box in my
rucksack.
I was too
tired to
get them
out.
“Don’t you
feel good
yourself,
baby?” “I
feel like
hell.”
“This war
is
terrible,”
Rinaldi
said.
“Come on.
We’ll both
get drunk
and be
cheerful.
Then we’ll
go get the
ashes
dragged.
Then we’ll
feel
fine.”
“I’ve had
the
jaundice,”
I said,
“and I
can’t get
drunk.”
“Oh, baby,
how you’ve
come back
to me. You
come back
serious
and with a
liver. I
tell you
this war
is a bad
thing. Why
did we
make it
