After the Downfall

He did notice that, just as he tried not to bathe while Drepteaza was in there, she also found ways not to come in while he was. If she was already washing when he came in, she hurried to get out. If he got there before her, she would wait till he finished.

She didn’t seem angry at him, not when they met for language lessons or to talk about gunpowder and other things he knew and the natives didn’t. Maybe she thought he wasn’t just seeing her nude – he was seeing her naked. If that was what was going on – he didn’t want to come right out and ask her – he admired her tact. He also admired her for understanding that foreigners had different ways of looking at things, whether literally or metaphorically.

And, if that was what she thought, she was dead right.

He wished she were interested. Laying Grenye women who gave themselves to him because they were supposed to was better than not laying anybody. But he remembered Velona too well. After going to bed with her, the natives didn’t seem like anything special. And, except as convenient bodies, he didn’t care much about Leneshul or Gishte.

Drepteaza would be different – he was sure of that. It wasn’t just that she was prettier than they were. She was smarter and livelier and….

And she wasn’t interested in him.

You can’t have too much of what you don’t want. Somebody’d said that where Hasso could hear it, and he thought it was true. Screwing the Grenye women gave him physical relief, yes indeed. But it wasn’t what he wanted, so every time he did it he felt emptier inside.

Yeah, Drepteaza would be different. He was sure she would … except he was what she didn’t want. He wasn’t a Lenello. No matter what he was, he looked like one. For the priestess, the way he looked was plenty.

Not wanting somebody because of how he looked – wasn’t that surprising, not really. Hasso had judged plenty of people by their looks – Frenchmen (and -women), Jews, Ivans, Poles. It was much less enjoyable when other people judged him.

“You worked in Drammen, you say,” he said to Rautat, there in the baths. Anything was better than brooding about all the reasons Drepteaza wanted nothing to do with him.

“That’s right.” Rautat nodded, water dripping off his chin and the end of his nose. “Wanted to pick up the lingo, wanted to learn things the Lenelli know and we don’t. Did it, too, and came home.”

“What do you think of Lenelli, then?” Hasso asked.

“Bunch of big blond pricks,” Rautat said promptly. “No offense.”

“Yeah, sure,” Hasso said. They both grinned.

“Well, it’s the truth. They treat Grenye like donkey turds in the street,” Rautat said. “And the Grenye there, some of them are so beaten down, they feel like they deserve to get treated that way, poor sorry bastards. If they try to stand up, they get knocked down. Is it any wonder so many of ‘em stay plastered all the time? I guess it doesn’t get to you so much that way.”

“What about Lenello women?” No, Hasso couldn’t stay away from the sore spot.

“Big blond cows,” Rautat replied. “Who wants a gal taller than he is?”

Velona was damn near as tall as Hasso. He thought he would have wanted her if she were three meters tall. Whether she would have wanted him then, of course, was a different story. And Queen Pola was almost as tall as he was, too, and he didn’t want her for beans. If she were fifteen or twenty centimeters taller than he was, she would have made him want to run away.

“Maybe you have something there,” he said.

“You better believe it.” Like any good underofficer, Rautat was sure of himself. “I guess Lenello women are all right for you, ‘cause you’re a big blond guy yourself.” He didn’t say big blond prick again, which was something. “But me, I pick on somebody my own size.” Hasso thought that was what the idiom meant, anyhow; it might have been bawdier.

He didn’t want to leave the baths. Before long, it would be spring, and then summer. Bucovin would warm up. But it wasn’t warm now, even if Velona had been right: it didn’t get as cold as Russia.

Dammit, he couldn’t get her out of his head. He didn’t want to be one of those men who spent years mooning after a lost lover and never did get on with their lives. He didn’t want to, no, but he didn’t know what he could do about it. He’d really and truly fallen in love with her.

She’d warned him not to. How were you supposed to listen to a warning like that, though? If you were a male human being, how could you help falling hard for a gorgeous, sexy woman who screwed like there was no tomorrow?

Velona had warned of worse than a broken heart, but that was bad enough. But not many women – none he knew of except her – could have come so close to frying his potatoes for him when she was in Drammen and he was in Falticeni. And yet…