philosopher. I spout, but you should pay no attention. Besides, I don't trust intellectuals. They place too much faith in ideas."
"I am probably guilty of that."
It seems so."
"But principles matter, do they not?"
"Mais oui. But do they come before anything else?"
"I hope so. Certainly that is desirable, is it not, to care first about principles?"
"C'est impossible," she said.
I expressed my doubts, and she told me I was being naive.
"Perhaps," I said, "but if I was being a lawyer--or a philosopher--I would tell you that a convincing argument requires proof."
" 'Proof' ?" She smirked. "Proving is too easy." "How so?"
"Eh, Doo-bean. You are an innocent at heart. I will show you, if I must. Un moment." She disappeared into the barn again, but promptly called out, "Come.
I stepped back into the humid scents and darkness. At first, I saw no one.
"Here," she said behind me. When I turned, Gita Lodz had lifted her skirt to her waist, revealing her slim legs and her undergarment, a kind of cotton bloomer. It fit snugly, revealing her narrow shape and, with another instant's attention, the indentation of her female cleft and the shadow of the dar k i t riangle around it.
"Is it principle you feel first, Dubin?"
I had long recognized that the hardest part of life in a war zone was that there was so often no routine, no order, nothing to count on. Every moment was a novelty. But this display exceeded even the limite d b oundaries that remained. I was literally struck dumb.
"Touche," I finally said, the only word I could think of, which brought another outburst of laughter while she smothered down her skirt. By pure chance, I had come off as a wit.
"We are primitive, Dubin. If we are not to be, then we require one another's assistance. But first know who we are.
I gave a simple nod. Satisfied she had made a potent demonstration, Mademoiselle Lodz strolled from the cowshed, looking back from the sunlight with a clever smile. I waited in the shadows. She would treat this as a prank, but free to watch from the darkness, I had a sudden vision of Gita Lodz and the riot of feeling that underlay her boldness. Her upbringing in scorn had left her with no choice but to defy convention, yet despite her confident airs and the stories she wished to believe, I sensed, almost palpably, that her personality was erected on a foundation of anger, and beneath that, pain. When I stepped back into the sun, some sadness must have clung to the way I looked at her, which I could tell was entirely unexpected. As we considered each other something fell away, and she turned heel immediately, headed toward the house.
I caught up, but we trudged back in silence. It wa s s he who spoke finally, as we approached the little castle.
"Have I offended you, Dubin?"
"Of course not. I challenged you. You responded. Convincingly."
"But you are shocked."
"Pay no attention. I am easily shocked, Mademoiselle Lodz."
"Good for you," she said. "In France, no one will admit to being bourgeois."
I laughed. "In America, it is the universal aspiration. But I still must respect proprieties. I am sent to inquire of a man. The law might question my impartiality if I was interested instead in looking at his woman in her dainties."
"Not his woman. I am not with Martin in that way, Dubin. That is done between us. Long ago."
I thought of Martin embracing her in the kitchen.
"I have heard many refer to you as his woman."
"That is convenient for both of us. There are soldiers everywhere, Dubin. It is better to be known as spoken for. Do not be repelled for Martin's sake. Only your own." She gave me that sly smile. "A la prochaine," she said--Until next time- - and breezed through the door, restored to her former self.
Biddy was waiting there. We needed to be back at the 18th before dark, but I was still reverberating like a struck bell. It had been months since I'd had anything to do with a woman, except with the clinical neutrality of a lawyer interviewing
"I am probably guilty of that."
It seems so."
"But principles matter, do they not?"
"Mais oui. But do they come before anything else?"
"I hope so. Certainly that is desirable, is it not, to care first about principles?"
"C'est impossible," she said.
I expressed my doubts, and she told me I was being naive.
"Perhaps," I said, "but if I was being a lawyer--or a philosopher--I would tell you that a convincing argument requires proof."
" 'Proof' ?" She smirked. "Proving is too easy." "How so?"
"Eh, Doo-bean. You are an innocent at heart. I will show you, if I must. Un moment." She disappeared into the barn again, but promptly called out, "Come.
I stepped back into the humid scents and darkness. At first, I saw no one.
"Here," she said behind me. When I turned, Gita Lodz had lifted her skirt to her waist, revealing her slim legs and her undergarment, a kind of cotton bloomer. It fit snugly, revealing her narrow shape and, with another instant's attention, the indentation of her female cleft and the shadow of the dar k i t riangle around it.
"Is it principle you feel first, Dubin?"
I had long recognized that the hardest part of life in a war zone was that there was so often no routine, no order, nothing to count on. Every moment was a novelty. But this display exceeded even the limite d b oundaries that remained. I was literally struck dumb.
"Touche," I finally said, the only word I could think of, which brought another outburst of laughter while she smothered down her skirt. By pure chance, I had come off as a wit.
"We are primitive, Dubin. If we are not to be, then we require one another's assistance. But first know who we are.
I gave a simple nod. Satisfied she had made a potent demonstration, Mademoiselle Lodz strolled from the cowshed, looking back from the sunlight with a clever smile. I waited in the shadows. She would treat this as a prank, but free to watch from the darkness, I had a sudden vision of Gita Lodz and the riot of feeling that underlay her boldness. Her upbringing in scorn had left her with no choice but to defy convention, yet despite her confident airs and the stories she wished to believe, I sensed, almost palpably, that her personality was erected on a foundation of anger, and beneath that, pain. When I stepped back into the sun, some sadness must have clung to the way I looked at her, which I could tell was entirely unexpected. As we considered each other something fell away, and she turned heel immediately, headed toward the house.
I caught up, but we trudged back in silence. It wa s s he who spoke finally, as we approached the little castle.
"Have I offended you, Dubin?"
"Of course not. I challenged you. You responded. Convincingly."
"But you are shocked."
"Pay no attention. I am easily shocked, Mademoiselle Lodz."
"Good for you," she said. "In France, no one will admit to being bourgeois."
I laughed. "In America, it is the universal aspiration. But I still must respect proprieties. I am sent to inquire of a man. The law might question my impartiality if I was interested instead in looking at his woman in her dainties."
"Not his woman. I am not with Martin in that way, Dubin. That is done between us. Long ago."
I thought of Martin embracing her in the kitchen.
"I have heard many refer to you as his woman."
"That is convenient for both of us. There are soldiers everywhere, Dubin. It is better to be known as spoken for. Do not be repelled for Martin's sake. Only your own." She gave me that sly smile. "A la prochaine," she said--Until next time- - and breezed through the door, restored to her former self.
Biddy was waiting there. We needed to be back at the 18th before dark, but I was still reverberating like a struck bell. It had been months since I'd had anything to do with a woman, except with the clinical neutrality of a lawyer interviewing
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