Life During Wartime Read Online Free PDF

Fanta sign hung above the entrance. Hundreds of moths swarmed about the sign, flickering white against the darkness, and in front of the steps stood a group of teenage boys who were throwing knives at an iguana. The iguana was tied by its hind legs to the step railing. It had amber eyes, a hide the color of boiled cabbage, and was digging its claws into the dirt and arching its neck like a pint-size dragon about to take flight. As Mingolla and Debora walked up, one of the boys scored a hit in the iguana’s tail and it flipped high into the air, shaking loose the knife. The boys passed around a bottle of rum to celebrate.
    Except for the waiter – a pudgy young man leaning beside a door that opened into a smoke-filled kitchen – the place was empty. Glaring overhead lights shined up the grease spots on the plastic tablecloths and made the uneven thicknesses of the yellow paint appear to be dripping. The concrete floor was freckled withdark stains that Mingolla discovered to be the remains of insects. The food turned out to be decent, however, and Mingolla shoveled down a plateful of chicken and rice before Debora had half-finished hers. She ate delicately, chewing each bite a long time, and he had to carry the conversation. He told her about New York, his painting, how a couple of galleries had shown interest even though he was just a student. He compared his work to Rauschenberg, to Silvestre. Not as good, of course. Not yet. He had the notion that everything he told her – no matter its irrelevance to the moment – was securing the relationship, establishing subtle ties: he pictured the two of them enwebbed in a network of luminous threads that acted as conduits for their attraction. He could feel her heat more strongly than ever, and he wondered what it would be like to make love to her, to be swallowed by that perception of heat. The instant he wondered this, she glanced up and smiled, as if sharing the thought. He wanted to ratify his sense of intimacy, to tell her something he had told no one else, and so – having only one important secret – he told her about the ritual.
    She laid down her fork and gave him a penetrating look. ‘You can’t really believe that,’ she said.
    ‘I know it sounds—’
    ‘Ridiculous,’ she broke in. ‘That’s how it sounds.’
    ‘It’s the truth,’ he said defiantly.
    She picked up her fork again, pushed around some grains of rice. ‘How is it for you,’ she said, ‘when you have a premonition? I mean, what happens? Do you have dreams, hear voices?’
    ‘Sometimes I just know things,’ he said, taken aback by her abrupt change of subject. ‘And sometimes I see pictures. It’s like with a TV that’s not working right. Fuzziness at first, then a sharp image.’
    ‘With me, it’s dreams. And hallucinations. I don’t know what else to call them.’ Her lips thinned; she sighed, appearing to have reached some decision. ‘When I first saw you, just for a second, you were wearing battle gear. There were inputs on the gauntlets, cables attached to the helmet. The faceplate was shattered, and your face … it was pale, bloody.’ She put her hand out to cover his. ‘What I saw was very clear, David. You can’t go back.’

    He hadn’t described artilleryman’s gear to her, and no way could she have seen it. Shaken, he said, Where am I gonna go?’
    ‘Panama,’ she said. ‘I can help you get there.’
    She suddenly snapped into focus. You could find her, dozens like her, in any of the R and R towns. Preaching pacifism, encouraging desertion. Do-gooders, most with guerrilla connections. And that, he realized, must be how she had known about his gear. She had probably gathered information on the different types of units in order to lend authenticity to her dire pronouncements. His opinion of her wasn’t diminished; on the contrary, it went up a notch. She was risking her life by talking to him. But her mystery had been dimmed.
    ‘I can’t do that,’ he