The Friendship of Mortals

  ***

  Alma and West weren’t my only wartime correspondents. My colleague Linton Adams wrote me several letters, one of which was of particular interest.

  Somewhere in Paris

  September 7, 1918

  Charles Milburn

  23 and One Half (what kind of an address is that anyway?)

  College St., Arkham, Mass.

  Dear Milburn,

  Well, I finally made it to Paris. After a pretty ugly time of it in the Marne I got leave, and a bunch of us decided to come here instead of London. So far it’s been a blast. You don’t know what you’re missing, back there in Arkham.

  I won’t torture you by describing all the fun things I’ve done (and the girls – ooh la la, they’re really something!), but I have a message for you, believe it or not, from someone who says he was a good friend of yours back home. It’s a pretty good story, actually, so I’ll tell it from the beginning.

  A bunch of us boys from the 85th were exploring Montmartre one evening. We went into this little tavern called the Jardin de la Lune. It seemed to be run by some gypsy-type folks. There were fellows playing guitars and girls dancing. We boys were feeling pretty happy by then, but in a while it all changed. I don’t know if you’ve ever noticed this, but if you drink enough, there comes a point where things shift from happy and safe to sort of dangerous, all at once. The music and dancing stopped, and this knife-thrower showed up. That’s when I thought: Something else is about to happen. And that’s when I first noticed this fellow who said he was a friend of yours.

  He was with some other guys, Brits I thought, but it turned out they were Canadians. This guy was American, though, from Boston, as I found out later. He seemed a little crazy, not drunk, but crazy. He didn’t do anything out of line, not at first, but there was this look in his eyes and something about the way he talked that made me think he was on the edge.

  Anyway, the knife-thrower. He was another one of those gypsy-looking guys, but looked dangerous, had a couple of scars on his face. He worked with a woman – his wife, maybe, but who knows? She was pretty but quiet – intense, you could say – thin with long hair. She stood against the wall and he threw knives all around her, as close as he could get them without hurting her.

  We were all yelling and clapping, when suddenly that crazy-looking fellow, West, his name was, stood up and challenged the guy. He spoke French. The knife-thrower didn’t much like what he said, you could see that. He was getting pretty worked up, yelling and waving one of his knives under West’s nose. I would have backed off, but West just grabbed the guy’s wrist and said something to him, very quietly. The gypsy started to laugh but West said it again, whatever it was, and the gypsy caved in. He gave all his throwing knives to West and told his wife to get lost. She seemed kind of puzzled but went and sat down. West went over to her and said something. I think he got someone to bring her a drink. Then the knife-thrower went over to the wall and West started throwing the knives, at him.

  Now he got them close, way closer than the gypsy himself had done. He pinned the guy’s sleeves to the wall, looked like he gave him a little hair trim too, right on top. He was really good. And you could see that for him it was just great fun. He made quite a show of it. Everyone was impressed, everyone but the knife-thrower, that is. He was getting madder and madder. Finally, West was out of knives. He turned to us and bowed a couple of times. Just then the gypsy pulled one of the knives out of the wall and made as if to throw it at West. Someone shouted and West turned back toward the gypsy. For a few seconds no one did anything. They stood there staring at each other. Then the gypsy threw and West jumped aside, just in time. The knife stuck in a window frame behind him. It seems so slow, writing it all out like this, but it all happened in just a couple of seconds. West got that knife so fast it was unbelievable. He said something like “You don’t need two ears, do you?” and threw. It clipped off part of the guy’s ear, really.

  I don’t know where things would have ended up then, but some of the other gypsies hustled up and grabbed their guy and calmed him down. His ear was bleeding pretty badly. The guys West had been with were getting ready to leave, and I would have expected him to go too, but he went over to the gypsies and actually offered to patch up the gypsy’s ear. I don’t know what they told him, but they seemed pretty easy about it; maybe this knife-throwing pal of theirs made a habit of getting into trouble. And I think they were pretty impressed with West.

  Anyway, the upshot was, since West’s friends had left (maybe they weren’t really his friends, I don’t know), we asked him to join us. We were getting ready to move on to a place where things were more civilized and there were more women. But West wasn’t interested. He thanked us and said he had other plans. Just then he didn’t seem crazy at all. He came over to me and said he’d thought he’d heard me mention Arkham. That’s when he introduced himself. I said I was from Arkham, all right, and he asked if I knew you. When I said I did, he asked me to give you his regards. Then he took off into the night. So here I am passing on to you regards from Major Herbert West of the Canadian Army. Strange but true.

  Hope all is well in the Dept. and that your brain hasn’t been ruined yet by the Quarrington stuff.

  Linton Adams