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She was, as my mother would say, “a woman of a certain age.” In this case, that age was about sixty.
In the course of all that wandering around losing fights, we developed our own language, Gallacian. I am told it is worse than Finnish, which is impressive.
(We have seven sets of pronouns, for example, one of which is for inanimate objects and one of which is used only for God. It’s probably a miracle that we don’t have one just for mushrooms.)
(I am never sure what to think of Americans. Their brashness can be charming, but just when I decide that I rather like them, I meet one that I wish would go back to America, and then perhaps keep going off the far edge, into the sea.)
I offered Denton my hand, because Americans will shake hands with the table if you don’t stop them.
I did not know how to deal with this sort of death, the one that comes slow and inevitable and does not let go. I am a soldier, I deal in cannonballs and rifle shots. I understand how a wound can fester and kill a soldier, but there is still the initial wound, something that can be avoided with a little skill and a great deal of luck. Death that simply comes and settles is not a thing I had any experience with.
Most languages you encounter in Europe have words like he and she and his and hers. Ours has those, too, although we use ta and tha and tan and than. But we also have va and var, ka and kan, and a few others specifically for rocks and God.
Sometimes it’s hard to know if someone is insulting or just an American.
“The lake is lovely, is it not?” she said, looking down over the water. “Mountain lakes so often are,” I said, which was true, even if this particular one was not.
There were no stars. I believe I stared for at least half a minute, while this knowledge worked slowly through my brain. It was an overcast night. The sky was dark gray with a sliver of moon just edging through. I looked back down, at a lake full of stars.
When we had exhausted ourselves mangling popular tunes, he played dramatic compositions by great composers. (Mozart? Beethoven? Why are you asking me? It was music, it went dun-dun-dun-DUN, what more do you want me to say?)
It was fun. People get hung up on happiness and joy, but fun will take you at least as far and it’s generally cheaper to obtain.
(A Frenchwoman once told me that I had no poetry in my soul. I recited a dirty limerick to her, and she threw a lemon at my head. Paris is a marvelous city.)
I speak quite good Ruravian, French, and English, and I can manage to get by in German (mostly because Germans always instantly switch to another language, which they inevitably speak better than you do, and politely ask you to practice it with them).
I was grasping at straws and I knew it. But to his credit, Denton was apparently willing to grasp those straws alongside me.
“Lieutenant, I fear that after the loss of your friend, your nerves may be somewhat overset.” This was a polite English way of saying that she thought I was a squalling lunatic,
“Denton,” I cried, bursting into the study. “Madeline’s gone!” He stared at me for a long moment, then his face softened and he reached out and touched my arm. “I know,” he said gently. “I know. But she’s not suffering any longer, and—” “No, you blithering idiot,” I growled, shaking his hand off. Damnable English language—more words than anybody can be expected to keep track of, and then they use the same one for about three different things. “I know she’s dead! I’m telling you, her body’s gone!”
The dead may walk, but I will not walk among them.
