The Exchange Student (circa 1977)

The Exchange Student

Copyright 2014 Matt Cairone

All Rights Reserved

The chill belies spring. Cattle are scattered in the fields, penned in by electric fencing. A bull mounts a cow and heaves on her, his breath pouring out of his flared nostrils with each thrust. From out of nowhere, a voice behind me, “C’est un facon de garder au chaud.” I turn, startled, and there is a girl, 19 or so, with a backpack. I reply, “Oui, il est.” She bends her head to the left and smiles. She turns on her heels and continues down the road, leaving me standing on the side of the road. I watch her go, until she vanishes over the horizon. “A bientot.”

The cow is grazing now, picking at the grass and the weeds, chewing between bites at the ground. The bull is lying on his side under a tree, looking the other way.

There are no cars. There are birds, chirping and yapping, there are cows mooing and grunting and chewing, and there are leaves and branches creaking and flapping in the breeze. The wind comes and goes, as the young girl had come and gone.

All of a sudden the fields are filled with soldiers, and the noise is deafening. There are guns and tanks and screams of horrible pain. Cows lay dead in the fields, gaping holes in their sides, heads, and bellies. The smell of rotten flesh, human and animal, fills the air.

The line of young men seems endless. As they pass it is obvious they cannot see me. I am a ghost to them, and they to me. After so long in France, it is funny to hear the American accents. That guy sounds like he’s from Michigan, and that one from South Carolina. Wow, listen to that New York accent, no doubt that guy’s from Boston. They are kids.

Cigarettes are passed out, and canteens handed from one to the next down the line. They look like they’ve gotten the worst of it from the devil himself. I could see the end of the line approaching, and then the last few pass me by.

The fog lifts, the sun shines, and the specters are gone.