Opening the stove door, Orville poked the fire and shoved in a couple of sticks: the light played on his naked body. Dumping dirty water down the sink he poured himself a hot pailful. Soap and hot water relaxed him as he washed his legs and thighs. Claude had his arms full of clothes; stopping in the doorway he envied Orville his hard, white body. "Can’t find anyone to repair the heater," he said. "This is fine ... I guess this is where I scrubbed when I was a kid." "Use all the hot water." "Will Aunt Therèse be home soon?" "I think so." "I’d forgotten it could rain so hard around here." "Where did you get off the bus? Did they let you off at the wrong place?" "No ... I got off in the village..." "You shouldn’t have gone to the cemetery. Not today." "No matter ... I wanted to look around ... to think..." Claude spread Orville’s clothes on the kitchen table, arranging them carefully--the valet’s touch. He hoped everything would fit. Orville hadn’t put on weight. Was I ever built so well? He limped away and Orville saw his hand on the closing door, remembering it as a boy, the red "v" on the back: it wasn’t so much the redness, it was the ragged shape of the thing. Bichain had the face of a Pole; his Cracow ancestor’s grey eyes that faded into nothingness, his beard went to his chest, the hair was always brushed and immaculate. As he toweled, Orville glanced at the scars across his stomach, where he had been burned by an engine explosion during training at camp. It was pleasant picking up his clothes from the table, holding them up, remembering. He thought everything would fit. Socks first. That old crew neck shirt from mom. He was eager to telephone Jeannette. The trousers were okay ... Claude had remembered his belt. By god, maybe it was going to be good after all, this leave, this Ermenonville, his Jean. Somebody ought to shut off the rain. It was growing dark: the eye of the fire poked across the door. Across the braided rug. The phone was at one end of the long living room, unless someone had rewired it. Without switching on lights or lamps, he walked across the room, hoping it had not been altered: the phone ... he lifted the receiver and waited: "What number, please?" a pleasant voice asked: the voice was Ermenonville French and yet Orville thought of a girl in Ithaca, a face with yellow hair around it, a happy face. "Can you get me the hospital?" There was a pause as if the operator was trying to identify Orville or was puzzled by his accent. "One moment, please." Then the hospital responded--someone, a man, spat through an earful of static: "What do you want?" It was the voice of war, with a German accent. "This is Claude Bichain," Orville lied. "I want to speak to Mlle. Jeannette Hitchcock," he said. "She may be on duty." "If she’s on duty, I can’t call her." "It’s an emergency ... damn you!" he snapped out. "Important ... get it? Important!" He hated the guy.