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Milo Minderbinder the Grand Duke of Westchester had succeeded nearly threescore titles and positions after the war had ended and peacetime erupted violently throughout the countryside. With less time devoted to fighting, many more had time to invest in personal greed and aspirations, which was what they wanted in the first place. M&M Enterprises immersed itself in booming prosperity.
On top of it all sat Milo, operating the enterprise with his every whim like Alexander the Great on his throne. The Mediterranean Theater had become his personal playhouse. The minasious island of Pianosa regressed to a shade of its former self, first running parades of enlisted men, then hosting Milo’s egyptian cotton and warehouse planes. By his side sat the ex-sergeant Wintergreen, a modern-age Hephaestion to Milo’s Alexander.
“Have you radioed ahead and booked rooms?” Wintergreen peered out the window to see the ocean currents rushing below.
“I don’t have to!” Milo laughed, “Venice keeps a couple of the best ones in the Bagolini set aside, as well as the residence for the Doge.”
That was just one of the umpteen perks of a position like the Doge of Venice, and Milo held them with lofty prestige. Ever since the merge which occurred fifteen months prior, he’d carted Wintergreen along with him. They’d become something more akin to friends than the head-butting opponents over stolen Zippo lighters and Egyptian cotton.
“Weren’t we off to Istanbul?”
“Yes.”
Wintergreen furrowed his brow. “ Now we’re going to Venice?”
“Yes, absolutely. For the confectioners most recent output that you alerted me about last night, remember? Brilliant, truly. See, you’re the first person I’ve brought along who understands these things. I appreciate that about you, Wintergreen.”
Wintergreen didn’t understand Milo’s plan, but he figured it was better to shut the hell up about it and pretend he did than to contest him, since contesting him really wouldn’t get anywhere. “You’ve got me a place to stay too?” he asked instead.
“Of course. I’ve arranged for you to stay in the very best bed in the very best room in Venice. It’s going to be excellent, I think you’ll quite enjoy your time there.”
Wintergreen thought so. It was far superior to digging holes and being busted down to a private. He’d abdicated his responsibilities as a mail clerk when he merged with Milo, but running a successful endeavor off of the black market was what he wanted in the first place. Besides, with the war over and Scheisskopf taking over Pianosa for an aoristic amount of time, his power over Group communications had vanished.
He didn’t have fancy titles like Milo, but he was treated well and recognized as the main partner of M&M Enterprises in the majority of cities. Wintergreen soared far above Peckem now, which Peckem was certain had happened simply because his prose was too prolix and he never took Wintergreen’s advice about it. Wintergreen reveled in this verity, and intensely wished that he could’ve smited Scheisskopf in much the same way.
Separately, they both welcomed the merge.
“What on earth do you mean I ought to merge with you?” Milo demanded to Wintergreen, who despised Milo almost as much as Milo despised him, “You’re completely insufferable and have only ruined my trade on the black market!”
“That’s what I’m saying. You can’t ruin my trade if we’re trading together,” Wintergreen told him.
“Well, what do you suppose they’d say if M&M Enterprises was partnered with you, of all people?”
“Suppose who would say?”
“Them!”
“I don’t think they’re saying anything right now.”
“Are you certain they aren’t?”
“Are you certain they are?” Wintergreen countered, and Milo let out a staggering whimper to himself at the thought of sharing profit with another human being. The idea was atrocious, unthinkable! Yet, Milo couldn’t help but see some semblance logic to it; a monopoly simply couldn’t be perfect with any competitor in the vicinity.
At the door to Milo’s office three hours later, the two men shook hands. The dusty Pianosa ground was sweet and appealing with it’s low, sloping hills; Milo had chosen quite the location for his offices and warehouse despite the island land forbidding any non-military structures. Anyone with sufficient money was above the law. “It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, Milo,” Wintergreen gave him a tense smile.
“As it’s been with you, Mr. Wintergreen - or should I say, partner?”
“I should say you should,” ex-sergeant Wintergreen smiled smugly, “Right back at you, partner.”
Milo twitched his moustache and kept one eye fixated on Wintergreen with ruffled affection. “Do come again tomorrow, we’ve much to discuss. I’d like to see you along on some of the runs, and if you’d be able to fill out a few flight plans and commission the planes, that’d be splendid. You see - partner - there’s much work we’ve got to do. The syndicate doesn’t simply support itself, I’ve - we’ve - much to do about its upkeep.”
There was much to do, and the new partners relished the concept of absolutely how much money they could make with four hands on deck rather than two sets working counterintuitively.
The residence of the Doge had an elaborate set-up that only seemed to show up in staged motion pictures. Wintergreen walked around the double-room suite in awe, running his hands along various pieces of furniture to size up the textures. “Why, Milo,” he asked, once he’d finished scrutinizing the quarters, “Where do you intend to sleep?”
“Well, I am the Doge, so in this suite in the bed. Obviously not on the floor, you see, that would be terribly indecent of the Doge of Venice,” he explained diffidently, scratching one of his abnormally large eyebrows. At last he regained a more cocky posture. “Besides, where would you expect me to sleep?”
“But Milo, where am I going to sleep?”
Milo gestured with one hand to the bed. “I told you. In the best bed in the best room. Venetians are known for their hospitality, but not quite as much as the Grecians.”
“Then where are you sleeping?”
Milo pointed again at the single bed in the suite. “In the Doge’s bed, because I’m the Doge.”
“Milo, that’s the same bed,” Wintergreen moaned, and buried his face in his hands.
Despite that, it wasn’t a problem when they each peacefully fell asleep on either side of the ludicrously large Doge’s bed. Nor was it problematic when, come a rather frigid morning in Venice, Wintergreen woke up early to find himself face-to-face, wrapped around Milo. Milo was a sound sleeper and didn’t realize, and despite how aghast Wintergreen was, he was delirious with sleep and simply nestled closer and drifted back into unconsciousness. When Milo did wake up, he assumed it was simply a dream, nestled closer to Wintergreen, and went back to sleep.
By the time they’d both woken up, Milo established that it hadn’t, in fact, been a dream, and Wintergreen reconciled with the notion that it had been rather nice, neither of them chose to bring it up. After all, business was business, and what was good for either of them was good for the syndicate. There was no reason to question those things.
A fortnight later, Milo planned a trip to his residency in Stockholm for a discussion with a few wealthy merchants there. A banana economy had been skillfully arranged there, although the climate in Sweden was hardly sufficient for raising bananas. It was simply more profitable to sell them there, then have Wintergreen buy them up from Milo so the syndicate received substantial profit and still wound up with the bananas.
That trip was the sort of trip which only Milo needed to go on, as Wintergreen still had monumental amounts of syndicate paperwork, plane commissioning, and flight plans to work his way through. He stood at the doorstep of their warehouse to wish Milo well on his journey.
“Now, why on earth are you wishing me a farewell?” Milo asked at last, his eyebrows knit in unusually innocent confusion.
Wintergreen shrugged. “I’m seeing you off to your journey, remember? If the cards are going to fall with you off to Sweden, then so be it. If my cards fall and leave me here doing paperwork, then that’s just how it’s going to be.”
“No it isn’t,” Milo frowned, “You’re coming with me.”
“What? Since when has that been the plan?”
“Since now.”
“Why? I’ve got paperwork to take care of for the syndicate, you know.”
“Why not? Bring the paperwork. It’ll benefit me to have you there, and the syndicate benefits when I do. Besides, you’ll have a good time, I assure you.”
Disoriented but pleased with the nebulous plan, Wintergreen packed up his paperwork and headed off on the airfield-bound jeep with Milo. He preferred the diverting nature of travelling to the insipid deskwork he would’ve had otherwise. Despite the assigned flight plans for Sweden, they never made it, for there was a sale for unrefined metal in Lisbon which Milo felt the desperate desire to stake out.
The end of the trip brought Milo and Wintergreen to Cullera in order to get a large batch of walnuts shelled. Cullera wasn’t known for shelling walnuts, but Milo had imported a large amount of machinery and now it prospered. He held no title there nor in the municipalities nearby, but it didn’t matter. Milo simply snapped his fingers and made a call out to the countryside, and before nightfall he’d arranged to stay with Yossarian and the ex-chaplain Tappman, both of whom owed him a favor or two ever since he helped them reunite.
“He’s actually doing pretty well, huh?” Wintergreen murmured to Milo as they headed up to the red villa door just after sunset.
Milo gave a crooked smile. “Yes, indeed. They both are - and so’s the syndicate, because Yossarian rides into town every Thursday and gives me reports on tomatoes and walnut shelling productivity. See, we’re all much better with this arrangement.”
With a wiry hand, he rapped on the door. When no response came immediately, Milo and Wintergreen shared a glance before Milo knocked a second time.
At last, the ex-chaplain opened the door, his cheeks rosy. “Come in!” he gave a cheery call, “John- I mean- Yossarian- he told me all about the arrangements, and don’t you worry, we’ve gotten everything all set up nicely. It’s so nice to see you again! Oh- I’m forgetting my manners! Have you eaten anything yet?”
The room had a cozy glow to it, a pot steaming over on the stove. Lilting music danced around the room from a rather large box radio, which Yossarian shut off as soon as Milo and Wintergreen crossed the threshold. “He wanted to dance with me,” Yossarian explained nonchalantly, as if he needed an elucidation for having the radio on.
The ex-chaplain gave an embarrassed cough and looked away, but quickly regrouped and pulled Yossarian along to check up on their guests and give them an official welcome.
It turned out Milo and Wintergreen hadn’t had dinner, and they all wound up dining on a fresh salad, pasta, cabernet sauvignon, and some two-day-old bread which Nately’s Whore’s kid sister had learned to make from when she worked at the restaurant beneath the apartment. They caught up and joked about life back on Pianosa, of Milo’s warehouse of cotton (which he attempted to offer to Yossarian as they dined, although he declined) and of Wintergreen manipulating the leadership of the Theater through his selective issuing of mail.
They confabulated until the early morning hours and Wintergreen found himself yawning every couple minutes despite his desire to appear fully alert and engaged.
“I… I might go to bed, if you all don’t mind,” the ex-chaplain stood up, bracing himself with one hand on his chair, “I hope I’m not being rude. I really don’t mind if you stay up lon-”
“No, no, it’s fine. Go ahead. I think I’ll do the same,” Wintergreen gave an involuntary yawn, leaping at his chance to hit the hay.
There wasn’t much sense in Milo and Yossarian remaining up as they were both rather enervated, too. “Your room’s that one,” Yossarian pointed in the direction of one of the doorways, “I hope you don’t mind sharing a bed. We’ve only got three; the girl’s got one, I share the second with Albert, and the last one is for the guest room. I’m sorry if it’s any trouble at all.”
Wintergreen beat Milo to the punch. “It’s alright; it’s been kind of you to let us stay. We don’t mind, right, Milo?”
Milo found himself caught off-guard, but made a magnanimous save with a quick, rumpled smile. “We don’t mind at all, really!” And with that, he bid their hosts goodnight and strolled off to bed.
The morning came, the sun bright and delightful as it rose over the horizon. Light peeked through the light blue curtains, peppering the sheets and floor in speckled patterns. Milo rose in the middle of the bed with Wintergreen lying across his chest, in his arms. He shook him awake. “Do you mind?” he asked incredulously.
“No,” Wintergreen blinked, his head spinning with the formations of a hangover, “Do you?”
In spite of it all, Milo found himself laughing. “No, I guess I don’t either.”
“Then what’d you wake me up for? I’m going back to sleep.”
He did just that, but Milo couldn’t sleep and stayed awake, staring at the ceiling and patting the back of Wintergreen’s head on occasion until they had to depart to Norway in order to deliver the walnuts and pick up ten gallons of ink. However, they never got the ink because there was an artisan festival in town and a large shipment of macrame had arrived from Taiwan which Wintergreen bought out to sell in England to impress Milo. Milo was delighted; it sold off like hot cakes. And no one could complain because everyone had a share.
Three months later, Wintergreen had accompanied Milo on every single trip Milo was supposed to go on alone. Travel had become a staple to their daily lives, although it wasn’t much of an annoyance as they had each other for company. Every so often, Milo received a rambling letter from his wife. She didn’t understand why the syndicate consumed Milo’s livelihood, which was Milo’s biggest, smallest, and only complaint about her.
One day, she ceased to write to him, and because Milo had more time for the syndicate when he didn’t have to read and respond to her letters, he didn’t mind.
He paid for a room in a many-story-high building in London for his stay, and spent the evening looking lavish. His crooked eyes scanned the paperwork Wintergreen had brought; his boney hands filling out flight plans which would wind up ignored in the face of capitalism.
Wintergreen spent the night watching the man he used to compete with and despise. They were partners now; friends even. “Milo?” he asked.
“Yes?”
Wintergreen cleared his throat. He’d always found it far easier to be direct, especially with Milo, who took most things either seriously or literally. “I’ve been thinking it over for quite some time, and I’ve come to a conclusion.”
“What’s that?”
“I think we ought to sleep together.”
Milo stared blankly. “Don’t we?”
“No, no, not like that. The same way, say, the men from the base would go sleeping with whores in Rome. You remember that, right?”
“You mean you’re a whore?” Milo asked, befuddled.
“No, Milo.”
“You mean I’m a whore?”
“Yes, Milo, if that’s what’s going to make sense to you.”
“Wintergreen, I’d certainly love to, but I’ve got a wife.”
“Yes, but is she benefiting you by being all the way across the ocean?” Wintergreen asked, and when he received no answer, he continued, “Exactly. I’m not all the way across the ocean. I could be just as good, if not better . Besides, nothing will ever work if you have favoritism between people.”
Milo gave a wise nod. “That’s true. You know, that’s what they said when I got my missions flown by the squadron men. It isn’t right to favor people.”
Wintergreen ignored him. “Your wife probably wouldn’t mind. If it’s good for you, it’s good for the syndicate, and it’s good for everyone who’s got a share. Your wife must have a share since everyone does. Thus, everyone will benefit if you sleep with me, especially the syndicate.”
“True…”
“Besides, we’re partners, so it’d benefit both of us and the syndicate would be at twice the advantage.” Sometimes Wintergreen surprised himself with how well he could explain things.
Milo relinquished his paperwork and rose up to meet Wintergreen. He met him in a rather haphazard kiss, which was made more awkward by Milo’s malpositioned moustache. Wintergreen led him into their shared bedroom, even though this particular apartment had two rooms so they didn’t need to share. He undid the first button of Milo’s jacket with unwieldy hands.
“Did I tell you about the veal abundance in the Netherlands?” Wintergreen brought his voice to a tantalizing whisper, undoing the second button as he kissed Milo’s cheek, “ It’s going for a killing in Paris. ”