            Army policy to have middle-aged waitresses in the clubs?  To discourage passes?

            --How come the Patton waitresses are younger?  I asked Jesse.

            Jesse laughed.

            --These here are more usual, he said.  The Patton waitresses were imported specially for the Fasching.

            Chesterton came back to ask me to dance, and I refused.  I didn’t dance.  Chesterton didn’t believe it but went off to find someone else.

            Courteous.

            --Go and dance, I said to Jesse.  I’ll eat.  I haven’t had dinner.

            Sign of age.  Eat rather than dance.

            --I don’t see Gravidson, said Jesse.  But he may be in.

            I ordered a lobster tail and French fries.  Everything was very cheap.  The bourbon and coke cost thirty-five cents.

            --I would like to meet some West Indians, said Jesse.  In Cambodia, some of the mountain tribes have black skin.  As black as mine.  Except their eyes are slit.

Cambodia is far from the West Indies but I know what he means.  Neither place is American.  For Americans the world is divided into Americans and non-Americans.  Relating to Cambodians is cultural breakthrough.

Brighton’s gaze roved from the thin man slowly moving in time to really want to see you to Chesterton dancing, to a black soldier in a white suit with black velvet lapels, to Jesse across the table.

            --Why you talkin’ bout the Army on your night off?  he asked Jesse.

            --I’m not talkin’ about the Army, said Jesse.

            --You talkin’ bout Cambodia, aren’t you?

            --Yeah.  Cambodia.  Not the Army.

            --We there, man, aren’t we?

            --Cambodia is a country, said Jesse.  And I’m talkin’ bout that country.

            --Okay, said Brighton agreeably. Forget I said anything.

            The black velvet lapels came over to Brighton, crossed a white clad arm across his chest, and shook hands, first touching and crossing thumbs.  Brighton, having taken his arm off the German girl’s shoulders to shake hands, put it back.  The soldier moved on.

            --We have some Vietnamese friends here in Heidelberg, I said to Jesse.  If you’d be interested in meeting them?

            --I can speak some Vietnamese, said Jesse.

            --Did you talk to your wife in Vietnamese?

            --We talked mostly in English.  She knew more English than I did Vietnamese.

            --Do you think you’ll ever see her again?

            Jesse shrugged.

            --I’ve put in to go back, he said.

            --Think you’ll get it?

            Jesse shook his head.

            --What is your job here in Germany?

            --I drive the trucks.  They’re no helicopters in this part of Germany.

            --Do you mind?

            --I could of refused.  Because, you see, servicing a helicopter is higher than a truck driver.  But I agreed to the trucks.

            His eyes darkened and he added:

            --There was some talk about me being a cook—but I don’t cook for no one.

            --Parlez-vous francais?

            --Et vous?

            The clown of the company sat down.  Light-skinned and short-haired, pockmarked.  He opened his eyes wide.

            --Tu parles francais?  I asked.

            ---Ooo, what she say?  asked the clown.  Um.  Let me see.  Un peu.  Polly-francais un peu.  Pas beaucoup francais.  Dansez?

            The lobster tail arrived, and the clown went to find someone who preferred dancing to eating.  Jesse leaned over and asked:

            --Do you want to talk to Lancelot?

            --Sure.  Who’s Lancelot?

            --He’s the guy who was in Paris.

            --But the guy who called me in Paris said his name was William?

            --That’s Lancelot's first name.

            --I certainly would like to talk to him.

            --I’ll go tell him.

            Diplomatic procedure. 

            Standing on the balcony running along the windows, Jesse spoke energetically with a tall, bronze soldier wearing a leather jacket and grey flannels.

            Conservative.

            A dumpy girl with glasses stood next to him.  Still talking, slowly walking, all three of them moved along the aisle to the table I was sharing with Brighton and his German girl friend.  I stood up.

            --This is Lancelot, said Jesse, went over to his side of the table, sat down.

            Lancelot stood.

            --You were in Paris?  I asked, getting up.

            --Yeah.  I saw you at the meeting.

            --What meeting?

            --The meeting in Paris.  You were standing on the steps.  There was another girl with you, one of your daughters maybe.

            How does he know I have daughters?

            --Yes, I said slowly.  I remember.  So you were the one who stood there.  I was expecting Gravidson.

            Thought he was a West Indian law student—tall, conservatively dressed.  Jesus, I’m worse than Max.  Max doesn’t recognize people out of their cars; I don’t recognize them out of their fatigues.  Or leather jackets.

            --Why didn’t you say anything?

            --I was going to, but then you said something in French to the girl next to you.

            Mitzi.

            --Were you the one who made the phone call?

            --What phone call?

            --Someone called and said he was William.

            --William is Gravidson’s first name.

            --I know.  Did he come too?

            --I don’t think so.  I didn’t see him.

            The mousey girl had stayed at the table.

            --Couldn’t we talk somewhere quieter?  I asked.  It’s awfully noisy here.

            I sound like Chesterton and his quiet dinner.

            Lancelot nodded.

            --Just a minute.

            He went over to the mousy girl, said something to her, and then we walked together out past the glassed-in bar and the iron railings in the lobby.  The roving manager was still in orbit, new arrivals were signing in new girls, a small dining room beyond the rest rooms was in semidarkness. 

            --There’s no place to talk, said Lancelot.  Look around.

            The UBS liked diplomacy to be carried out under correct conditions.  They might be hard to bring to the conference table, but once there, they wanted it to be a certain way.  Like the Vietnamese, who had insisted on an oval table for the peace talks, so that no one country would be at the head.  With the UBS there were certain booths in Old Vienna, certain promises to be kept—like being at appointments a reasonable time after the time—certain conditions to be respected—like their mobility always being in their own hands.  Since these conditions had been accepted by me, by Max, by the League, why hadn’t they come to Paris?  But they had.  They had come to Paris, and they had come to the meeting, but they had not given a formal sign of their presence.  Why not?

            --Why not?

            --Why?

            --Why didn’t you come to the meeting with us?  Or let us know you were going to be there?

            --You see, I left early, said Lancelot.  I had already gotten leave before we knew about your meeting.  I drove to Paris on Friday.  At that time, no definite decision had been taken.  I left my number with Gravidson, but they didn’t contact me.  Who called you?

            --Someone from a hotel in Paris who said he was a friend from Heidelberg.  When I asked him what his first name was, for identification, he said William.  So I thought it was Gravidson.  And that’s whom I was looking for in front of the meeting.  I saw you, but I thought you were West Indian.

            --I came by the table in Old Vienna the night you were talking to Tackle.

            --You didn’t sit down.

            --I didn’t stay very long.  You see, I didn’t really have the right to speak at that time.

            He saw me, not me he.  That’s what it came down to, that I didn’t recognize him from Old Vienna.

            --In the organization, continued Lancelot.  We just don’t do things individually.  We make a decision, and then we stick to it.  When I left Heidelberg on Friday, no decision had as yet been made.  I left my number for them to contact me, but when I had no contact, then I thought the decision was negative.

            Contact organizations, not individuals, as Max said.

            Lancelot paused and added:

            --It was a very nice hall.

            --Sure.

            --Look, he said.  You see, one thing we don’t do any more is talk to social gatherings.  If we speak, it has to be for a definite political purpose.  Okay.  It was clear your meeting was political.  Okay.  That was clear.

            --Well, I told you that.

            --You see, another thing has happened.  People ask us to come support a meeting, and then we get there, we find out we’re the meeting.  That’s what happened at K’town.  Nothing was planned, no other groups took part, everyone was just waiting for us to run the whole thing.  Now your meeting was already organized and everything.  That was very clear.

            As Lancelot talked, his eyes, which were of a particular shade of hazel, became clearer and clearer as if a hood or veil was being removed or burst away by increasing doses of involvement.

            --We had our place at that meeting, said Lancelot.  It was against imperialism, and that’s one of the things we’ll talk about.  We could have spoken very well at that meeting.

            --Well, we wished you had, I said.

            K’town.  And I thought that was such a hot recommendation.  That’s what comes of going along with everything.

            --It was a Communist meeting, said Lancelot.

            --Yes, I said.  We are communists, but not traditional Communist Party.  Our organization is the French section of the IVth International which is in opposition to the traditional Communist Party.  That was the first thing I told Tackle at our first meeting in Old Vienna, and I think I repeated it to Gravidson.

            --We don’t mind that, said Lancelot.  What we worried about was—you said something about limiting our time of speaking and not being able to answer questions.  In other words, some of us had the impression you wanted to have control over what we were to say.

            The Congress for a Red Europe and the Spartan who hadn’t wanted his time limited, and had walked out with his group.

            I sighed.  Sighed for having so telescoped the information that it had come out fuzzy.

            --You were at the meeting, I said.  You saw that there had to be a time limitation.  There were about seven speakers.  That’s why we said, if you came, only two of you could speak.  As far as answering questions goes-—well, you saw for yourself that it wasn’t that kind of meeting.  It’s too big a hall.  The point was to get the information across, and we wanted you to give us information about work inside the army.

            --It was very well-arranged, said Lancelot.  You had all the literature set out real nice.

            --A few hundred copies of About Face would have been fine, I said.

            Smile.

            --You see, said Lancelot, when I heard your leader say there were black GI militants there, then I thought maybe they were there somewhere and hadn’t been able to get in touch with me.

            --He didn’t say they were there, he said they were expected.

            Lancelot’s clear eyes clouded.

            --I only had three years of French, he said.

            Could have spoken in French.  Too bad.

            --You heard the ovation you got.  Imagine what it would have been if you had spoken.

            --It was too bad, said Lancelot.

really want to know you

but it takes

so long

            The music, which must always have been playing, came through loudly, as Chesterton came out of the slated door of the men’s room, grabbed me and said:

            --Let’s dance.

            --No, I repeated.  I don’t dance.

            --I’ll be waitin’ for you, baby, said Chesterton and danced off by himself.

            Slowly we walked back to the big room, past the grey manager, past the glass wall and wrought iron railings.

            --Let’s hope we have another chance of working together.

            --Yes, said Lancelot.  It’s a pity it didn’t work out for that meeting.

            He stopped at the table where the mousy girl was sitting.  I shook hands with her, said I had wanted to clear up some details about a meeting.  Always explain to associates of associates, particularly when they are girl friends or wives.

            And so that’s all right.  Or is it?  Diplomacy a full time job.  Things never stay like you leave them.  For example, the lobster tails, by the time I got back to the table, were cold.

                                                *                                  *                                  *                                 

            --Maybe you should just tell him I’m here, I said as the light green Buick drew up in front of the club.

            I was sitting in the front seat next to Chesterton.  Jesse was in the back.

            --It don’t close for another half hour, said Jesse.

            --Come on in, said Chesterton.  I’d like to buy you and Max a drink.

            Max’s car was half on, half off the opposite sidewalk, its port running light lit.  Inside Old Vienna, he was playing pinball with Willie Lynch.

            --There you are, he said.  I thought you were lost.

            --Ping, said the pinball.  A blue light lit up on the heavy score board as the ball dropped in the out slot.

            --I saw Lancelot.

            --Who’s he?

            --One of the UBS.  He came to the meeting.

            --He did?  What happened?

            --Generally you could say I talked too fast and too much to get across to the UBS a clear picture of what the meeting really was.  Then, when Lancelot showed up, I was too nearsighted to recognize him.  I was so busy looking for Gravidson with his black hat that I didn’t see Lancelot standing on the steps in a blue suit and coat.  I goofed all along.

            --Well, don’t take it too hard.

            --It’s over.  Come on, Chesterton wants to buy us a drink.

            --Us?  You’re sure he wants to buy me a drink?

            --Sure, I’m sure.

            We smiled at each other.

            --What happened with Gunther?  I asked.

            --Jamie came by and said he doesn’t want the apartment.  He got a job at a night club in K’town.

            --There go his good resolutions.

            --Come and have a drink, Willie, said Max.

            --That is my poster, said Chesterton, gesturing to a poster next to the bar with a Danish subtitle, unintelligible to the three pairs of eyes looking at it.  Three?  Yes. Willie was finishing his pinball game, and Jesse had gone off to speak to a friend at the round table encroaching on the dance floor.

            The poster showed a naked girl’s back as she sat opposite a naked man, his face hidden by the blond back of her head, her legs around his waist.

            --Gonna take it back tonight, said Chesterton.  I just love that poster.

            --Um, said Max.

            He wrote pornography in spare moments, was thinking of trying to market it.

            --She tells me she has children, said Chesterton to Max, gesturing towards me with his beer.  Can that be true?  I don’t believe it.

            --Don’t we all?  said Max.

            --Jesse has a baby, I said . What is it, boy or girl?

            Jesse, who had drifted back from the periphery of the dance floor, balanced momentarily between Max and Chesterton, said it was a boy, smiled and moved on.

            --I have two myself, said Chesterton.

            --Boys or girls?

            --Honey, I got away before they were born, laughed Chesterton.  You don’t mind me calling you honey, do you?

            --Honored, I said.

            Brilliant as usual.  Keep the ball rolling.

            --Let me take that, said Chesterton.  This is my party.

            Clubhouse on Saturday night.  All we need is a deer head on the wall and a few crossed golf clubs.  With a Vietcong ear and an M-16 we’d be in Saigon.  Jesse and Chesterton have been.

            --Have you any plans yet for when you get out?  Max asked Chesterton.

            --As a matter of fact, said the latter, I’ve been offered a job in the Oakland Police Department.

            General jaw dropping.  A lifer.  God saved his life in the jungle.  The astounding activities of Warrant Officer Chesterton

--I know, I know, I’ve been told already, said Chesterton.  This girl told me on my last leave.  “What are you going to do if they tell you to shoot your own people?”

            Gravidson had a girl too, who told him—what?

            --Cause you know, I’m too good-hearted.  I’d let people off.  They call me in all the time in the Army and say, “What did you let that guy off for, Chesterton?”  “Well, what else was he going to do but what he did?”  I say to them.  What would you have done in his place?  I know I’m not going to fink on my people.  So maybe it’s better that I’m in that job than someone else.

            Chesterton paused.

            --I don’t think I’ll last long though.

            His analysis shed silence.

            --Maybe you’ll change your mind, Max was slowly beginning when the club owner, a young German in an ash-flecked business suit, walked past on his final round of the premises, saying what I assumed was the equivalent of Time, gentlemen.  He was followed at two paces by the barman, even younger, his lower status confirmed by his white coat and shiny black trousers.  Slowly Max and Chesterton finished their beers.  Willie had drunk his right away, went over to the booth near the pinball machine for his coat.

            --Fuck you. motha’, in the asshole—and you know I mean it.

A German whore, sitting on a far away bar stool with her back to Chesterton’s party, screamed out. A tall black GI in a black and white checked shirt and Army pants stared back at her.  Chesterton and Max put their empty glasses on the bar, started towards the door followed by me, followed by the German barman.  Suddenly, out of nowhere, Jesse whipped across the dance floor, his arm cutting the air before him like a saber, karateing the bartender before him.  The German hunched over and fled, refugeeing behind the horseshoe, Jesse’s murderous arm slashing him down.

            --Stop it, Jesse, you gonna kill him, cried the check-shirted soldier.

            --What happened?

            --I don’t know, Ma’am, said a white GI, part of a huddle of people near the door.  But maybe you should go in here.

            He indicated the door to the ladies room.

            --No, I said.  He’s a friend.  I just wanted to know why it started.

            Everyone was very quiet in Old Vienna, watching Jesse still slashing down the barman, who hid under the bar, Jesse leaning over it, chopping at the barman who finally escaped down the trap door into the cellar.

            --C’mon, Jesse, he gone away, said the black soldier whose whore had vanished.

            --I’ll wait for him outside, said Jesse, straightening up as the trap door under the bar slammed shut.  He walked over to the group watching him in the doorway and made his apologies to the only woman still present.

            --I’m sorry you had to see this, said Jesse.

            --What happened?

            --He pulled a gun, said Jesse.  No one pulls a gun on us.

            --I’ll get the car, said Chesterton.

            The proprietor was nowhere to be seen.

            They could occupy the place.

            --I’m not going, said Jesse.

            --Come on, said Chesterton.  I’ll be waiting outside.

            He suited action to words.

            Jesse walked across the dance floor back to the bar along with the black and white checked soldier.

            --What’ll we do? I asked.  I don’t want to walk out on him.

            --No, said Max.  On the other hand, I don’t much feel like getting arrested tonight.

            --Do you think?

            --It’s a matter of time till the MP’s get here, said Max.  We should persuade him to take off.

            Only Jesse and his friend, Max and I, were left in Old Vienna.  Jesse came out from behind the bar.

            --He’s locked the trap door from underneath, he said.  Let’s go.

            He walked across the dance floor to where the two remaining whites were waiting.

            --Why don’t you let it go, Jesse?  asked Max.  You’ve made your point.  There’s no reason to get arrested.

            --I’m sorry for this, said Jesse.  You see, he has to know it.  We’re going to wait for him to come out.

            --Okay then, said Max.  Can we help you?  I have a car.

            --No, thanks, said Jesse.  Chesterton’s over there.

            The door of Old Vienna snapped shut behind them.  On the sidewalk people waited, Willie Lynch and the white GI from the club, passers-by.  Max tried once more to get Jesse away.

            --If I know anything about German night club owners, he said, the German police are undoubtedly on their way here.  And they’ll call the MP’s.

            Jesse shrugged.

            --We’re waiting for him, he said.

            --Can we help?

            --No, said Jesse.  We got everything under control.

            And went off with the checked soldier.

            To the cellar?

            --What do we do?  I asked.  We may be more trouble to him than we’re worth.

I sounded like Norbert not contacting the UBS.

            --We’re certainly not going to run out on him, said Max.  I’ll ask Chesterton.  You get in the car.

Eventually we left.  Chesterton repeated that he was waiting, everything was under control.  We waited twenty more minutes, but no German police nor MP’s appeared, nor did we cross any on our way out of Heidelberg.

            --Of course, the German police would be only too delighted to turn the whole thing over to the MP’s, said Max.  And probably at least half of the MP’s who came would be Jesse’s friends.

            But there was no follow-up.  The proprietor hadn’t wanted trouble.  Perhaps he preferred possibly losing a bartender to interfering with a twenty year old Viet vet in training.  Perhaps he had caught a case of racism during the time that Old Vienna had belonged to the blacks, brought on by the perception that, despite all his deeds and titles to the property, plus his being a native, once the UBS had taken possession of the premises, Old Vienna had belonged to them.  So, using their potential violence as pretext, justifying his own gun as legitimate defense, he turned the actual event backwards and got his club put off limits to the military;  the price of drinks was put down for German pocketbooks, and the recession installed itself in Old Vienna.

            --It may be all very well for the German proprietor to go bankrupt, I said.  But it’s too bad the UBS don’t have a meeting place there anymore.

            --It certainly wasn’t cool, what Jesse did in Old Vienna, said Max.  By going after that bartender, he deprived the UBS of a good base.

            --What else could he have done?  Once a gun was drawn against them, in their own territory, they had to fight.  Even if it meant losing it.  It would have been lost anyway.

            --The gun wasn’t pulled on Jesse, objected Max.  But on the soldier with the noisy whore.

            Who it was pulled on didn’t matter.  Jesse had said, “No one pulls a gun on us.”  He was fighting for all of them, against the principle of a gun in Soul Vienna.  In his way, he’s a peacenik.

            The closing of Soul Vienna had taken place during the February Fasching.  I went back to Paris and did not get to Heidelberg again until May.  By then Tackle was in Philadelphia on leave, checking out what his future civilian life would be like.  The Army weighed his twelve year service against his three year militancy and decided it wanted him out.  If he had been willing to sign up for Vietnam again, they probably would have taken him, but he refused.

            Elizabeth, the Polish girl, was lamenting the general situation while drinking coffee with us at the Café Roma.

            --Everything’s changed, she said.  There doesn’t seem to be much of the UBS any more, now Tackle’s gone.

            --Don’t be defeatist, said Max.  They’re still having the 4th of July rally, aren’t they?

            --Yes, said Elizabeth.  But I think it’s being engineered mostly by the Rote Panthers in Frankfurt, and the Cleaver people in Algeria.

            --What do you mean, in Algeria?

            --Well, rumor has it that the Voice of the Lumpen  in Frankfurt is connected with Cleaver.  They also are talking about bringing Kathleen Cleaver in for the 4th of July rally.

            --There, you see, said Max.

            --I don’t see anything.  I think it’s more depressing that the UBS are breaking up.

            --Things change, said Max philosophically.  They just take other directions.

            I knew Elizabeth would soon start objecting to Max’s optimism and asked if she had seen Jesse.

            --He’s re-upped for Vietnam, wailed Elizabeth.  If that’s the direction the change is going to take—

            She glared at Max.

            --Don’t you see…began Max.

            I thought of reminding them he had a wife and baby and wanted to get back to them, but instead I checked out of their conversation.  These two would never agree.  Like the old banana story

--Old Vienna is closed.

--That’s bad.

--No, that’s good.  The UBS is meeting in the University.

--That’s good.

--No, that’s bad.  Most of the soldiers are afraid to go there for meetings.

--That’s bad.

--No, that’s good.  They’ve started a Marxist study group.

--That’s good.

--No, that’s bad.  Only twenty GI’s come.

--That’s bad.

--No, that’s good.

--No, that’s bad.  They have no organized leadership anymore  and the Army is trying to break them up.

--That’s bad.

--No, that’s good.  Unsatisfied soldiers are not dependable in the front lines.

--That’s good.

--That’s bad for the Army.

--That’s good for the Vietnamese.

I went out into the Hauptstrasse where I had demonstrated with Norbert what seemed now like several years ago.  The black militants had raised their fists from a balcony.  But that demo had been a momentary break in the usual commercial traffic of the street, long ago returned to its function of selling to whomever had money to buy.  Today this activity was in suspense, all stores being shut on Saturday afternoon.  The street was filled with nonchalant tourists, students, and GI’s.  I felt slightly down.

            --Hey, June

Hey, June

Don’t be afraid

Take a sad song,

And make it better.

            --Jesse.

            I crossed over to be introduced to his friends, a black man and a white girl.            German-American contact?

            --What have you been doing?

            --I’ve been around.  How’s Max?

            --Oh, he’s fine.  Still in there.

            Jesse smiled.

            --Are you going to the UBS meeting on the 4th of July at the University?  I asked.  There’s a rumor they’re bringing in Kathleen Cleaver.

            --I won’t be here, said Jesse.  I’m leaving for Vietnam.

            --Elizabeth told me you’d re-upped.

            --I’m not giving up the struggle, said Jesse.

            --I didn’t think you were.

            He said good bye and moved on down the Hauptstrasse with his friends.

He had closed down Soul Vienna with a karate chop, ending a period of political conferences and gatherings.  The UBS continued their rallies, but one wave of their militants took early outs and went home.  So did General Polk, head of Heidelberg HQ.  Jesse’s request for Vietnam service was probably accepted because the Army thought he was the sort of soldier it wanted there.  He had not been making political speeches the way Tackle had, and he had attacked an armed man with his bare hands with a technique learned in the military.  From the military point of view, it was better he exercise it in Vietnam than in Germany.  I was sorry I had not asked about his wife and baby.  Whatever the many reasons for his decision, he was one tiny unit in the mighty machine that was functioning badly.  Maybe he would start fragging his officers or retire to Soul Alley in Saigon and run the black market for awhile.  Many GI’s were selling surplus US military equipment and medicine to the Vietcong, thus making an active contribution to a Vietnamese victory.  Of course, the very nature of their situation put these dealings on a material basis; the Vietcong certainly did not expect to get medicines or weapons for free.  But commercial transactions are the largest part of war, and when they take place between soldiers of warring countries, they become a part of peace.

                                                           

                                                            The End