Battle of the Rhine

Gabriel Roshua dressed more French than he looked—loose shirts, plunging necklines, and slim-fit trousers, fashionable for movie stars.It is unforgivable for someone to dare to dress up like this indoors.Michael was oblivious to the outstretched hand, for God's sake, how restrained he was from delivering a hard punch on that tall hooked nose.

"Mike," said Quincy, sounding very feeble, "this, this is Michael Fiennes, and he—"

Roshua lowered his arms, a little embarrassed, but still maintained his "grace", "Nice to meet you, Mr. Fiennes. Please come in and sit—"

Talk like this is your home!Oh well, maybe this is his home.Michael gritted his teeth and walked in. The living room he used to be familiar with has changed drastically: the old sofa is gone, replaced by a new one, bigger and thicker.The piano is also gone, and an organ is placed under the window.It was bright everywhere, and the fireplace was full of odds and ends.The three photo frames and the photos in them are gone, of course, why are there?The photographer got away, and the frame he picked and the photos he took became a joke.Quincy has no shortage of photos, and several of the new frames show him pursing his lips stiffly at the camera in what looks like a smile.One photograph caught Michael's eye, and he recognized that the handsome building behind Quinnessy was Neuschwanstein Castle.

"Would you like tea or coffee?" Roshua poked his head out of the kitchen enthusiastically, "Would you like a cup of coffee? We—"

"Who is he?" Michael asked, in a voice so loud he couldn't help it.Quincy shrank his shoulders in fear. Four years later, his old problem was still there, "...he is—"

"Gabriel Roshua." The Frenchman came out, hugged Quincy's shoulder, and patted Quincy comfortingly, "I think I've already introduced myself."

"I remembered." Michael said, he was like an angry hedgehog, erecting his spikes all over his body, "Thanks for the reminder, Mr. Roshua"

"You're welcome." Roshua pulled out the chair and let Quinnessy sit down. "Honey, would you like a cup of tea?"

"Thank you," Quincy said, folding his arms.He looked cold, his eyes drooping tremblingly, "Mike, please sit down."

"Where's your piano?" Michael sat down, directly opposite Quincy, "Why did you change it to another one?"

"The old one .

Following a few barks, the big black dog ran out cheerfully and circled Quincy non-stop. "Good boy," Quincy said, stroking the dog's head, "go play in the backyard, will you?"

"Arden, come here." Roshua led the big dog and opened the door to the backyard.The dog wagged its tail vigorously at him.Quincy looked back, "That piano is broken," he seemed to rearrange his words, "it's broken, and it can't be repaired. I think the organ is also good, and it doesn't move that much...although..."

"The organ is nice too," said Roshua, holding two cups.One was placed in front of Quincy and the other by Mike.The aroma of the coffee is very strong, even though Michael always drinks instant coffee, he can smell it, it is definitely a good thing of excellent quality.

"It's broken, what a coincidence." Michael looked around. The late summer sun was flooding the living room floor—even the floor was new!There is no trace of him here, it is inevitable, he understands.But he was just angry.You Qi Roshua held Quincy's hand and smiled encouragingly.Quincy pursed his lips immediately, like a smile, but not quite.Michael couldn't remember if he used to smile like that... Ah, yes, hadn't he even forgotten what Quincy looked like?

"When did you come back?" Quincy asked, raising his blue eyes, then lowering his head quickly. "How long are you going to stay?"

"do not know."

"travel?"

"Work."

"Very good, the Federal Republic of Germany has developed rapidly in recent years..."

"Yeah," Michael tried his best to keep his tone light, but he must have failed. "Such a small living room is unrecognizable, let alone a bigger place?"

"Mr. Fiennes," Roshua cleared his throat, "you—"

Posturing, who does this Frenchie think he is?Is the master of this house?Michael interrupted him directly, “Are you French?”

"Well, yes." Roshua smiled, "You see it?"

"I've been to France," Michael said, clenching his fists. "Our troops landed in France in 1944. In my impression, France is very good."

Roshua looked ready to accept Michael's compliment, but couldn't. "—The French are also great. The girls in the brothel are full of unique skills. My comrades in arms commented that among the brothels they have been to, the French girls' jobs are the most authentic."

"Mike!" Quincy blushed. "Stop talking about that, you—"

"I've never been a prostitute, I told you. Tim and the others said that those French girls are not bad, they will do anything for money." Michael sneered, "French men are also very good, ah, how long have you resisted? One month? I'll do the math..."

"28 days," Roshua said, "you don't have to forget it. But I have to say, going to a brothel is not a good habit. I admit, 28 days is not very good, but at least France has not suffered too much loss. You know We were in World War I—”

"Yes, yes, that's right." Roshua interjected, igniting Michael's anger. "There is always a reason for surrender, right? Yanks will come all the way to fill the big holes in the European battlefield anyway. I Many comrades died in France, where were you and your great French warriors? Shining German shoes, saluting, egging on women? Then, as soon as the war was over, chasing German captives through the streets and shaving those women hair, dragging them through the streets?..."

"Mike," Quincy stood up, "please, please stop—"

He looked terribly distressed, shivering with cold, breathing rapidly, and his blue eyes were watery and trembling. "You are back... very, very good, I, I, I am very happy. However, today, I am really, really tired, sorry, please go back..." After finishing speaking, he rushed up the stairs, as if escaping left.Roshua hurried to catch up.Michael stayed in the living room, which was bright like a cold cellar, and sat there annoyed, a dry blank in his mind, wondering whether to hate the bastard French or himself.