Battle of the Rhine

Gabriel Roshua was as thin as a stunted birch tree, but Gabriel Roshua had amazingly strong fists.Of course, it is entirely possible that this is Michael's one-sided impression caused by resentment and jealousy.All in all, Roshua knocked Michael down with one punch, then quickly closed and locked the door.It's not goddamn good manners for a Frenchie to have his nice leather boots polished and to walk around on other people's floors without changing them.

The owner of the house, Michael, was lying on his back, with hot liquid coming out of his nose—it must be blood. He wiped his face with his hands, "fuck", he cursed, and struggled to get up.Roshua gave him a chance, he sat up and got kicked.Roshua stared down at him like a cow waiting to be slaughtered.

"I don't understand," said the Frenchman, speaking English, surprisingly without much French in his accent—some women call it "elegant"—"How could my dear Karl This kind of—sorry, but I'm telling the truth—you crap and mood swings—"

Michael was gasping for breath, the gold stars were flying around in front of his eyes, and the blood flowed for a while, wet his hair at the temples.He must have looked miserable and ugly, Roshua thought for a moment, then commented on Michael's dignity, "Poultry."

"Fuck you! You frog—"

Roshua smiled contemptuously, "No problem, I'm a frog, but what about you? You're an American... oh, real American, selfish, thinking only of yourself: look, I just mentioned Carl's name, and you just curse at me. You're a pig, sir."

He said the last sentence in German.Yes, pig, that's the word Quinnessy has lashed out at Michael before.Germans always like to use animals as swear words, maybe because they have too little imagination.Pigs, monkeys, chickens... The strange thing is that Germans love to eat pork very much, and even eat the offal of pigs.Michael gathered some strength and got up for the second time.Roshua had already pulled out the chair and sat down, took out a cigarette, lit it, and took a puff, "Would you like one?"

"Get the hell out of my room." Michael sat on the floor. "Fuck, get out!"

"If it wasn't for Carl, I wouldn't want to live in this kind of shabby..." Roshua looked at the kitchen, then set his eyes on the messy bed, "You live in this kind of place?"

"What's wrong with Carl?" Michael covered his nose.The bleeding gradually stopped, but there was still a burning pain in the nasal cavity.Christmas is coming soon, and Roshua must have come over on vacation—there is nothing more lazy than the French who like to take a vacation. Michael wiped the clotting blood under his nose with his sleeve. "I've seen him recently, he's fine—"

"He's not very good," Roshua said, in English, in that obnoxious tone, "but it's not about me anymore: he broke up with me."

Michael's head was buzzing, and Roshua's punch was so powerful that it might have caused a slight concussion, "—Break it?"

"I speak English, Mr. Fiennes."

"Damn it, break it?"

"It means we broke up."

After a few seconds, maybe a minute, the noise in Michael's head slowly subsided into a sharp hum, "Oh," he stood up on the table legs, staggering.Now he looked down condescendingly, "You guys," he tilted his head, and Roshua was unbuttoning his coat, which was made of good woolen material, "Break it?"

"Yes," Roshua said, smoking a cigarette and shaking the ashes on the table without hesitation. "I went to see him and spend Christmas with him, and he said to me, 'It's time to end'."

"Oh." Michael wobbled, he couldn't control his two legs, he could only stand with one curled up, "Oh," he grinned, "haha——"

That smirk can lead to dire consequences, like Roshua's enraged murder, with Michael's body not found until a week later.Michael turned his head, and Roshua took off his coat. Inside were clean sweaters and shirts, and there were no daggers, pistols or other murder weapons.The Frenchman looked calm, and Michael's laugh didn't seem to arouse his anger.He just shrugged and lit a second cigarette, "You really don't care about Carl at all, whether he's happy, healthy, happy - you only care about yourself, American. I say that Tired, but you really don't deserve Carl, he shouldn't even look at you."

"I care about him." Michael said, he had to clarify this point, as for whether he deserved it or not, he had already sentenced himself to death in his heart.Not worthy!That was inevitable, their acquaintance was the mistake of Hitler's crazy war.The Frenchman in front of him is exactly what Quincy's ideal partner looks like: smooth hair, high nose bridge, handsome face... Graduated from medical school, with an elegant and pleasant surname, pair of long legs, maybe very good at playing football.Didn't they go to a play?Oh Wilde, in romantic Paris...

"You have a cold?" Roshua raised his eyelids and moved the chair back vigilantly, "Is it the flu?"

"Yes." Michael lied maliciously.

But this lie can't trouble a medical school graduate.Roshua went to the bed and picked up a few medicine bottles, Michael took the opportunity to sit in the chair, dizzy. "You still have a fever." Roshua said firmly, "To be honest, I don't think it's much use to take medicine for a cold. You can always get better within a week with or without medicine. After you recover, you can go to Munich to accompany you. Carl has Christmas and still has time to visit the Christmas market."

"I'm not going," Michael said. "I swear--he said he'd be disgusted to see me."

"—in time to buy a Christmas tree—" Roshua babbled, "gingerbread, he loved that, cake, wreath—"

"Can't you understand English?" Michael closed his eyes, "I won't go, he said, he would feel sick when he saw me, and hope I die and go to hell!" The sharp buzzing almost pierced his throat Brain, Michael had to hold his head, "I can't make him angry anymore, I can't! Got it, Mr. Frog? He doesn't need me. He broke up with you, it's not my turn, I—"

Roshua was silent for a moment, just for a moment, "He needs you." He came briskly, his boots clacking. "I'm going to his house..." He grabbed Michael by the chin and tossed his head. "Let me see—you have a bad cold—needs medicine, no, you should get an injection—"

"He hates me," Michael said, pushing Roshua's hand away, and he smelled a disgusting, hospital-only disinfectant smell. "He-hate-me-"

"I think it's the opposite," Roshua said, "if you'd hear me out—"

"You know how Carl and I met?" Michael said sarcastically, opening his eyes. "Did he tell you? Me and him, in—"

"In the spring of 1945, after some battle at the Battle of the Rhine, right?"

In 1945, Michael closed his eyes and seemed to be sitting in that hazy, blurred daylight, where ferns sprouted their curly buds sparsely, and wildflowers, white and yellow, dotted the edges of the woods. "Yeah," he sounded choked up with a stuffy nose, "in 1945, they fought hard...that section of the embankment was completely blown up...he wouldn't tell me how to pronounce his last name, the first time I saw Such a strange letter, with two dots on the O..."

"He told me about you, a small part, I guess." Roshua lit another cigarette, and Michael accepted one this time. "He said you were nice to him initially, your comrades burned his pants and you gave him yours."

"Tim hates him," Michael said, choking on the tobacco and coughing for a while, "Tim's a nice guy, he just doesn't like Carl the way he looks like a college student—but I do, he's like a beautiful His marble statue, noble, beautiful, pure. I ruined him." He took a deep puff, "He would have been fine... If I hadn't committed a crime, if I had held back... nothing would have happened, You won't see him either. Did Carl tell you?" Michael rubbed the corner of his eye, "I raped him 23 times, right by the Rhine."