I was sitting at my desk, tidying up some things – that is to say, burning my personal papers in the wastebasket – when Rick arrived. He’d exchanged his usual attire for a loose cotton shirt and shorts, of a vaguely-military cut, although belonging to no regiment I’d ever seen. His face was as blank as he could make it, as if he’d determined that an invisible – and imperturbable – facade was necessary now.
“Well?” He leaned against the doorframe. “Are you ready?”
I tossed my passport onto the pile and stood up. “Yes, Rick, I suppose I am. However, there are one or two little things – “
“We haven’t got time for one or two little things, Louis.”
I unbuckled my Sam Browne and tossed it onto the desk, unbuttoned my tunic and hung it over the back of my chair. The hat, as well, had to be left behind, which was regrettable – I like to think I cut rather a dashing figure in that ensemble. Ah, well. Better badly dressed than dead, or rotting in some Nazi concentration camp. “There,” I said, when I finally stood in front of him, dressed in my shirt and trousers. “Does that suit our new policy of anonymity?”
“Louis, I can honestly say you’ve never looked better.” He grinned.
“I feel naked,” I confessed. “Do you know how long I’ve been in that uniform?”
“Aw, you don’t need that Vichy finery.” He glanced at his watch. “Come on. We’d better scram before – “
“Yes. Before.” I took one final look around and allowed myself the luxury of a sigh. “Well, there’s no going back from here.”
“Was there ever?” Rick closed the door behind us; the fire was still crackling merrily in my wastepaper basket. With any luck, it would burn the whole damn building down. “You knew as well as I, that as soon as we got them on the plane – “
“Yes, yes,” I agreed, if only to shut him up. “And now that they are safely out of Casablanca…” I deliberately left the rest of it unspoken. “Ricky, are you sure you want to cast your lot with me?”
“I cast my lot with you a long time ago, Louis.” He laid a hand on my shoulder and steered me into the relative safety of a doorway, just as a German convoy roared past us. “Like it or not, we’re in it together.”
“Until the next woman comes along,” I replied.
“No,” he said, “there won’t be any more women.”
“Mmm. You say that now.” I didn’t dare hope. I know the kind of man Rick is, and anyway, I’ve never bothered planning for the future. It seems rather superfluous, given that we’d most like not survive more than a day or two – let alone long enough to reach Brazzaville.
“Say it and mean it, Louis. She was the last one. From now on, I’m strictly -”
“-celibate,” I put in, irritably, “and I suppose you think that’s noble of you.”
“I didn’t say celibate.” There was just enough light for me to see his grin.
We were on the outer edges of the city, moving fast towards the desert emptiness, he and I, alone together.
It was a heady thought.
Ah so you finally decided to enlighten us as to your encounters with the infamous Mr. Rick. I find it quite interesting, your little story here, so I must say I hope you keep your journal going through the entirety of it.
It would be greatly appreciated