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It wasn't necessarily that Aldo made any effort to be a mysterious man. Really, he didn't even need to try. It was simply embedded in the way he carried himself; the way his chest puffed out so confidently, that hideous under bite, narrowed brows calloused into that permanent squint (an attempt, no doubt, to hide his fantastically blue eyes-a failed one at that, when one looked closely enough).
He had never claimed to be a man of secrets or particularly knowledgeable about anything. It was all assumed when one encountered him. His appearance, his mannerisms, his VIBE.
And yet, as Hans Landa sat on the opposite side of the room watching as Aldo took his seat at the bar, observing the painfully obvious frustration which seemed to be overtaking him as the American rambled on about something incoherently in his lilting Tennessee accent, all his mind could focus on was this aspect of secrecy. Of how much he didn't know.
About how much he wanted to know.
It was impossible to hear completely what the angered soldier was saying from where he was perched, but Landa assumed by catching 'Patton' and 'disbanded' that he was upset with the recent disbanding of Patton's unit. It only made sense, of course, that he should be fond of this unit. His research had shown that Aldo trained with this unit. And seeing as the man did not wear another insignia on his other shoulder, it was clear that Aldo had only ever been a part of this one unit. His emotional ties to it were surely significant.
Turning himself to face forward once more and act uninterested in Aldo (a blatant lie-Landa was quite intrigued with 'Aldo the Apache'. He had been ever since learning of the Basterds), the Austrian grinned and began to speak.
"What is that expression…" for dramatic purposes, he paused. "'What's pissing on your parade', was it?"
A very annoyed Aldo looked up into the back mirror of the bar, catching Landa's eye.
"It's 'pissin' on yer picnic'. And it ain't none a yer god damn business. Now go back to havin' a starin' contest with the counter."
It was too late for that now. He had already caught Hans' attention. The colonel got up and moved to sit next to Aldo, plopping onto the bar stool next to his with a huff. "Come now, Aldo, what is upsetting you, hm? You do look so…Morose. And after our conversation last night I refuse to believe that is your regular nature."
Aldo cringed visibly at the mention of the night before. There had been so much alcohol-and, consequently, so much vomiting. On the American's behalf, anyway. Hans knew better. He hadn't consumed half the amount. Only the peach schnopps from his flask.
Aldo went silent.
Landa draped an arm around his shoulder, patting him lightly a couple of times before retreating.
"Here," the colonel began as he pulled out his shiny cigarette case and opened it, offering Aldo one before picking one for himself. The other man took one and packed it on the counter before placing it in between his lips and lighting it hastily.
"Speak to me. It will help."
And so he did.
It was strange how it had come about, really, this…Friendship of theirs. Really, it wasn't so much a friendship as it was a loose connection of sorts.
And even then it wasn't gratified by the term.
It had all begun the night before, with Hans still reeling over the healing wound on his forehead, sitting in the bar in contemplation. It was the day they had arrived back at the American base, and Landa had just finished speaking with the General he had made his deal with. His 'Terms of Conditional Surrender' which he had negotiated the night before. This had all gone quite well, better than expected, actually, and it exceeded this when the General noticed the marking on Hans' forehead.
He was incredibly displeased.
Therefore, the 'chewing out' Aldo had predicted must not have gone over so well, and this must have been what brought him wandering into the bar the night before only moments after Landa had taken his seat.
And Hans Landa, being Hans Landa, just couldn't keep his mouth shut.
The conversation had begun in mild comments of annoyance bouncing back between the two; insults both blatant and hidden with wit in their words. Eventually, however, beginning around the time Landa followed after an especially furious Raine storming out into the alleyway behind the bar, sincerity began to surface. They took seats on overturned buckets and began to talk. Well, it was moreso Raine talking and Landa listening. But not without a bit of prying.
He had lifted a hesitant hand to Aldo's neck and run a delicate finger down the rough ridges of the American's scar-that trademark scar that we wore like a necklace of vengeance, more distinguishing than that ridiculous mustache of his.
"Tell me," Hans had said.
And so he did. In his own way.
He hadn't told him much, but Hans had a fairly good idea of his own. What he did decide to reveal was not direct at all, and despite the slyly formed questions and conversational circles Landa had run them through, Raine still refused to budge.
But Landa got the idea. Even if Raine didn't think he had said enough to allow this.
He had wandered into Aldo's mind, where a string of flashbacks were currently the special feature, running through catastrophic scenarios which shifted and gained more detail with each word Aldo spilled. Landa found himself walking through Aldo's memories without Aldo's permission or belief. It wasn't that he had vocally told the American-that would have certainly been enough to scare him off. No, Landa sat silently visualizing what he assumed had happened.
He imagined Aldo's little town in Tennessee to be quaint and horribly cliché-primarily because it probably was. He imagined it to be a tightly nit community, where everyone knows everything about everyone and there isn't any hiding of anything.
This is what he imagined had gotten the Lieutenant into trouble.
There would have been few reasons to hang a white man in said place with said people. With racial tensions still high, Landa pondered the possibility of Raine being involved in some sort of resistance. Or perhaps-being involved with a negro.
The other option was becoming more favorable in his mind. The way Raine's eyes grew tired and sullen when he briefly mentioned having had close friends in his hometown, Landa favored the only other real possibility.
They weren't too fond of homosexuals in Tennessee, either.
So in Landa's mind, wherein he had been invading Raine's, he considered this scenario. If the wrong person, if almost any person, had caught Raine with another man, it was certainly to mean a hanging. Homosexuality just was not tolerated.
He doubted very much in his mind that it was some sort of mild fling the American had going. He pictured Aldo in love; sneaking off to his lover's house after a long day in the coal mine, planting soft kisses on his cheek whenever he got the clear chance, exchanging meaningful smiles and nothing more in fear of being discovered in public, brushing his hand against the other man's as they walked down the rocky road together (metaphorically and literally).
He pictured them being caught, perhaps while making love, perhaps something as innocent as kissing. The violent shattering of their secrecy. The tension, the fear, the utter concern for one another.
Aldo watching his love being dragged away. Being kicked around.
Falling victim to the noose.
A man with that much sorrow reverberating around the glint in his eyes has been broken and rebuilt. Perhaps his heart was not made of stone, but it was certainly well-encased by a fortress of it. And as he talked further and further of the gorgeous mountains of Tennessee, delved further into the fresh country scent and the long winding roads, there was a pent-up love boiling within him with such intensity it had brought a genuine smile to Landa's face.
And it had stayed and camped there.
Landa went on into darker visualizations. Aldo's breaking free from the noose after a grand struggle, his daring escape, his fierce violence emerging. He pictured him afterwards, delving into memories, crying tears of awful emotions akin to that of a songbird being taken from his home, made to watch his home burn ablaze as it faded in the distance, and then strangled slowly. Emotions a human being should never be made to endure. Beautiful, glowing hearts being torn to shreds.
Looking at the man before him, spilling his guts as much as he could without even telling Landa a thing of relevance to these assumptions, it was easy to put this all into place. To watch him through this journey. To understand his thirst for vengeance.
When Raine finished, long after he'd put out his third cigarette and they'd been sitting out in the cold alleyway for hours, Landa looked at him for a long time with curious hazel eyes, surveying him closely.
"What's so interrestin'? Aldo asked him, his voice softer than usual as he searched Landa's eyes in return (for once not just looking at his forehead as they spoke and actually looking INTO his eyes). Hans grinned, a knowing smile tugging at his thin, pink lips.
"You loved him, didn't you?" he said abstractly, searching Aldo's eyes for an answer.
Aldo looked like a deer caught in the headlights. He hadn't said a word about a man, let alone anything that might refer to a relationship.
Aldo's jaw dropped ever so slightly. And then he smiled a tiny boyish grin and looked away.
"It is nice to have someone actually listen to what I'm sayin' for once."