Battle of the Rhine

In August, Europe went into vacation.Under Michael's persuasion, Quincy plans to take a short vacation. "Don't stare at the mirror," Michael said, rocking on the rocking chair, "white hair is normal... I've had it since I was eighteen or nineteen."

"Fuck you," said Quincy without looking back, "shut your mouth."

The two had a small quarrel over the location of their vacation.They seldom quarrel—Michael does not contradict Quincy, as he describes it in a letter to Mary, "...and when I get home I lose my mind. It's all up to Karna, and she decides. I don't want anything, let I eat and I eat, let me take a bath and I take a bath...I just think about what color roses to grow in the garden. She likes white ones, but I think red is more beautiful, and there is a very beautiful color, I say it is orange Well, Karna calls that color 'champagne'. Well, she's right, it's champagne. I planted half red, half champagne. Now the buds are growing..."

Likewise, Quincy rarely fought with Michael.Michael's blood pressure made him worried, and he used a scale to weigh the cheese and butter every day. Michael's favorite French fries were kicked out of the menu.He may have been afraid that a fight would lead to Michael's hypertension, which would lead to a variety of terrible diseases.He earnestly persuaded Michael to eat whole wheat bread, eat more vegetables, touch less Coke, and have some apple sparkling water in moderation.Coke disappeared in the refrigerator, and Michael had to secretly hide a box in the office to enjoy himself during working hours.

"France is fine," said Quinnessy, "both south and north."

To his France!Michael felt his blood pressure skyrocket when he heard about this country. "No." He flatly vetoed, "If you go to the Soviet Union, you won't go to France."

"Do you dare to go to the Soviet Union?" Quincy said mockingly, "Oh, go, your dear America will revoke your citizenship."

"I'll grab you and go with me." Michael kicked off the ground, and the rocking chair started to shake again. "I'll tell the Russian guy that you are my wife, so we can apply for a three-bedroom apartment."

"Get out!" Quincy cursed, "You're such a bad guy!"

Michael giggled for a while, watching Quincy comb his hair slowly in the mirror. "You can go anywhere, but you can't go to France." He said lazily, "No, if you say no, you can't."

"You scare France to death?" Quincy turned his head and raised his eyebrows, showing a playful expression, "Are French brothels really that scary?"

"Ah, yes, I'm frightened by France." Michael also raised his eyebrows, "The frogs in France frightened me to give me a headache."

"You have a headache?" Quincy put down the comb and walked over to Michael.Michael raised his head and looked into those blue eyes, "I have a headache... give me a pinch."

"Cut off your head, and your head will stop hurting."

"Too vicious—"

Quincy pulled a wicker chair and sat down, resting his cool fingertips on Michael's forehead. "I want to go to Paris to see galleries and see plays." He pushed Michael's hair back. "Well, you have a lot of gray hair."

"I told you earlier, I grew up when I was eighteen or nineteen...it's normal." Michael turned his face and kissed that hand, "No, I won't go to France."

"Is that why you hate France so much?"

"That's right, it's a poor country with poor mountains and rivers, and the people are even worse—"

"You're biased, Mike."

"Oh, don't mention France... just think of their coastline! It's so scary, my heart still beats thinking about it!"

"We're going to the south of France."

"Don't go."

"Go to the castle."

"Don't go."

"Go drink wine."

"Don't drink. I don't drink, and you are not allowed to drink."

"Give you a Coke."

"No! I've quit Coke!"

Quincy grabbed one of Michael's hairs and yanked it out. "That's good hair!" Michael screamed. "You're revenge, Carl!"

"Don't think I don't know," said Quincy, tossing the hair. "Quit Coke? Lie—how many boxes have you stashed in your office?"

Michael sat up embarrassingly, "I'm sorry," at this time Arden ran upstairs excitedly with the ball in his mouth, and Michael beckoned the dog to come over, "Good boy, hey, Dad is going to hang out with you now-I was wrong, Honey, you know I'm an American. We Americans have Coke in our veins. Well, I'm going out for a while—"

"Mike!"

"We're not going to France!"

Michael gave Quincy a big kiss on the face, and quickly fled with Arden.For God's sake, France!Don't even think about it.That goddamn Roshua was so heartless and kept writing letters and cards and presents to Quincy.Want to watch a play, is there no theater in the world except Paris?There is Broadway in the United States, and there must be a place in London where you can watch a play, not to mention that Wilde, who wrote "Salome", is obviously British...

With the vacation location in doubt, Michael has a new problem.He had discovered early on that there were several young men in the company who had "insufficient respect" for Quincy.The few times he asked, Quincy always downplayed, "Nothing."

There must be something.Quincy had been in the Wehrmacht, Charlie had mentioned, and some people didn't like him.At noon this day, Michael finished his meal and walked along the fixed route.Quincy asked him to "work out hard," and he didn't want to be middle-aged with a big belly, like Uncle Sam in a caricature.Michael was walking through his pockets when he suddenly noticed Quincy not far away, wearing blue-gray work clothes and a work cap.It seemed that he went to the workshop today, and Michael was about to pretend to say hello, when a brat rushed out excitedly and gave Quincy a hard push.

"Hey!" Michael was furious, "What are you doing?" He knew the guy, surnamed Klein, a small man who lived up to his name, nicknamed "Short". "Short, quickly apologize to Mr. Von Quinnessy!"

"Shorty" glared at Michael fearlessly and exclaimed, "He's a Nazi!"

"You're not a Nazi if you fucking beat someone up?" Michael yelled. "Did you finish your job, you bastard? I think you're just fed up—"

Michael scolded "Short".Quincy left without saying a word, and "Short" said indignantly, "The Nazis! They made Germany miserable..."

"Damn it," Michael slapped him on the head, "you monkey! You first figure out the difference between the Wehrmacht and the SS!"

"I figured it out," said Shorty stubbornly, "and the Wehrmacht, too, nothing good—can you tell? You're an American—"

"Fuck," Michael laughed angrily, "you weren't even born when I joined the World War! Get the hell out of here and go back to the workshop. If I hear your bastard talk again, I'll deduct your bonus —Look at how much waste you produced..."

Back home from get off work in the evening, Quincy behaved as usual.Quincy never answered Michael's repeated attempts to talk while walking the dog.Finally, after saying good night, Michael lay in the dark and muttered, "I'm going to fire that bastard."

"No need." Quincy said flatly, "He's right to scold."

"Well," Michael held out his arm, letting Quincy lean closer, "doesn't people often—"

"It's much better."

"You're not an SS!"

"Same," Quincy's hair brushed against Michael's cheek, "Isn't the Wehrmacht doing bad things? Stop thinking about it."

"This is so fucking unfair." Michael was very annoyed.Many Nazi officials went straight to the postwar government without even being tried.Another thing came to his mind, "Where's your Iron Cross?"

The body in his arms froze for a moment, "Put it away—why did you ask that?"

"Did you change to the new one?"

"Don't disturb me, I'm going to sleep."

Don't let me catch it, Michael gritted his teeth.He had to keep an eye on the passing rate of the "short" and ask him to go home if he made a mistake.He is such a small belly.

During the period before the vacation, Michael went to the bank to check the account, and was surprised to find that there was not a dime in it.He asked Quincy at dinner, and Quincy sliced ​​a sausage, a smile twisting her thin lips.

"Yeah, yeah, I've been keeping you—so you're supposed to be my wife, Mike, you've got to listen to me—we're going to Paris for the holidays."

"Don't dream before the sun goes down," Michael said. "To Paris? No way!"