The Rake by William F. Buckley Read Free Book Online Page A

points her father had made in his most recent essay in La Tradition Gauloise . She found the French languor in linguistic matters sharply different from American vigilance, which sometimes bordered on the hysterical. The contrast was rather appealing, as if the Académie Française felt no obligation to stay current: Let the non-monastic world concern itself with such matters. When the Second World War broke out, Henrietta learned with delight, there was not yet an authorized French term for a bomber. “A bomber, Reuben, is the person who pilots the airplane with bombs in it which are then dropped on evil people. If you are pursuing your studies, you’ll find—why not?— bombardier . Logical…right? But the Académie didn’t authorize the use of the word until sometime after the Nazis conquered Paris. Maybe that’s why they didn’t bomb Paris! On n’avait pas de bombardiers!!! Reuben, honey, I haven’t heard from you in two weeks. That makes me not only mad and jealous and furious and vindictive, but also—a little worried.”
    She fought back again her rogue impulse to pick up the telephone. Instead, she wrote a letter to Eric Monsanto. Only Eric had been told the truth about the reason for Henri’s decision to spend the spring semester in France. “Dear Rico, I do wonder. It’s been two weeks without any word. Reassure me. He is well?”

CHAPTER 8
    Grand Forks, April 1970
    â€œReub?”
    â€œYeah. That you, Rico?”
    â€œYes. And I’ve got to see you.”
    â€œAbout what?”
    â€œI’ve got to see you.”
    Reuben would normally have replied with a jocularity of some sort, but the tone of Eric’s voice told him, Not today. Well, at least Eric hadn’t announced himself in another written note.
    Reuben was close to Eric. They had discovered each other as freshmen, the day of the required physical exam. Because the student currently being examined required protracted attention from the doctor, those behind him in line had to wait. Reuben and Eric, half naked, were seated on a bench in the anteroom.
    â€œI’m Reuben. Reuben Castle, from Fargo.”
    â€œI’m Eric, Eric Monsanto. My people live here in Grand Forks.”
    â€œWhy didn’t they look after your health?”
    Eric laughed. “They don’t believe in prophylactics.”
    â€œI’ll give you some from my personal supply, soon as we get out of here.”
    Filing past the last medical clerk, Eric looked at his watch. It was two long hours since he had reported for the examination. He looked back. Reuben was just behind, filling out one last form. Eric went out the door of the McCannell Hall Physical Health Center and paused, adjusting his eyes to the bright September sunshine. Reuben emerged.
    â€œYou want to have lunch?”
    â€œSure. I guess that’s next door, at the Memorial Union.” Reuben pointed. “How come you’re only a freshman? You look old and wizened.”
    Rico Monsanto was dark-haired and suntanned. He hadn’t shaved that morning. He smiled at the allusion to his seniority and they set out together for the Commons.
    â€œAs a matter of fact, I took a couple of years off after school. I worked on a freighter. Maybe they aged me, the Swedes. I did feel about a thousand years older when I finally peeled away.”
    â€œThat was just now?”
    â€œNo. About a year ago. Then I bummed around some. My father’s a lawyer in town. He practically got an injunction to bring me home to begin college.”
    They reached the cafeteria and stood in line for food. After finishing their lunch and drinking their coffee, they were still conversing. “But after the Tonkin Gulf business my dad—he’s a carpenter—thought it was pretty obvious that the war was going to escalate, and he said”—Reuben mimicked a stentorian voice—“‘If you die over there, I want them