Lucy received his reprimand with what he hoped was something approaching grace. He wiped away the traces of spittle adorning his face and stepped outside, lamenting having lost his cap, as the cold set upon him at once, clinging to his neck, ears, and scalp. He turned up his collar and pushed on; he could hear the train but could not yet see it. Walking toward the tracks, he peered sideward at the village. There was a trickle of smoke seeping from Memel and Klara’s chimney, and Lucy wondered if it was she who had made the fire. He decided she had; and he thought of her crouched before the stove, the flame drawing across the wood. He imagined the smoke spinning in cresting coils before the draft from the flue pulled it taut, encouraging it upward, and to the open spaces. Lucy felt an aching in his chest. He wanted to know just what Klara’s days looked like.
Arriving at the station, he found Memel and Mewe on the platform, standing toe to toe, engaged in another argument. Memel held a dead hare in his hand, which Mewe lunged for once, twice, three times. Memel yanked it just out of reach; Mewe was fuming. “Hand it over,” he said.
“I will not,” Memel answered.
“But you know that it was in my snare.”
“If it was in your snare you’d be holding the hare, for I would never claim an animal that was not my own.”
“But that’s precisely what you are doing!” Mewe lunged again, and again Memel held the hare at arm’s length. “The most disturbing part of all this,” Mewe said, “is that you’re actually starting to believe your own lies.”
“God Himself only knows what the most disturbing part of it is.”
Mewe wagged a finger. “You always bring God into arguments you know you’re losing, for the liar is lonely, and welcomes all manner of company. Now, I’ll ask you one last time: will you hand over the hare or won’t you?”
“You know that I won’t.”
“Very well.” Mewe brought his boot heel down on Memel’s toe. The old man bellowed, and the hare was flung into the air, with Mewe dashing after. At the same moment he caught the somersaulting thing, Memel tackled him, and now the pair wrestled about in the snow, pulling at the hare and gritting their teeth and damning each other in the most base and common manner. Lucy found this spectacle more than a little intriguing and was curious to see who would emerge hare in hand; but now the train was approaching the station, and so he was forced to turn away.
Stepping to the edge of the platform, he held the letter high in the air. As the train bore down upon him he studied the darkened cockpit for a sign of the engineer; seeing no movement there he grew fearful something had gone amiss, when at the last moment there emerged a meaty hand, fingers splayed, poised to pounce. Lucy held his breath, and as the train hurtled past he was engulfed in a frigid wind, this of such force that he couldn’t tell if the letter had remained in his grip or not. Peering up, he saw that it hadn’t; he spun about to witness the blue envelope flapping in the engineer’s fist. Now the fist was withdrawn. The letter had been posted.
Lucy felt a sense of dizzy satisfaction, an amusement at the strangeness of the event. Being lost to the novelty of this occurrence, he stepped too near the train, so that he felt his body shudder, as though he would be jerked from the platform and into the grinding metal wheels and shrill mechanisms. All at once he understood the train’s unknowable weight and power, and he stepped cautiously backward as it passed. He didn’t like to think of anyone’s death, least of all his own.
When he turned he saw that Memel and Mewe had ceased their fighting and were standing before him, panting and snow-coated, each of them clinging to opposite ends of the hare. They were smiling. Behind them, at the apex of the looming mountain, Lucy could make out the pops and puffs of the area war, the soldiers scrabbling about, insects swarming cream.
To Memel, he said, “You have taken my pipe again.”
“Yes, that’s true,” said Memel. “Did you want it back?”
Lucy said that he did, and so the pipe was returned to him. He found the mouthpiece was scored with teeth marks, and that the basin smelled of Memel’s rank, inferior tobacco. In a stern tone, he said, “I want you to stop taking it from me, do you understand?”
Memel raised his eyebrows, his head bobbing side to side, as though the notion were a fascination to him.
“Will you stop it or won’t you?” Lucy asked.
“Oh, all right.”
Lucy struck out for the village. That he had no use for company was clear, but Memel and Mewe were blind to this, and they hurried after, that they might walk alongside him. “We’re happy to see you, do you know?” said Memel. “You left in such a rush last night, we weren’t sure what to think.”
“Just that it was time for me to go, I suppose.”
“Clearly it was that. But will you come by this evening, I wonder? I’ve bagged a fine hare this morning, and Klara will prepare us a stew.”
“Actually,” said Mewe, “it was I who bagged the hare.”
“A hare was bagged, is all he needs to know.”
“I should think he would want to know the truth.”
“Yes, and how will he hit upon it with you spouting untruths?”
Lucy interrupted them. “I don’t think I will visit you tonight,” he said.
Memel and Mewe were taken aback by this. “And why not?” asked the former.
Recalling their leering, mocking faces in the candlelit shanty, Lucy told them, “I would rather not come, is all.”
Now the pair shared a solemn look, and Memel said, “Do you know something, Mewe? I don’t believe Lucy likes us.”
“I think you may be right,” said Mewe.
Memel meditated on it. “But why doesn’t he?”
“I don’t know why.”
“Well,” said Memel. “It doesn’t feel very good, does it? Being disliked?”
“No, it certainly doesn’t.”
Memel meditated further. “Do you think that perhaps he likes us a little bit, though?”
“Perhaps. But not enough to dine with us, it would seem.”
“It’s a pale flame, is that what you’re saying?”
“He likes us, but barely,” Mewe said, nodding.
“A pale flame indeed. Well, what can we do about it, eh?”
“Yes.”
“If he thinks we’ll beg after his friendship, he might think again.”
“Yes.”
“And, who’s to say? Perhaps he’ll acquire a taste for our company in time.”
“That’s quite possible.”
“I suppose there’s nothing but to wait and see, then.”
“That’s all, yes.”
“Wait and see and hope for the best.”
“That’s all.”
Chatting in this breezy manner, Memel and Mewe stepped away from Lucy. Memel was twirling the hare in a carefree fashion; he tossed it to Mewe, who caught it, and tossed it back. Lucy had fallen back to watch them go but now resumed walking, following them at a distance. He had his shopping to do.