“It’s a lie. It’s Friday. You’re eating the body of our Lord. It’s God-meat. I know. It’s dead Austrian. That’s what you’re eating.”
“The white meat is from officers,” I said, completing the old joke.
Rinaldi laughed. He filled his glass.
“Don’t mind me,” he said. “I’m just a little crazy.”
“You ought to have a leave,” the priest said.
The major shook his head at him. Rinaldi looked at the priest.
“You think I ought to have a leave?”
The major shook his head at the priest. Rinaldi was looking at the priest.
“Just as you like,” the priest said. “Not if you don’t want.”
“To hell with you,” Rinaldi said. “They try to get rid of me. Every night they try to get rid of me. I fight them off. What if I have it. Everybody has it. The whole world’s got it. First,” he went on, assuming the manner of a lecturer, “it’s a little pimple. Then we notice a rash between the shoulders. Then we notice nothing at all. We put our faith in mercury.”