Lost Wars

Lombardi 79 Chris Lombardi Lost Wars The general watches parades all day. They march across the screen with sharp regularity, always different: some orderly and graceful, like a ballet, others raucous and spontaneous, like the one the day after he moved into the capital. Today's parade is an anniversary. The young men march erect in stiff bright uniforms, trying not to sweat, their dark eyes flashing. Some are as young as eleven or twelve. On either side of them, flying from windows and streetlamps, bright blue flags glow reflections of the summer sky. Women march behind the soldiers, singing in high sweet voices. On the sidelines, the crowds mass tightly together, despite the heat. Their faces gleam in the noonday sun, under a heavy blue sky. The general smiles. —Sir, you haven't eaten any of your lunch. He turns, annoyed, from the parade. She is standing in the doorway, as usual, in her white dress. He doesn't answer her, and she come closer to him. The young female presence rouses him, but not for too long, as she leans over to cut his meat. The meat is pink, almost raw. He stares blankly at the tray: when did it arrive? —I don't eat this sort of thing, he tells her. —Sir? She looks puzzled, and he realizes he spoke in his mother language, a dialect deep in the throat and impenetrable to foreigners. He says it again, in the language he learned in school. (It is the only language in which he can write.) She smiles, her smile fearful, not honest. —But you ate it just the other day. The doctor told you it will make you stronger. Do you remember? She speaks slowly, as if to a child. He wants to kill her. She looks like many people he killed, during the revolution . So does the doctor. —What does strong matter now, the general asks. Bring me something I can eat. She sits on her heels, so that they can face one another while he is in his chair. Her eyes are light blue, like a sky above snow. He hates snow. Always has, since he was a university student. She speaks slowly again. —Sir, we can't go through this every meal. Aren't you tired of it? We bring you something that the doctors have decided will help you get well. I can't change that. Do you understand? 80 the minnesota review As always, his loathing for her threatens to envelop him. I fought you so many years ago, he thinks, how did I get you back? Her outlines blur, become clear again. —Oh, sir. She stands up, her hand rubbing against her forehead. Finally she says, all right, I'll see what I can do. When she's gone, he misses her. Her blonde hair and soft-sky eyes remind him of his youth, at the university on a military scholarship. He saw dozens of girls like her, moving with the assured grace of a privileged upbringing. They intrigued him, tantalized him, seemed to belong to a different world than the women of his country. And they didn't even know it. The pale yellow wall yields another parade to relieve his boredom— although this is less a parade than an explosion, an outburst of fury. This was before he was old enough to carry a gun, long before he had moved into the capital. He was there with his mother, on one of her innumerable errands—for school, or doctors, it all meant long dusty trips to the big city. Now he watches the stormcloud again as it eases toward the government square: blue and black banners are stretched tight by skinny boys with wild hair, while fat mothers in blue kerchiefs storm behind them. The mothers chant, the songs' heavy rhythm rumbling their groups forward. He can smell the streets as they were then, full of both human and machine waste. The scent is carried by the spring winds, seems to lift the bright flags. Then the inevitable response, streaming out of the side streets as if from nowhere, white teeth flashing against smooth dark uniforms. Then the shots...