"You weren't always an R.A.?" The question was utterly ridiculous, but it allowed for more conversation.

"No, I was a painting major at Cooper Union. When the Third Avenue El would go by I'd think it was the roar of the ocean and I was in Tahiti. Then I'd paint like Gauguin. My teachers never approved."

"Why didn't you stay in New York?"

"I decided to put the past behind; no more still lives for me. I joined the army to get a G.I. Bill and study in Mexico. Do you still think I'm unstable?" "No! I apologize. You're not unstable. You're fantastic." It was so much easier than saying I'm glad I met you.

"Now tell me about yourself." The young man asked propping his hands into his lap.

"I'm a six-foot three, twenty-seven year old, gray alien atheist.” "I bet you like chocolate milk."

"Only with peanut butter sandwiches."

The music had stopped. Curt got up and asked the young man what he would like to hear.

"Something sad . . . Rachmaninoff. That's a luxury I love to indulge in." As Curt walked towards the machine, the youngman watched his movements. There was a gentility about his actions.

I bet some one misses him terribly, he thought.

"I don't even know your name," Curt asked smiling down on him.

"Stefan. When I was a little boy I asked my mother why she had named me Stefan and she said all good boys had good names."

"Mine's Curtis. I prefer Curt."

"Doesn't the music remind you of a big city?" Stefan said.

"Not a city. I'm from New York and to me it's like a poorly made-up woman,

so alluring under moonlight yet grotesque in the sun.

"You must come to Mexico with me. There you can read Eliot nestled in a valley surrounded on four sides by purple mountains."

"Sounds delightful."

"I want to live in Oaxaca. I read a folder once all about it. Everything is pastel adobe and through open doors you can see charming patios and gardens. It's amazing how little the Indians need to live . . . a one-room house with no furniture, the simplest of clothes, and a place to sit and watch an occasional friend pass-by on a donkey."

"First I'll get out of the army and then I'll meet you, but you'll have to be a famous painter so you can support a struggling writer."

"If I'm not a success, we'll live on berries and fish."

"I'm sure you'll be a success." There was an assured confidence in his voice. "Talking about luscious meals, how about a cup of coffee, dutch threat?"

Curt looked at his watch and frowned. "I have to be back by nine, an early curfew. May I meet you tomorrow?"

"We'll have two cups then."

"I'll meet you here tomorrow at eight."

"Thank you and 'twas brillig."

Without replying, Curt left the room.

Stefan scanned the room. There was a vacant chair opposite a soldier reading a magazine. He nonchalantly walked over and sat down. The soldier noticed the two legs facing him.

"Where'd your friend go?" The voice was strong and hard like the speaker's features.

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