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Fulmar shrugged.
“I don’t really know why I’m going along with this shit at all,” he said.
He had thought of something. Just before he’d left Marburg, they’d had a picnic on the Lahn. They’d rented a canoe, floated downriver with the current, and stopped and picnicked on the riverbank. He had been debating that day whether to tell her he was going. In the end, he decided it would be better if she didn’t know.
He closed his eyes and exhaled.
“Eric wants to paddle Gisella’s canoe again,” he said.
“What?”
“‘Eric wants to paddle Gisella’s canoe again,’” Fulmar said. “With your filthy imagination, you figure out what it means. She’ll know.”
“Don’t be too clever. You’re sure she’ll know?”
“I said, she’ll know it’s me.”
“What’s it mean?” Canidy asked.
“None of your fucking business, Richard,” Fulmar said.
“What about a pet name?” Fine asked. “Something that would at once further identify you, and not use your real name. Or hers.”
Fulmar gave him a withering look.
"Bübchen,” he said finally.
" ’Boobchin’?” Canidy quoted. “What the hell is that?”
“Little boy,” Fine made the translation. “With overtones of affection that don’t come across in English.”
“And what did you call her?”
“Fuck you, Dick!” Fulmar said. And then, a moment later: “‘Bübchen would like to paddle Gisella’s canoe again.’ And that’s it, Dick. If that doesn’t satisfy you, stick the whole thing up your ass.”
Canidy stood up.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” he said. “Let’s go get something to drink.”
“Are you sure that’s all, Dick?” Fine asked.
His eyes moved, just perceptibly, to the Stars & Stripes.
“Christ, I forgot about that,” Canidy said.
Fulmar misunderstood him.
“Whatever it is, it’s going to have to wait,” he said. “I need a bath and a drink. I have had enough of this shit for one day.”
Canidy unfolded the newspaper and handed it to Fulmar.
Fulmar read the story about America’s Sweetheart’s arrival in England.
“What do you want to do about it, Eric?” Canidy asked gently.
“You weren’t listening, Major,” Fulmar said.
“Huh?”
