The Cloud Atlas

“Have dinner with a friend.” She smiled and put out an arm.

LILY WALKED ME THROUGH the darkening streets to a part of town I hadn't discovered yet. There were fewer soldiers and sailors here, and more-people. White faces, Asian faces, women, men, children, and very few uniforms. I drew more stares than Lily as she threaded our way through narrower, older streets to a diner.

There were no menus; Lily said they just brought you whatever was on the stove. That night, it was a stew of Thanksgiving leftovers.

We didn't say anything while we waited for the food. I was tongue-tied-she was leaving?-and Lily was tired. She leaned her head against the back of the booth and closed her eyes.

I wouldn't have had words then to describe what I saw; I'm not sure I do now. Why did her hair make black seem the brightest color? Why did her breathing through slightly parted lips, her tongue flitting once to moisten them, seem risqué? How could her bare neck, all smooth curves and shadows, suggest that the loose clothes she wore weren't there at all? I suppose the chemicals that flood a boy at that time in his life are partly to blame, but give Lily and the God who made her some credit.

“Don't stare,” she said, not opening her eyes.

I mumbled something about how I wasn't, and she opened her eyes in time to see that I was. The food arrived and she immediately started in.

“You were, just a moment ago, when I had my eyes closed,” she said.

“I wasn't staring,” I said. “I was trying to figure out what I was going to do without you.”

She stopped eating, and laughed. “That's silly.” She took another bite, and before she swallowed, added, “And very sweet.”

“No, I had-I had a question for you.” And I did, a hundred, mostly about her. But I had another question, the one I'd spend the war asking.

“I don't think those two thugs are coming back, if that's your question,” Lily said. “That's what I like about sailors. Or liked. They sail away on their little ships. They don't come back.”

“It's about something else.” I looked at my hand, then held it up and showed her my palm.

Lily shook her head. “You know-the palm reading-I don't really read palms.”

“But you know things. You knew things about me.”

Lily put down her spoon; she spent a moment carefully aligning it with the plate. “What do you need to know?”

I offered her my hand, but she kept her hands at her sides and shook her head. “Not here.” She looked around. “I'm not going to do that here.”

“Then how can you tell me-?”

“Just talk,” she said, and as she did, I could feel her feet entangle mine. “Just talk,” she repeated, more softly.

By now, of course, I could hardly breathe. It took me a moment to remember what I wanted to ask. “I need to know where this-thing- will-” I stopped. “I need to know where something's going to be.”

But that wasn't good enough for her. She shook her head, again and again, no matter how I phrased the question, until she finally said, “I need a place to start. A detail. Without that, it's just dreaming.” I thought of all the things I could tell her: places where we knew balloons had landed and exploded; the map in Gurley's office; the eyes of those men in that private ward. Or I could just tell her my secret- Gurley's secret, our country's secret, or Japan's-I could tell her that high above the Pacific, even now, clearly visible if you only knew where to look, floated balloons laced with powdered fire. All you had to do to catch them was give up a hand, an arm, a face, a leg-or find out first where they were landing and when.

“Are you dreaming?” she asked.

“I'm trying to think where to start,” I said.

“Here's an easy detail,” she said. “What's your name, Sergeant Belk?”

I blinked.

“Your first name, brother of Bing.”

“Louis,” I said, relieved I could give up such an easy secret.

“Louis,” she said. “See, I'm not good at this at all. ‘Louis’ I never would have guessed. Okay, what do you want to know, Louis?”

I looked around the room. No one was looking at us, but it seemed as though everyone was listening to us. Intently. I said nothing. Her feet left mine.

“Next time, then,” she said. “Your wallet have anything in it tonight?”

“Please don't leave,” I said.

“Louis, I told you my secret,” she said. “I'm not a palm reader.”

“But you didn't tell me how you-why you-know things.”

“What do you do?” she asked. “Or what don't you do? Me, I don't read palms.”

“I don't read palms, either,” I said. She looked at me, waited. “And I don't read feet,” I added. She smiled and clamped her feet back around mine. “And I don't…”

I went through a whole litany of jobs, both military and civilian, that I didn't do. This was much easier than lying, this circling, joking. She seemed to enjoy it, too, protesting every now and then that some task I said I didn't do-blow reveille on a bugle each morning-I actually did do. Slowly, invisible to everyone but me, her hands crept closer to mine, until they were almost touching, then they were touching, and then resting on top of mine, contented and relieved.