The Jefferson Allegiance

Casablanca Theory of Love

Chapter Eight

Kincannon was stretched out on the back seat, resting.  Ducharme was driving, not liking the uncertainty that lay ahead in Baltimore.  He glanced over at Evie.  “The question would have been rude when you were a stranger, but since we’re foxhole buddies, can I ask you something?”

Evie gave a cautious look.  “Really, everything that’s going on and that’s all you’ve got?  Why, don’t you have a boyfriend, husband, lover?”

“I’m just trying to pass some time and it seems to be tied in with the long story you mentioned earlier,” Ducharme lied.

Evie called him on it.  “You’re trying to figure me out.  And rather bluntly, if I might say so.  And you want to know who my powerful friend is.”

Ducharme almost smiled.  “Guilty.”  In the back seat, Kincannon rolled his eyes.

Evie played with a charm on one of her silver bracelets, and then finally turned to him with a sly grin.  “Do you want the epic, the novel, the short story, or the theory?”

Fuck, Ducharme muttered in head.  He glanced at the mileage marker, did a quick calculation, debated between short story and theory, thought a little bit more about how much she had said back in DC, and said:  “Theory.”

Her grin became a smile.  “It’s my ‘Casablanca’ theory of love.  Now, don’t interrupt me and I presume you’ve seen the movie?”

Before Ducharme could answer, Kincannon chimed in from the back seat:  “’I remember every detail. The Germans wore gray, you wore blue’.”

Evie relaxed back in her seat, which Ducharme took as a good sign, and he also felt his shoulders loosen slightly and the headache fade somewhat.  He would deal with Baltimore when they got there.  “Yeah, I saw it a long time ago.  Vaguely remember it, although apparently not as well as Kincannon.”

Evie spoke in a low voice.  “You know how Bogart thinks of all the gin joints, she had to walk into mine?  Well, my theory of love is that you really only need to have one great love affair—you know, to prove to yourself that you can do it.  And it needs to end in some bizarre way out of your control so that you are both left with your love intact.  You both are still in love and, but for circumstances beyond your control, you would still be together.  Etcetera.  Etcetera.

“Then you can get on with your life and never have to deal with that again.  I mean, you can meet people and stuff, but you’re never going to project that kind of expectation on another person again, so you’re pretty safe.  It’s like you’ve been vaccinated.  I think that poor Bogart almost had a heart attack when Ilsa traipsed back into his life.  Because at any moment she could open her mouth and say just the stupidest thing and he’d realize she wasn’t the great love of his life and then he’d have to start all over again.  Really, why do you think he was so happy when that plane door slammed on her butt?  Because he still loved her—that’s why.  That whole movie is just him sitting on a ticking time bomb.  It’s excruciating.”

She sat up a little straighter.  “If we live through this, play it again and watch his face whenever she starts to speak.  Unbearable.  Really.”

“Nice pun.”  Kincannon started laughing.  

“What?” Evie snapped.

Kincannon shook his head.  “No offense.  I’m just thinking of the visual at the end of the movie.  I never thought of it that way.  You are quite the skeptic.”

“See, that’s such a knee-jerk reaction.  I have a theory of romantic love to cope in a culture built around an insane ideal.  That makes me a realist.  Which is part of what you wanted to know about me.  Could have just administered a Myers-Briggs personality assessment.”