Episode 4

But he had never written a line of that, nor of that cold, bright Christmas day with the mountains showing across the

plain that Barker had flown across the lines to bomb the Austrian officers' leave train, machine-gunning them as they

scattered and ran. He remembered Barker afterwards coming into the mess and starting to tell about it. And how

quiet it got and then somebody saying, ''You bloody murderous bastard.''

Those were the same Austrians they killed then that he skied with later. No not the same. Hans, that he skied with

all that year, had been in the Kaiser Jagers and when they went hunting hares together up the little valley above the

saw-mill they had talked of the fighting on Pasubio and of the attack on Perticara and Asalone and he had never

written a word of that. Nor of Monte Corona, nor the Sette Communi, nor of Arsiero.

How many winters had he lived in the Vorarlberg and the Arlberg? It was four and then he remembered the man who

had the fox to sell when they had walked into Bludenz, that time to buy presents, and the cherry-pit taste of good

kirsch, the fast-slipping rush of running powder-snow on crust, singing ''Hi! Ho! said Rolly!' ' as you ran down the

last stretch to the steep drop, taking it straight, then running the orchard in three turns and out across the ditch and

onto the icy road behind the inn. Knocking your bindings loose, kicking the skis free and leaning them up against the

wooden wall of the inn, the lamplight coming from the window, where inside, in the smoky, new-wine smelling warmth,

they were playing the accordion.

"Where did we stay in Paris?" he asked the woman who was sitting by him in a canvas chair, now, in

Africa.

"At the Crillon. You know that."

"Why do I know that?"

"That's where we always stayed."

"No. Not always."

"There and at the Pavillion Henri-Quatre in St. Germain. You said you loved it there."

"Love is a dunghill," said Harry. "And I'm the cock that gets on it to crow."

"If you have to go away," she said, "is it absolutely necessary to kill off everything you leave behind?

I mean do you have to take away everything? Do you have to kill your horse, and your wife and burn

your saddle and your armour?"

"Yes," he said. "Your damned money was my armour. My Sword and my Armour."

"Don't."

"All right. I'll stop that. I don't want to hurt you.'

"It's a little bit late now."

"All right then. I'll go on hurting you. It's more amusing. The only thing I ever really liked to do with

you I can't do now."

"No, that's not true. You liked to do many things and everything you wanted to do I did."

"Oh, for Christ sake stop bragging, will you?"

He looked at her and saw her crying.

"Listen," he said. "Do you think that it is fun to do this? I don't know why I'm doing it. It's trying to

kill to keep yourself alive, I imagine. I was all right when we started talking. I didn't mean to start

this, and now I'm crazy as a coot and being as cruel to you as I can be. Don't pay any attention,

darling, to what I say. I love you, really. You know I love you. I've never loved any one else the way

I love you."

He slipped into the familiar lie he made his bread and butter by.

"You're sweet to me."

"You bitch," he said. "You rich bitch. That's poetry. I'm full of poetry now. Rot and poetry. Rotten

poetry."

"Stop it. Harry, why do you have to turn into a devil now?"

"I don't like to leave anything," the man said. "I don’t like to leave things behind."

* * *

It was evening now and he had been asleep. The sun was gone behind the hill and there was a

shadow all across the plain and the small animals were feeding close to camp; quick dropping heads

and switching tails, he watched them keeping well out away from the bush now. The birds no longer

waited on the ground. They were all perched heavily in a tree. There were many more of them. His

personal boy was sitting by the bed.

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