"Well, there was Vietnam and you were aprisoner for a pretty long time."
"That's not what I meant, and it was years ago.How do we know each other? What case?"
"No case, no business. We were classmates."
"Duke? It's a large law school."
"Further back. Maybe you'll remember when wesee each other. If you don't, I'll remind you."
"You must like games.... Half an hour. Chat Botte."
As Converse walked toward the Quai du MontBlanc, the vibrant boulevard fronting the lake, hetried to fit Halliday's name into a time frame, theyears to a school, a forgotten face to match anunremembered classmate. None came, and Hallidaywas not a common name, the short form "Press"even less so . . . unique, actually. If he had knownsomeone named Press Halliday, he could notimagine forgetting it. Yet the tone of voice hadimplied familiarity, even closeness.
It'll be good to see you again, Joel. He had spokenthe words warmly, as he had the gratuitous referenceto Joel's POW status. But then, those words werealways spoken softly to imply sympathy if not toexpress it overtly. Too, Converse understood whyunder the circumstances Halliday felt he had
to bring up the subject of Vietnam, even fleetingly.The uninitiated assumed that all men imprisoned inthe North Vietnamese camps for any length of timehad been mentally damaged, per se, that a part oftheir minds had been altered by the experience,their recollections muddled. To a degree, some ofthese assumptions were undeniable, but not with re-spect to memory. Memories were sharpened becausethey were searched compulsively, often mercilessly.The accumulated years, the layers of experience . .. faces with eyes and voices, bodies of all sizes andshapes; scenes flashing across the inner screen, thesights and sounds, images and smells touching andthe desire to touch . . . nothing of the past was tooinconsequential to peel away and explore. Fre-quently it was all they had, especially atnight always at night, with the cold, penetratingdampness stiffening the body and the infinitelycolder fear paralysing the mind memories wereeverything. They helped mute the sharp reports ofsmall-arms fire, which were gratuitously explained inthe mornings as necessary executions of the unco-operative and unrepentant. Or they blocked out thedistant screams in the dark, of even moreunfortunate prisoners forced to play games, tooobscene to describe, demanded by their captors insearch of amusement.
Like most men kept isolated for the greater partof their imprisonment, Converse had examined andreexamined every stage of his life, trying tounderstand . . . to like . . . the cohesive whole. Therewas much that he did not understand or like buthe could live with the product of those intensiveinvestigations. Die with it, if he had to; that was thepeace he had to reach for himself. Without it thefear was intolerable.
And because these self-examinations went onnight after night and required the discipline ofaccuracy, Converse found it easier than most men toremember whole segments of his life. Like aspinning disk attached to a computer that suddenlystops, his mind, given only basic information, couldisolate a place or a person or a name. Repetitionhad simplified and accelerated the process, and thatwas what bewildered him now. Unless Halliday wasreferring to a time so far back as to have been onlya brief, forgotten childhood acquaintance, no one ofthat name belonged to his past.
It'll tee good to see you again, JoeL Were thewords a ruse, a lawyer's trick?
Converse rounded the corner, the brass railing ofLe Chat Botte glistening, hurling back tiny explosionsof sunlight. The boulevard was alive with gleamingsmall cars and spotless buses; the pavements werewashed clean, the strollers in various stages ofhurried but orderly progress. Morning was a time forbenign energy in Geneva. Even the newspapersabove the tables in the sidewalk cafes were snappedwith precision, not crushed or mutilated into legiblepositio"And vehicles and pedestrians were not atwar; combat was supplanted by looks and nods, stopsand gestures of acknowledgment. As Joel walkedthrough the open brass gate of Le Chat Botte hewondered briefly if Geneva could export its morningsto New York. But then the City Council would votethe import down, he concluded the citizens of NewYork could not stand the civility.
A newspaper was snapped directly below him onhis left, and when it was lowered Converse saw aface he knew. It was a coordinated face, not unlikehis own, the features compatible and in place. Thehair was straight and dark, neatly parted andbrushed, the nose sharp, above well-defined lips. Theface belonged to his past, thought Joel, but the namehe remembered did not belong to the face.
The familiar-looking man raised his head; theireyes met and A. Preston Halliday rose, his shortcompact body obviously muscular under theexpensive suit.