The Mysteries of Soldiers Grove by Paul Zimmer Read Free Book Online Page A

“Where does Thurman Tucker live?”
    “Did anyone ever tell you that you look like Eva Braun?” I asked her.
    “Where does Thurman Tucker live, Cyril?”
    “Do you want me to tell you about Eva Braun?”
    “No, Mr. Solverson. Where does Mr. Tucker live?”
    “France.”
    Pause. “There is no one in the United States who is close to you?”
    “Balaclava.”
    “Who is that?”
    “He’s a gunman. He’s the guy who almost aced me. Is that close enough?”
    “Cyril!” she said wearily. “You need another nap, you’re not being nice. I’ll come back later,” and she struts off, wriggling her officious butt.
    Here I am laid out like frozen broccoli in a hospital, and she’s bouncing around, trying to make me think of numbers I don’t remember.
    I suppose I should admit that young people generally piss me off these days. Maybe I should just say that I don’t feel much connection. I can’t recall much about being young—except that it wasn’t pleasant. I remember hustling to avoid the loud brouhahas of my drunken parents, and trying to make myself invisible on school playgrounds that were more like prison yards. I remember being punched around in high school halls.
    I did a lot of dreaming about other people’s lives when I was young.
    My memory has gone off the rails. I’ve been completely discombobulated by all that has happened to me—the abduction, the miracle of the policemen finding me in the snow, the saving of my life. All the drugs I take seem to shave off my ability to remember things.
    I recall sneaking out of my room to go over to Burkhum’s Tap and have a few beers. I remember talking to some people at the bar. Then I went out into the storm, ran into Balaclava and he pulled a gun on me that looked like a howitzer.
    Then that bastard left me out in the blizzard. Maybe he was the one who shot off my toes before he sent me off in the snow. It’s all became such a muddle—too much cold reality for me to deal with.
    I was ill-tempered, just wanted all the probing, pricking, pilling, and questioning to stop. Suddenly, because of certain circumstances, some folks—after decades and years of not even knowing I existed—have decided that my life is now important enough for them to preserve.
    There were chilblains on my hands and ear that were driving me nuts; they had to tie my hands back on the bedsides so I couldn’t scratch or rub. The chilblains hurt like the very devil, but it was the ones that were on my feet that really set me off. I couldn’t reach them, and they itched all the time so that I would start to howl. The nurses came in and scolded me, told me to stop making so much noise—I was disturbing other patients. I tried to get them to scratch my feet. I recited Job’s life for them—all that stuff about sores and boils and suffering—but they didn’t know who Job was.
    I woke up one morning and Bonnie, the good nurse, was in my room holding my wrist, taking my pulse. Maria Montez? Gussie Moran? Alexandra Kollontai? I was still trying to think who she looked like so I could give her a life. I was running through some beautiful women in my mind. Then I got it for sure: “The Empress Theodora of Byzantium,” I said out loud. “That’s who you look like. Just like the mosaic of her on the wall of San Vitale at Ravenna.”
    “How’s that ?” Bonnie asked.
    “She was the wife of Justinian, emperor of Byzantium, and then she got to be empress when he died. Pretty good for a gal whose old man was a circus bear keeper, who had to become an actress and occasionally take to working the streets just to make a few bucks. But one day Justinian saw her on the street and really got a load of how beautiful she was, and that was it . He couldn’t think of anyone else. They had to rewrite the laws in Byzantium which stated that emperors could not marry actresses. Theodora was gorgeous but, much more than that, she was smarter than everyone else. Justinian used to take advice from her,