Excerpts from "Hello My Baby" (c) Ida Emerson.
Chapter 17: Nymphs of the Night
Third class cadets did not bunk in the barracks. One week before the new class arrived in August they were moved into the dormitories, two to a room. They had no choice of roommate, of course. That privilege was reserved for the senior year alone.
Maes Hughes never broke the rules. On occasion, though, he bent them to extremes. He was bored to tears with his work in Education Administration, where he had been put to work evaluating textbooks in search of one that would make an appropriate national standard for student teachers taking courses in teaching Amestrian history. True, the rotation could have been worse: some of his classmates were in the Excise and Customs office, others had been placed in Railroad Maintenance. One poor sucker was with the Committee for Legislative Oversights. Six damned lucky devils were in Criminal Investigations: four in the Department of Law Enforcement for Central City, and two with the military police, looking into court martial allegations and other internal affairs.
The one up side was that the dull nature of the rotation left him a lot of time to lavish on bending the rules. Specifically, the rule stating that fourth-year cadets could chose their roommate. The implication was that they would choose someone from their own class, but that wasn't how Maes was interested in playing. He devised his campaign with care. He pointed out that the female cadets often had to bunk with an upper-year. He noted that there were a hundred and ninety-three men entering their second year, so someone had to be put with an older cadet. Maes Hughes had tenacity that was matched only by his charisma, and both served him very well. He buttered up the officers in the housing office, and flattered the Major General until the man's ego threatened to carry the roof off of the faculty building. In the end, he came forth triumphant, signed billeting orders in hand.
So Roy Mustang left his exhausting first year and the hated barracks behind, and moved into a corner room of Dormitory III. When he arrived with his uniforms over his arm and his kit in his hand, his new roommate grinned languidly, green eyes glittering with mischief.
"Let's see how often you sneak out now!" Maes teased.
It wasn't a threat, but Roy would not have cared if it had been. As if sleeping in a real bedroom instead of a warehouse wasn't marvellous enough, he was now living with his best friend – the one man on earth he trusted absolutely.
In their decade's acquaintance the two young men had only spent one night together. They had passed it in an old quarry, Maes debilitated by a broken leg, and Roy unwilling to leave him alone. So their first few weeks together had an air of novelty about them, and they learned a good deal more about each other than either would have thought there was left to know.
Roy learned that Maes often fell asleep with his spectacles still on his nose, that he held his toothbrush with his left hand rather than his right, and that he made soft wheezing noises in lieu of snoring. Maes learned that Roy would wake up at two in the morning and lie there for hours playing with the air in the room, that he even shaved (what little colourless down he had to shave) using the approved military technique, and that he talked in his sleep.
"Who's Wolfgang?" Maes asked one morning, still sprawled out under his bedclothes even though it was almost oh-six-thirty.
Roy, who had been up and moving around since before reveille, looked up from squaring the corners on his own bed. "Wolfgang?" he echoed, puzzled.
"Yeah. You were talking about him last night."
Last night... the conversation had flitted from Roy's fitness testing (where he had weighed in at a mammoth one hundred and twenty-three pounds!) to Maes and his requirements for his criminology degree. "No I wasn't," Roy argued.
"Oh, that's right," Maes mocked. "You probably wouldn't remember: you were unconscious at the time, after all."
Roy glowered at him. "I do not talk in my sleep," he grated.
"Maybe," sang Maes. "But Wolfgang begs to differ. So who is he? If my best friend is dreaming about another man, I have a right to hear some details!"
"It's nothing," Roy said, embarrassed to think that Maes had caught him talking in his sleep. It didn't happen very often – usually only when he had something on his mind – but he had been needled more than once by his neighbours in the barracks.
"Good," Maes countered. "Then you have no reason not to tell me."
"He was a composer from South City, that's all."
"I never figured you for a music lover," Maes reflected sagely.
"I'm not," Roy said. "Not really." The truth was that music, like many of the pleasures of youth, had not figured largely in his life. He knew half a dozen campfire songs – repetitive and humorous – that he had learned from the Hughes clan, and a couple of bawdy ballads that were popular among the cadets, but that was the extent of his repertoire. He had never been to a concert, or listened to a gramophone, and his encounters with the radio were few and far between. Aside from the effort he had put into comparing two requiem librettos, Roy had not had much exposure to real music.
"Huh. Too bad," said Maes. "'Cause there's this swing bar by the river that I've been itching show you."
Roy shook his head.
Maes put on his sick puppy look. "Aw... why not?"
"I'm saving my money, not drinking it," Roy said sourly. Truth be told, he would've loved a good stiff drink. Draining the dregs from the customers' glasses had been the one good thing about working at the Dockman's Arms.
"You're a miser!" Maes chuckled.
"Am not!" Roy countered. "I'm just goal-oriented!"
"Sure you are. Don't worry, King Midas. I'll foot the bill."
discidium
Maes had called it a bar, but the place, called Cleopatra's, was a far cry from the establishments Roy was familiar with. For one thing, it was on the north side of the river. In a disparity typical of Central's great green divider, the business was not four hundred yards from the noxious slums of the southern docks, but it was situated in a clean, well-lit and trendy street. The neat storefront with coloured bulbs spelling out the name was situated between a confectionary and a higher-end off-the-rack haberdasher. It had a red awning that was not in the least faded, nor torn at all, and the abstract stained glass windows glowed like clusters of jewels from the light within.
As the two cadets alighted from the streetcar, an aerodynamic Gatsby Coupe pulled up to the curb with a whisper of expensive brakes. A young man in a black tuxedo hopped out and danced around the costly automobile to open the passenger door for his companion. She was a willowy seminude beauty swathed in a revealing frock of gas-blue silk. Her slender neck was weighted down with two ropes of pearls that would have raised enough money in hock to buy and sell Roy Mustang six times over. The cadet stopped short in the midst of the street, gawking like an idiot.
Maes saw his expression in the light of the streetlamps and laughed softly. "Never seen a woman before?" he teased.
Not like that one he hadn't, but that was the least of Roy's worries. "Look how they're dressed!" he hissed. "We can't go in there!"
Maes laughed, clapping his friend on his blue-clad arm just below the shoulderboard. "Brother, trust me. If there's one thing you can wear anywhere and everywhere in this town, it's the uniform."
"Shouldn't we have come in dress?" Roy persisted as the tuxedo tails vanished into the building.
"Only if we wanted to look like country bumpkins from Eastern Academy," said Maes scornfully. "Trust me. We'll fit right in."
Roy didn't believe a word of it, and as soon as he crossed the threshold he had his proof that he didn't belong here. Cleopatra's was nothing like the Arms. The walls were of clean white paint, not dusky panelling. Instead of ugly oil paintings of questionable provenance, the walls were hung with jewel-coloured art nouveau prints of smooth-lipped women with curling tendrils of hair. There were no booths, but instead small circular tables with candle-bearing centrepieces. The dominant feature was not a long wooden bar, but a raised stage in the corner, where five musicians and a vocalist – all in identical suits with orange waistcoats – sat chatting between sets. There was a dance floor in front of the stage, where a few young couples were milling.
The room was full of patrons. Most were between Roy's age and Maes's: university students and young businessmen and wealthy loafers. Roy saw at once that his garb was not out of place: there were at least a dozen other soldiers present. A few he recognized from the Academy. There were two enlisted men. The others were second lieutenants with swaggering walks and toothy smiles. The civilian men were dressed in a variety of clothing, from casual shirtsleeves and vests to tailored tuxedos with cashmere scarves. As for the women...
The women. Roy had never seen women like these. They were not the rock-hard girls of the National Academy, with their broad shoulders and their powerful legs. Nor were they the lean, hungry females of the slums. Nor the wholesome country damsels that he remembered from the village of Hamner. These were ethereal creatures with long legs and slender arms. Their clothes were of richly coloured silks and chiffon that fell in pleated folds from daringly bared shoulders, or draped under a dangerously décolleté neckline that left no doubt that these ladies were wearing very little indeed beneath their frocks. Their shoes clicked when they walked, and their hips swung seductively. Each time Roy thought he had seen the most beautiful of these nymphs of the night, another one passed by, still more stunning than the last.
Maes found them a table, and put in a drink order with a smart-looking waiter. He watched in amusement as Roy took in his surroundings, staring now at a pair of milky shoulder blades framed in blue satin, now at a neck caressed with spit-curls, now at a plump, seductive mouth painted into a crimson gash. The younger cadet was so rapt in the scenery that he hardly even noticed when the waiter came with the whiskey.
"I brought you here for the music, not to catch a wife!" Maes chuckled presently. "You look like you want to eat them."
"I bet they'd taste good," Roy said impudently, diverting his attention from the silvery laugh of an impossibly blonde young lady in an aubergine evening dress.
"Gah! You sound like Eli!" Maes snorted. His drink was a lurid shade of green, and looked to be at least two-thirds shaved ice. He sampled the cocktail, and then held it out to Roy. "Want to try it?"
Mustang shook his head. "I'm fine with the scotch," he said. He drew in a mouthful and let it sublime on his tongue. It was hard not to let loose a sound of pleasure. Maes hadn't skimped. It was the good stuff. "Thanks," Roy told his friend when he could speak again.
"Hey, there, soldier," a sultry voice cooed. A sloe-eyed beauty sidled up and curled an arm around Maes's shoulder. "Home from the front?"
Maes laughed pleasantly, and lifted her arm off of his jacket, over his head, and away from his body. "No, I'm at the Academy," he said. "No action for me."
"Aw, don't say that!" The girl reached out to a neighbouring table, and snagged a chair from a neighbouring table. She sat down between the two cadets and leaned towards Maes. "They say the Academy boys are all work and no play."
Maes smiled politely. "That's right," he said. He looked over his shoulder at the stage. "I wonder when the next set starts. What do you think, Roy?"
"I have no idea..." Roy said hesitantly, not sure why Maes was effectively ignoring the girl. She was gorgeous.
"I'm a student, too," she said, leaning in closer. "I'm studying the liberal arts."
"That must be lovely for you," Maes said. "Hey, Roy, refresh my memory. What's regulation 1764-D?"
"Are you kidding me?" Roy blurted out. There was a beautiful woman practically begging Maes for attention, and here he wanted to quote regs?
"Nope. Regulation 1764-D."
Roy rolled his eyes. "If an officer shall be found to be guilty of negligence in command, especially such negligence as is deemed to have caused substantial loss of life within his unit with or without marked casualties on the part of the enemy, the officer shall be subject to further investigation to determine whether there is cause to allege gross negligence. Where such an investigation is deemed to be warranted, the officer shall be suspended from service without pay. If—"
The girl sighed in exasperation and swished away to the other side of the room, where she immediately struck up a conversation with a pair of young, blonde fops. Roy turned his attention on Maes.
"You scared her off!" he exclaimed. "Why did..."
He stopped. Maes was wearing a look of enormous relief.
"Thanks!" he exhaled gratefully. "I don't know what's wrong with the women: I can't go anywhere without them swarming all over me. It's creepy."
"Well, maybe you've inherited Eli's charm," Roy teased.
Maes moaned. "God forbid! The last thing I want is a girl for every day of the month!"
"Cadet Hughes!"
Maes looked up at another young goddess, who had come up behind him and was now smiling silkily. "Oh, hi, Nancy," he said uneasily.
"They're tuning up," she said, jerking her thumb over one shapely shoulder towards the band, who did indeed look almost ready to play. "Why don't you ask me to dance?"
Maes's eyebrows crinkled helplessly. Roy saw an opportunity.
"He twisted his ankle during morning calisthenics," he said, getting to his feet as smoothly as he could and offering his hand. "I, however, would be delighted if you would consent to dance with me."
The girl laughed a little, and then nodded. "I'd like that," she said.
The band picked up a jaunty tune. Several other couples launched into action. Roy hesitated, not sure what to do. Nancy chuckled softly. "Let me," she said, planting one of his hands on her waist and clasping his other one. She stepped out onto the floor and began to dance. Roy fumbled through the first couple of steps, but quickly caught on. After all, it was no more difficult than hand-to-hand combat or military martial arts.
On the stage, the singer launched cheerfully into the song:
"Hello, my baby!
Hello, my honey!
Hello my ragtime gal!
Send me a kiss by wire...
Baby, my heart's on fire!
If you refuse me, honey, you'll lose me,
Then you'll be left alone.
So baby come on, and tell me
I'm your own!"
discidium
Roy had found a new hobby. He had never imagined that acting his age could've been so fun. Friday nights, he now made a habit of going into the city with Maes. They would have a few drinks, laugh together, and whenever a woman tried to put the moves on Hughes, Mustang was there to conveniently distract her. It was a symbiotic relationship: the girls were drawn to Maes's obvious self-confidence and glowing charisma, but Roy knew how to entertain them. Better still, he enjoyed it. Dancing with them, flirting with them, trading stories of the Academy for anecdotes about their college classes or their friends or their parents – it was fun. There was no need for commitment or emotional involvement: they merely enjoyed one another's company, and then they went their separate ways.
It never occurred to Roy that his flings with the young beauties of Central might be at odds with his feelings about Riza. He was ignorant of the morality of love, for no one had ever bothered to teach it to him. In his seventeen-year-old innocence, there seemed to be no comparison between the girls with whom he danced and drank, and the quiet and dedicated young woman he visited twice every week. He loved Riza with all his heart, and wanted to protect her and help her and keep watch over her. These other girls... he enjoyed their company. He liked looking into their painted eyes, and watching the twitching of their crimson lips, and stealing glances at the tops of their breasts. He imagined kissing them and squeezing the soft parts of their bodies and resting his head in their fragrant hair. But he didn't worry about their futures, or wonder what they were doing on a Tuesday afternoon while he sat in a Tactics lecture. These girls and Riza Hawkeye belonged to two different worlds, and it never occurred to him to compare them or to analyse his feelings for either.
It didn't occur to him, either, that by living in these two disparate worlds – the practical one steering towards a brilliant future and a golden dream that he shared with Riza, and the frivolous and fantastical one populated by nubile flirts – he was in effect cultivating two personalities. Both personae suited him in their own way, and he slipped from one to the other as adeptly as an actor changes masks, or a chameleon changes colours. The difference was that as the months progressed the fact that both people were equally Roy Mustang became more and more evident.
