I must have dozed off at some point because when I come to the light filtering down the side alley has turned navy, with the smallest tinge of orange peeking out from behind the buildings. I'm in the south of France, in a little coastal town called Arles, returning to my old war haunts and meeting a business associate. I had stopped by a café earlier in the evening to pick up a savory pastry as well as finally enjoy some good wine and coffee when the toxic mix of the two items caused me to fall into a lethargic state at the table. The post-war reconstruction had been kind to both the city and the café; remaining much as I had originally imagined them in my mind from ten years before.  Of course, back then I didn't have such a reliance on the strong stuff to get out of bed, and my fingers were still relatively clean of the yellow tinge from years of smoking. I'm sure the signs of impending darkness were there back in the day, but I was too caught up in my duties to see them.  

 

I spent four years bouncing around Europe a decade ago with the lovely men of Echo Company, 3rd Battalion 7th Marines. I don't talk to any of them anymore. I wouldn't want to even if I could. The memories I have from that period are not for public consumption, try as my friends and family might pry stories out of me late at night after they have pumped my belly full of liquor. So, instead of telling them the truth about the muddy hikes through the Ardennes or the sizzling desert air of Northern Africa, I tell them stories about the beautiful people of Europe and the resilience they demonstrated after their land was decimated. These are the stories they want to hear of course, because they are fascinating; full of danger and beauty, and being from French Lick, Indiana, this is the closest some of them might get to seeing the real thing. Those stories are all lies obviously. Exactly like the lies, I tell myself when I go to pour myself the first glass of the day, like this is the only one I’ll need today, I promise. 

 

I work with airplanes now, more specifically I oversee people who know how to make airplanes. A friend of my father’s got me a job at an aerospace company after the war. The interview process was not too hard since he was my godfather. The two Purple Hearts from the war didn't hurt either. I'm not even sure what they were for in all honesty. I think the first one was for wiping out the remnants of a dilapidated German squadron in the Winter of ‘44. I was dug in on a ridgeline when they used the last of their shells to try and wipe us out. They didn't even come close to inflicting any damage on our unit but one of those shells did land right next to me in a bunker. My right leg was torn up pretty badly as I tried to dive out of the way of it. I can't remember what the other Purple Heart was for. Bravery resulting in blood I suppose. 

 

I'm a spy you see, but only in my free time. Most of my days are spent by the water cooler listening to purgatory-like office talk, followed by the late-night swindling of documents from my co-worker's desks. They don't suspect me. I'm a veteran. 

 

They came to me one night, called me actually, the Soviets did, to enquire about my sympathies and where they lay. I told them to bring $25,000 to my favorite steakhouse the following evening. That was three years ago, and ever since I have met them once a year, at a location of my choosing to perform what they call “an exchange of ideas”. My ideas tend to center around top-secret U.S. military aircraft, and theirs around large sums of money beautifully laid out in equally beautiful European luxury briefcases. They’re one of the few extravagances I allow myself. 

 

It’s not that I have anything against America, it’s just that I don’t love it. When the Fourth of July comes around, I can’t get excited like everyone else. I saw what my company mates did to enemy combatants in Europe, maintaining a hideously disguised “no stragglers policy”, freeing us from having to take any prisoners of war. It’s not that I think I’m better than they are either, I am a covert enemy agent technically, so I figured I might as well do it for a fee.  

A young couple walks by giggling, whispering sweet somethings into each other's ears. They are maybe 18 or 20, about the same age that me and Mary were when we met. Mary, my loving albeit slightly ditzy wife bit hook, line, and sinker on the story I limply flopped onto the table a week ago when I told her I had to leave town for work.

Something about a contractor conference in D.C., I think. I needn’t worry though; she will ask me all about when I get back, providing me with enough cover to make up some juicy tidbit about a round of golf or how I met a famous ballplayer who was the keynote speaker. She’ll eat it up though and life will go back to normal, hopefully. 

 

“Autre chose monsieur?” It is the damn waiter again. He has been buzzing around me for the past two hours trying to ensure a hefty tip. He is almost certain to be disappointed if he keeps annoying me at this rate. 

 

 “No,” I say. 

 

The joke’s on him anyway, I barely have enough money to cover the bill, to begin with. Hopefully not after tonight though.  

 

Barely any light is finding its way down the alley at this point, the warm and loving French sun long having disappeared over the horizon. I love this part of the evening; the perfect mix of warm and cool as the oppressive heat and humidity from the day are replaced by cool evening breezes carrying notes of lavender from the nearby fields. A waiter walks around lighting the oil lamps that encircle the patio of the café.  

 

Lights in the apartments that line the alley are starting to come to life now. The dinner crowd begins to get up and cede their tables to the late-night cocktail, and wine drinkers come to replace them. I should start looking for my mark now. His message, albeit a cryptic one, stated “The raisin entices those who fancy a night out.” A groundbreaking piece of literature it was not, but after some mulling over, I thought I knew what he was getting at. Scanning the area, my eyes are drawn to a seagull landing in a tree to my right, something I had never seen before. A sign of the absurdity of my current situation.  

 

I wait for ten more minutes, my eyes peeking out from behind a week-old copy of Le Monde but no sign of my mark. Looking to calm my nerves I begin to circle the small square the café sits on, hoping to distract myself long enough from the questionable acts and personalities I have recently surrounded myself with. A cat skirts between my legs waking a sleeping puddle. Its active surface perfectly reflects the scene around it. The yellow light from the bakery kitchen attached at the back of the café, the drunk stumbling back in the direction of home, and a man with wispy blonde hair, a square jaw, and a brown leather briefcase.  

 

“Ser, vy zabludilis'?” Sir, are you lost? That is the trigger phrase. 

 

“Net,” No. I say. 

 

 As much as I try and convince these damn Russians that these phrases are too conspicuous when said in Russian, they never listen.  

 

“Do you have the blueprints?” he asks me, this time in English. His accent is perfect and carries no trace of its possible origination in Eastern Europe.  

 

“Of course, I do, you didn’t think I would try and swindle you out of $50,000, did you?” A nervous grin creeps across my face. I look like an idiot.  

 

We exchange packages at the same time. With my right hand I pass him a packet of documents produced from the inside of my suit jacket and with my left I grab the briefcase filled with cash. A perfect handoff. 

Walking away I feel a slight prick on the middle finger of my left hand. The same hand that is holding the briefcase. The prick is on the exact finger that is attached to the knuckles on my left hand which have now gone white because of the numbness emanating from them. Blood trickles down my finger.  

 

My knees are the first to go, giving way and smashing into the cobblestone that lines the alley. Next, my legs give up the task of holding me upright, forcing me to flop on my back. The briefcase busts open revealing nothing but shredded newspaper, the total value of which is zero dollars.  

 

A terrible gurgle escapes my throat as I go to the ground, no doubt caused by the spittle foaming out of my mouth. It actually hurts less than I thought it would, hurts less than getting shot at least. As my consciousness slips away from me, I’m reminded of a memory from ‘44, of a small child I saw across a field one night outside of Normandy, lying in a shell crater staring at the stars. When I walked over to him, I realized he was just stuck in the last position he lay in before a sniper got to him. A part of his leg was gone. Maybe he knew he was going to die so he laid down to look at the stars one last time. 

 

 I think this puddle is my shell crater.  

 

The last to go is the light, the warm light emanating from the café across the square from me, the light from the apartment casting long shadows along the alley, and the light from the opalescent night sky; the stars staring down at me, winking as if they are saying good night. They seem close enough to touch. 

 

The light was the last thing to go. 

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